I’ve never been very adventuresome. Actually, I’m quite boring and feel somewhat threatened when forced to try new things. My idea of high adventure is ordering a dish I’ve never tried before in a restaurant. I just suck. But I wasn’t always such a dud. I pulled my share of shenanigans (in legal terms it’s probably called a misdemeanor) when I was a teen. I assume there are still some people from my home town who might consider me an instigator when we were growing up. Hmmm.

Although I like vacations, I’ve never felt the pull to go very far away from home. My biggest reason (or excuse) were Mom and Dad, who still lived in Iowa. So the majority of our trips were to visit them. I took a couple vacations with Mom & Dad to California and Colorado when I was a kid, but failed to visit Mount Rushmore (practically in my own back yard during my first 35 years of life) until I was 45.

My bucket list consisting of Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Alaska and the redwoods of California have yet to be checked off before I check out. With so many places I long to visit in the states, I had absolutely no desire to travel abroad. None whatsoever. In November 2012, our son Joshua and his soon to be bride, Erica chose Cancun as their wedding destination. This was as far away as I had ever been from home. It was an awesome, all inclusive resort and I had a blast. I was very brave and signed up to go scuba diving. Pretty big accomplishment for this big coward. I enjoyed it immensely but just thinking about scuba diving was way out of my comfort zone.

So my oldest child. Shannon. The polar opposite of me in most respects. (She did get my snarky gene, however). A born leader. Successful in all her endeavors. Multiple lofty goals. Graduated with a PhD at 37. Has about 400% more ambition than her mom. Soon after we moved back to Jackson in 2015, she suggested we take a BIG trip together. (For several years before we went antiquing/shopping to different states together once a year-kid less). The way she phrased this unknown adventure was, “let’s go somewhere while you’ve still got your faculties.” (Wicked sense of humor) I was about to turn 65.

So she booked a 12 day tour of Rome, Florence, Assisi and Venice, Italy in the summer of 2016. I blogged about how fantastic the trip was (except I had been limping for 6 months with a sore knee and did drag the whole group down at times). I won’t go into trip details again, but I will concisely define the trip in 2 words. The Coliseum. Wow. Just wow. Ok 5 words. Sorry.

Fast forward six months after our Italy trip, late fall-winter of 2016. Our youngest granddaughter, Peyton was one of 50 teens selected to tour France and Germany for 6 weeks during the upcoming summer of 2017. Peyton would be part of a choir from Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. Shannon was going for at least a month, Tracey and Landon for a week.

Without much fanfare Shannon quietly put this bug in my ear. “I’ve got an apartment in Paris by myself for a week after Tracey and Landon leave but before Peyton joins me to go sightseeing. All it would cost you is your flight to France Mom. You in?” Ok, I don’t know any sane person who could say no to a week in Paris/Germany for the cost of a round trip ticket. Three weeks later I was landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. Waiting for me was Shannon in her rented Mercedes (which I got to drive over 100 mph on the Autobahn. Unbelievably stoked).

Shannon had been in Paris and Germany for weeks already when I landed and had gone sightseeing with Tracey and Landon, so she rattled off some highlights of France. “Mom we’re spending 2 days in Germany to watch Peyton’s last concert, but we have 2 days in Paris before and a day after when we get back. What do you want to see?” (All, I wanted to see it all). Two sights I had my heart set on had some issues. Both Versailles and The Normandy American Cemetery would each consume a whole day because they were quite far away. (I should have stayed another 2 days. Not a smart decision Neese, you were already there).

But during my rather short time in Paris I managed to visit the Arc de Triomphe, The Louvre, Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. Plus a 7 story, high end Shopping Mall. And lots of great food. Not gonna lie and tell you the Cathedral at Notre Dame was my favorite. It’s just me, but much like arriving at The Coliseum in Rome (breathtaking-truly took my breath away) the same thing happened as I was nearing the Eiffel Tower. For some reason, I just couldn’t get enough and didn’t want to leave. And I took one of the best pictures of it-ever. It should win an award. Seriously.

Notre Dame though offered different feelings/sensations/emotions. Everything in America is so new compared to this holy place I was about to enter. I think about the 2 nuns who help manage the fabulous daycare/Montessori school where I work. Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn. There are no 2 finer women of God on this earth. I wish they were walking beside me to explain in detail the wonders of Notre Dame.

The first thing that struck me was-there are no pews. Anywhere. (Did parishioners stand up during a church service hundreds of years ago?) Folding chairs abound. The Cathedral was cool-as in chilly, very dark and quiet, considering it was packed with tourists. Saints and sinners. Believers and skeptics. The statues, artwork, and glasswork are simply overwhelming. You’re shuffling along quietly, eyes drawn to some gorgeous statues, trying to memorize how, what, when, where and why so you can retrieve that information when you rediscover that picture again in 2 weeks on your phone. Suddenly in a few feet, your eyes are feasting on another masterpiece, plus 3 minutes of reading material. Just a huge overload on so many levels.

I was surprised how emotional I got when I heard about the raging fire engulfing Notre Dame. It hurt my heart. These strong feelings feel somewhat strange. I was not raised in the Catholic Church. Before this trip, I never thought about Notre Dame (except for South Bend, Indiana and the Disney movie, Hunchback).

A special Cathedral which has stood for 850 years. I’m happy people are stepping up with massive donations to rebuild. I’m ecstatic for the quick thinking folks who removed artwork before it was damaged or lost. I’m forever grateful that my wise daughter thought enough of me to suggest, “a free week in Paris for the cost of your plane ticket mom. You in?” Indeed…

I am bombarded daily with numerous, innocuous visuals. We all are. A funny post on Facebook. A migrating, seldom seen bird at our feeder this spring. These usually make me smile. Other visuals concerning real life may prove to be sad, happy, thought-provoking, painful or tear inducing, cause me to pause. While some are fleeting, stopping only for a few seconds before they move on and are forgotten. Others linger much longer, some may never find a way out of your head or heart again.

It’s how we respond to these glorious, distasteful, silly, serious, hurtful, phenomenal events in our lives that make a difference. Determining who we are. You may have had a great day shopping, feeling accomplished. You’re backing out of a coveted parking spot at the mall when suddenly you hear a car horn blaring. Turning your head you see a guy’s imposing Chevy Yukon 2 feet from your bumper and he’s flipping you the bird. Now your reaction can go a couple of different ways. You can throw up your hands with ‘Dude, my bad’ look or you can mouth some mighty strong, easy to lip-read language of your own, and see where it goes from there. Since the swimming suit in the store was flattering enough it’s now in a bag on the passenger seat, you go with, ‘geez I’m sorry, I was watching my backup mirror and your honking big truck was just out of my line of vision,’ and happily give him your spot. Had the swim suit actually shown how big your ass really is might have resulted in a different response.

We haven’t had a pet for several years. Chico was 17, half blind, mostly deaf but he still had quality to his life. Roamed our little cul-de-sac, visiting neighbors who were quite patient with him standing in the middle of our shared driveway, unaware that a car was behind him, patiently waiting for him to move. I don’t think of myself as much of a animal person (allergic to cats) yet there’s something about animals that makes me a weepy mess. Recently, we were watching a program where a female (human) character’s background was being introduced. A time when Chris was a rookie officer a few years back and had a K-9 dog for a partner. Chris was just told her retired police dog was near death. If she wanted to see him before he was euthanized she shouldn’t wait. I bawled through the whole episode about the dog, which really wasn’t even the main storyline. I don’t know why I do this. It’s just the way I am. Can’t watch PSA’s about malnourished, shivering thrown away pets and have to move quickly past memes about taping a dog’s mouth shut, illegal dog fights and other tortuous pictures. I just can’t.

One sentence from ‘Compassionate Friends’ posted on Facebook recently stuck in my head since I read it. As a mom/gram/great-gram, these simple, stark messages pack a powerful punch. It’s not possible to have anything worse happen than losing a child. My parents went through it when my brother died at 12 and our family was never the same. That one tragic event changed our lives forever. This is what the message read, “Parents fear dying until they lose a child, then they fear living.” Unless you’ve gone through it, one cannot imagine what that’s like. My worst fear.

I get this college periodical a couple times a year. I got on their mailing list for some reason. When this 30 page magazine arrives, I am compelled to read it cover-to-cover. (It’s weird, I don’t know why. I know almost no one from the school or town). There might be alumni/students/staff who toss it as soon as it hits their mailbox, but I cannot. Sometimes when you least expect it, God sends you a message. A sign. He wanted me to read, heed and pay close attention.

This story is not about someone I know. Probably read it 6 or 8 weeks ago. It’s 3 pages long with a couple pictures. This guy (I would guess about my youngest kids age-upper 30’s) is happily married, has 5 young children, a good job and had just bought and moved his family into a larger house and yard. They had oodles of plans for their new home and landscaping last summer. But they also needed a short respite. So with his wife, the kids and dog, they went to visit family for their summer vacation. On the last day they decided not to leave as early as they had originally planned, but opted for one more family outing before hitting the road back to Michigan. Maybe the traffic around Chicago wouldn’t be as congested.

Dad was driving east near the Michigan State line when a wheel/tire from a car in the westbound lanes bounced over the guard rail, crashed through the windshield of the family van, hitting dad square in the face. He was immediately knocked unconscious, the van bumped into the guard rail before mom grabbed the steering wheel and eased it over to the right shoulder and stopped. She frantically called 911 and waited. A nearby hospital patched him up, but since his injuries were very critical, he was transferred to the hospital at U of M in Ann Arbor (about 175 miles away, but now fairly close to their home).

His face/head was fractured in 50 different places. 50. Eleven hours of surgery, attaching seven titanium plates and screws up the wazoo, putting his face and head back together. A miracle. He was the 5th patient with similar injuries at U of M in 2018. He’s the only one who lived to talk about it. Once he gained consciousness he was overcome with gratitude, not only for God sparing his life, but the rest of his family. And others.

News spread quickly through the small college town. Coworkers, students, townsfolk helped with meals, caring for the children, yard work, eagerly gnawing their through the family’s long wish list of to-do’s they had made for their new home. He was told he’d be in the hospital at least 3 months. He went home in one week. He was back working at the college in 11 weeks. They knew God was in control.

At the hospital during recovery, he was frequently asked some questions: what’s your name? What month is it? Where are you? Why are you here? His response to the last question never changed. “I’m here because I should have died in a car accident, but God has a different plan for my life.”

This simple sentence. I can’t read or think about it without crying. Profound.

So this little known story from a little known publication I just happened to read has served as a reminder for me the last several weeks. I pray it continues to do so.

1. I am going to stop using the work luck. Nothing in my life has to do with luck.

2. I am still roaming the face of this earth for one reason. The grace of God.

3. I have been blessed more than I deserve. Far more.

4. God has blessed John, our children, grandchildren, great-grandchild and in-laws.

5. God is patient with me, which gives me hope.

6. I have faith I will join my Heavenly Father when He calls me home.

7. This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it…

I’m kind of a sports junkie. I know what you’re thinking. Right, only thing she could possibly excel in, sports wise, would be grand prize winner in a couch potato contest (or eating potatoes). OK you got me. I may not look like a sports aficionado but I do enjoy WATCHING sports. Or at least I used to. I may be past my prime.

When the Hubs and I got hitched, part of ensuring this marriage was gonna last more than a month was embracing the Minnesota Vikings as an avid fan. Bordering on fanatical. The other part of this equation was becoming a credible pinochle player. There was no option on either. Yup, he had both items listed in our vows. Sigh. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I enjoyed the game of football. I could rattle off players/positions/coaches from teams all over the league. Fouts, Stabler, Mean Joe Green, Swann, Tarkington, Alzado, Payton, Montana, Rice, Winslow. And on and on. Tickets didn’t cost much in the 70’s or we’d never been able to go. No such thing as indoor football at the old Metropolitan Stadium in Minneapolis. Freezing drizzle, snow, blizzard conditions frequently during the game, continuing on our trip back home.

We started following the Iowa Hawkeyes (football & basketball) at the same time. Went to games when we lived in Davenport. Bobby Hansen, Steve Carfino, Greg Stokes, Michael Payne, BJ Armstrong shooting hoops. Chuck Long as quarterback against U of M’s Jim Harbaugh in one of the best games I’ve ever watched in person. Kinnick Stadium, maybe 1985, Hawks won 12-10 in the final seconds.

Took a bus trip from Davenport to Chicago in 1982 to watch the Cubs play the Cardinals. I attended baseball games as a kid in Los Angeles (Dodgers) in 1960 and Minneapolis (Twins) in 1963 with my parents. How Mom became an ardent New York Mets fan (which was bad enough) but my Dad rooting for the Yankees, (even worse) is still a mystery. My friend Mary Ellen (several years older than me) had been going to Cubs games since the mid’40’s because her grandparents lived in Wrigleyville and she spent part of the summer with them. I fell for the Cubs and Wrigley Field on that beautiful summer day in ’82. Fervently watched every Cub game for about 30 years. (Hubs finally figured out if he wanted supper approximately on time (before the Cubs game was over), it might be prudent to add a TV in my kitchen). Adam knew baseball, like double plays, before he was 3. Although I wasn’t an active participant, I knew a lot about sports in general.

When you watch sports, you learn about different coaching styles. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the things they do when they’re coaching. Let’s start with Bobby Knight. Throngs of people think he’s one of the greatest college coaches ever. He did know how to win games. But to me he was a bully. I hated watching him coach during a Hoosier game. Sideline pacer, loud screamer, stepping on the court. Pushing players around during a timeout, trying to intimidate the refs, throwing chairs across the court in a fit of uncontrolled rage. Had I been a mom of a superior high school player, I would have done everything in my power to discourage my son from choosing to play for Knight.

We moved to Michigan from Iowa in 1987, happy we were still in Big 10 country. I wrote a blog in January of 2015 about our first encounters as Iowa fans in enemy territory, at U of M’s football stadium and MSU’s old Breslin Center for basketball. It’s called “Plaid Pants” if you want to check it out. Actually sort of cute, considering I’m talking about Jim Harbaugh through most of it. We had a horrible experience watching the Hawkeyes play in Ann Arbor and an uplifting one when we saw the Hawks play in East Lansing, and not because of wins or losses. Two of our kids (plus our daughter-in-law) attended Michigan State, so I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for green & white. Unless they’re Hawkeye opponents. Duh.

Got to tell you, I struggle watching coaches lose their shit on the court. It’s highly unprofessional and unbecoming and makes me uncomfortable. (That’s a lot of uns, sorry) It’s hard to fathom a coach’s reaction to a player in the heat of a moment. Not long ago I watched Pat Chambers (Penn State) literally shove a freshman during a timeout in a game. Dude, that looks so bad. On TV, no less. Please try harder not to be such an ass. Chambers was suspended for one game. Meh. Big deal.

When Tom Izzo was named head coach for MSU’s basketball program, he was taking over from legendary coach Jud Heathcote. Tom was Jud’s assistant. It was the mid-90’s and Tom was about 40. Although I’m not a dedicated Spartan fan, I’ve watched him for almost 25 years, catching his coaching techniques a few games during every season.

I don’t remember many temper tantrums from Tom until the last few years. Maybe he’s just run out of patience. In case you’re not a fan or missed it during the first 80,000 times it’s been viewed, Tom’s meltdown reared it’s ugly head during the first round game of the 2019’s NCAA tournament against Bradley. A timeout was called about the same time a freshman from Michigan State was slow getting back on defense. Izzo started running to center court, hands clenched in tight fists, veins in his head and neck popped out. This was a teaching moment. Snarling, bottom jaw jutted out, lunging for a freshman, who had a lapse of judgement about getting back on defense in a timely fashion. Surely this huge mistake cost them the game right? Nah.

Tom poked his finger at the offensive (slow to the defensive position) player and had to be restrained by other players and coaches from this Henry kid-multiple times. On national TV. Over a game. It’s still a game right? Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s really about millions of dollars. Whatever. When I see a coach go ballistic, do you know what pops in my head? If he’s like this on national TV with millions of people watching, what’s he like in practice when no one’s watching? Do the players have to pull back their coach every single time during practice? Is this the best/most successful/constructive way of teaching a young man how to become a better player? Does a coach have to scream/point a finger/belittle/get in their face/sometimes push to make a point in a real teaching moment? Would you want your son/daughter playing for this type of coaching style? For me, I’d have to say no.

My grandson, 18 year old Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has played organized basketball, winter and summer leagues (superbly, I might add) since he was 8, so he’s had his share of coaches. The yellers and subdued guys. Although I’ve missed some of his games, I’ve seen most. I have (more than once) yelled at various coaches from the stands when their screaming has crossed the line during a game and is totally counterproductive. But I’ve never witnessed Landon with a finger in his face or getting shoved by a coach.

Not surprised after I googled ‘coaches who lose their shit’ during a game, I’m in a very small minority. Almost every sports writer sees absolutely nothing wrong with Izzo’s, or other coaches angry behavior. If you’re highly successful, but prone to erratic outbursts, it’s expected/accepted. Oddly enough, when I see a coach on TV lose it (true enough, I constantly miss plays, post-ups or screens, which would cause any coach to become unglued-sarcasm warranted here), I desperately want to walk up, screaming the whole time, and slap the snot right out of him. Which of course, makes me guilty of the behavior I abhor in him. The irony is duly noted…

I got my first cellphone 20 years ago. John already had one for several years, (his first cellphone was nestled in a suitcase the size of a carry-on bag) which was for work. No one under 40 will ever realize how revolutionary the cellphone was. Hard to imagine life with only a landline before cordless/cellphone/answering machines/caller ID became commonplace.

When your home phone rang (before cordless, cellphones or answering machines) your life virtually stopped. There might be some pushing & shoving from kids racing to answer the coveted phone. Because NO ONE knew who the call was for or who was on the other end. Unbelievable, right? Our kids assumed every call was for them (who in the world would wanna call mom or dad? They’re ancient). Once you answered the phone there wasn’t much wiggle room during your conversation unless you had an extension phone in another room for a bit of privacy. You could only go as far as the cord on the phone allowed. You were stuck. Literally.

When one of the rugrats screeched, “Mom, it’s for you,” several things happened simultaneously. Anything I might be doing:

1. Cooking supper, baking, laundry, laying out in the sun, watching the Cubs, washing dishes-either got tuned out, turned down or switched off.

2. Automatically hit the left pocket of my flannel shirt (making certain I had my pack of Tareytons and my lighter, then snag an ashtray on the way to the phone. Who wants to be stuck without smokes yakking on the phone for half an hour?

3. Threaten the kids to go find something to do. Hold the fights and screaming to a minimum.

4. Unless it was a dire emergency, any phone calls made or answered during the day were not long distance. Long distance rates decreased significantly after 7 pm, even more after 11 pm. With 3 kids trying to get by on Hubs salary, we just didn’t make long distance phone calls unless they were absolutely necessary.

I loved talking on the phone since I was a kid. When you were home, it was your lifeline to the outside world. Plans were made/changed, gossip shared, rumors discussed-stretched or squelched, boyfriends discovered/dumped or embellished, friendships broken or strengthened. Much of my social life was spent on the phone after school or on weekends. When John and I were dating, we’d spend countless hours on the phone at night, after he got home from whatever sport he was participating in. John’s mom & dad’s wall phone (beige) hung inside their back door on the kitchen wall. From there the curly, stretchy cord allowed him access to a spare bedroom or the stairs leading to the basement when he talked. His parents weren’t concerned with our phone romance on nights when we didn’t see each other. Mine were though. Our orange wall phone hung in the kitchen and the cord was not very long, so I was stuck having my conversation by the kitchen table, until they got an extension phone in their bedroom upstairs. This phone was really a necessity because it eliminated one of them running downstairs during the middle of the night if Dad got called in to work when we were having a snowstorm, blizzard or it was so ghastly hot the pavement on the Highway 18 or 75 ruptured (it was called a blowout-a big chunk of pavement would buckle up a foot or so from the heat. A blowout could cause a serious accident and needed to be repaired pronto, although most occurred during the peak heat of the day-5-ish).

I never imagined a time where I would get rid of our landline phone. It had been a constant throughout my life. A necessity. After answering machines became affordable, that too became as useful as any appliance in my kitchen. We got rid of our landline phone years ago. Sigh. For months afterwards John automatically walked to where our old phone and answering machine had been to check messages when we walked in the house. How times have changed. I’d say at least 50% of the time Hubs forgets his phone when he leaves the house.

Mom’s health was spiraling down so I was driving back & forth from Michigan to Iowa quite often. It wasn’t practical thinking a cellphone would be a ‘cure all’ if my car broke down by Chicago, but it did give me peace of mind. I would simply call John and assume he could fix it for me, even from a couple hundred miles away. It just made me feel better knowing I had a phone.

We’ve had several different brands of phones until 2015. I had been blogging on my iPad for a year but the pictures on my phone wouldn’t sync with my iPad so I couldn’t add them to my story. We bit the bullet, both got iPhones, mine with enough storage to hold all my pictures. For the most part I love everything about my phone.

Except these stinking robocalls. They are driving me insane. I’ve had the same phone number since I got my cell 20 years ago. We signed up on the ‘Do Not Call’ list. But I don’t remember these automated calls being as obnoxious as they have in the last 3 years. I’m not a big fan of talking on the phone since I started going deaf 20 years ago. Messenger and texts fulfill my communication needs. Some days though my phone rings as if I were someone of high importance. Ugh.

For the most part, I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize. If it’s important they’ll leave a message and I’ll get back to them. My weird messages started a couple years ago from several different locations, New York, Georgia. I was petrified the first time I listened to the message. A woman telling me a warrant for my arrest was imminent unless I called back immediately and asked for a certain officer of the court. I was so scared I didn’t dare to tell John when I got home. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to justify an arrest. (Could one really be arrested for sarcasm? I always thought it was one of my better features). After my hands stopped shaking, I googled the phone number. Hundreds of comments, every one said, this is a big scam. Forget-about-it.

So I blocked the grifter’s number and all was well in the world of Neese. For about a week. Different number from another state with a similar ominous message. Using the same monotonous/flat woman’s voice on the message. I’d delete the message and block the number. Again and again. And we can’t forget-Rachel’s frequent calls assuring me there was “no problem with my credit card,” but she might have a better deal for me. Someone else calls from ‘senior services’ who has all kinds of helpful things for me if I’d just respond. I’ve gotten phone calls from Nigeria. Crazy.

Hubs and I still have the same phone numbers since we moved back to Jackson (which has a different area code) almost 4 years ago. Most of my robocalls originate from the area code in Muskegon. (I can count on one hand the number of friends who call me from that area code). I’m in awe and amazed at the volume and variety of numbers these robocallers have. Who pays for these multiple phone lines? They’re not 800 numbers. I can safely say in my 68 years on this earth, I have not met/known/or gazed upon the countenance of as many people in my entire life as I have blocked phone numbers on my iPhone. Since 2015. And my phone shit list continues to multiply by leaps and bounds. Only wish I’d have been this popular in high school…

We’ve moved around a lot since I started sharing my life with the Hubs. A couple years here, 3 years there, but managed to stay in Iowa through our first 2 decades. A dozen moves-minimum. Considerably better since we settled in Michigan 32 years ago. We’re on our third house and hope to live here until the good Lord calls me home. Throughout 15 moves it’s safe to say, we’ve had some good/bad/fantastic/strange/easygoing/different/helpful/unstable/friendly/psychotic/wonderful/whacko/deeply troubled/extremely helpful/memorable–bunch of neighbors. (We were always the nice, sane couple).

John found an engineering job at French & Hecht (a wheel company) in Davenport, Iowa after getting laid off the day before Thanksgiving in 1980. (Who even does that? Callous asshats, that’s who). About 350 miles east/south of Spencer and 10 times larger. A huge change for this family of 5. Our adventure was about to begin. We had never lived so far away from our families or in such a big city. Shannon was 10, Joshua was 5-1/2, Adam was just over a year.

The housing market in eastern Iowa sucked. We desperately wanted to stay in Iowa, (schools) yet just across the Mississippi River, Illinois might have been easier finding suitable housing in Moline or Rock Island. Iowa finally won the coin toss. John rented a small house in Davenport. Although our stay there would only be a year before we bought a house. This neighborhood was a nice mix of retirees downsizing or young families just starting out. Several blocks clustered together between a couple of heavily traveled streets, yet our neighborhood didn’t seem busy at all.

We had a one-stall detached garage, small fenced-in yard, tiny house, causing claustrophobia with 5 inhabitants, but we made due. Young guy on one side of us, single mom with 2 kids on the other. Through an alleyway one block west, towards Kimberly Road (very busy with a mixture of businesses and nice homes) is where I found one my of my dearest friends. I met Mary Ellen when I traipsed into a nearby bowling alley, (lugging Adam and my bowling bag) looking to sub on a league for the remainder of the season. The fourth bowler on Mary Ellen’s team had broken her leg (Thanks God for introducing me to this lifelong group of dear friends-apologies broken leg girl-but I knew not a soul and really needed some friends). I’m still in touch with some of these gals 35 years later, though sadly my bestie Mary Ellen, passed away in 2013.

Life is different when you have young kids. I notice this the older I get and with each additional move we make. School activities and neighborhood kids are a great ice breaker whether you’re new in town or just moving in on the block. I wasn’t up to meeting people yet because I was frantically trying to cram 7 rooms of furniture to into 5 room house. (We never did get to use the garage for our car-it was packed to the roof with overflow furniture that didn’t fit). But all it took was Joshua and Adam playing in the back yard. Soon Joshua had friends over or he was playing a few doors away.

Some of Shannon’s new friends lived several blocks away. Reflecting back I’m kinda surprised I allowed her venture that far in a big city. Spencer’s population of 10,000 had a small town vibe. She rode her bike everywhere before we moved. To get to her friends Kelly’s house, Shannon had to cross Division, which was wall to wall cars 16 hours a day. But there were traffic lights on every corner. She embraced that city like she’d been born there.

Not long after we moved in I met a gal who lived a few houses away. She was a couple years younger than me and ran a cake decorating business out of her home. She was wildly talented, sarcastic, loud, outspoken, hilarious and genuinely funny. Her husband was the polar opposite of her. Brooding, quiet, unhappy, ornery with a wicked quick temper. We invited them over for a barbecue, but he wasn’t impressed with any of us. He made it clear he didn’t want to engage with us socially, so while the mommy’s bonded, couple’s outings were not gonna fly.

They had 2 kids, Craig, almost 5 and a 3 year old girl. Josh and Craig were instant buds. Two peas in a pod. What comes to mind when you think of 5 & 6 year old boys playing together? Match Box cars, Big Wheels, Nerf football, water guns. Au contraire. These two daredevils were virtual clones of Evel Knievel when he was 12. The alleys in Davenport were a marvel in our neighborhood. Most were poured concrete, about as wide as a regular street. Some homes had their garage off the alley, ours did not. It was like having an extra street (safe and seldom used). These 2 rascals used both alleys as their personal domain. They’d take blocks of wood and bricks to build ramps for jumping their bikes. Though Craig was a year younger, he ruled in this division. He was the proud owner of a brand new blue BMX bike. Josh’s bike was a Sears, at least 2 years old, baby blue, with a banana seat. How embarrassing! No match for the BMX. When they got sick of racing bikes and seeing how high and far they could jump them, they hopped on our Radio flyer wagon, zooming down the steep alley.

Our dining room was about a foot bigger than our table. Craig was eating supper with us, making the room seem even smaller. Hotdogs and chips were on the menu. We were around the table, packed in like sardines. (except Adam in his high chair, which didn’t fit by the table because Craig was in his spot, so he was halfway in the living room). We’re busy passing chips and condiments when Craig picks up the ketchup bottle (probably a glass bottle at that time) flips it upside down to pour some on his plate, and knocks over his glass of Kool-aid, spilling it everywhere. As soon as Craig saw John jump up (to help), he dropped the ketchup bottle on the table, ducked and covered his head with his arms. For a couple of seconds time stood still. Hubs looked at me, I shrugged, not knowing what to say or think. Josh’s eyes got big as saucers. He looked at his friend and said, “it’s ok Craig, dad’s not mad, just let him clean it up.”

Clearly a red flag. Though we didn’t know what was going on in their house, we were suspicious. (I just learned when Josh was staying overnight at Craig’s, the guys were watching WWF on TV. Josh innocently piped up, “my dad says this stuff is all fake.” Craig’s dad jumped up, started screaming, swearing, livid, pacing the room. Josh was terrified he was going to get hit). He never spent another night there. I never knew. I should have talked to Craig’s mom or called someone after we saw him duck and witnessed some questionable interaction between him and his dad. When our lease was up, we moved about 5 miles away. Our kids were attending different schools. We invited Craig over occasionally to play, but it wasn’t the same as playing together everyday.

It was about a year later, at the end of summer. We were driving back to eastern Iowa. It was late afternoon. We had spent a week in Rock Valley, visiting our folks (and the rest of the relatives). We were getting close to Davenport, listening to the radio as we tacked on the miles, anxious to get the kids out of the car, unpack and sleep in our own beds. The disc jockey came on. “A six year old boy was killed near his home in Davenport this morning. He was riding his bike from his driveway into the alley when the city garbage truck started backing up, pinning the youngster under a wheel. Details and his name have not been released.”

We knew immediately. Just knew in our hearts it was Craig. The little towhead boy with an impish smile. Used to riding fast and furious. Craig’s death was hard for all of us to process. The eerie similarities between Craig’s fatal bike accident and my brother Larry’s tragic death riding his bike years before. It was the first time Shannon and Joshua lost someone close to them who was young. Craig was Joshua’s first best friend.

Davenport was one of our favorite places we have ever lived. None of us wanted to move away. Oddly enough, in the short time we called Davenport home, we lost Craig in a horrible accident and 2 people I was acquainted with were murdered in those 6 short years. (I wrote about those 2 grisly crimes of passion in October, 2015 called, Murder, she wrote, if you want to catch up).

Four months after Craig’s death, his parents reached an agreement on a monetary settlement with the city. They bought two new cars, some beautiful jewelry and did some remodeling. Six months after the settlement, the money was gone-along with their oldest child-in less than a year. We never spoke again. I just couldn’t. Could not…

I was attempting to comment on a post recently. But when I pushed post, an outline of red popped around the comment, indicating it hadn’t gone through. I tried a couple more times, nothing. Checked my router and settings but was unable to find a reason why I couldn’t post anything. The comment I was trying to post was about baby formula and nursing. I know, not something I’m very familiar with since well, 1980 (last kid was born in the fall of ’79).

Since I couldn’t relay my important point of view on this matter, (or anything else pertaining to Facebook that day) it got me thinking-specifically about 1971. I’ve talked about our early years of wedded bliss before. Two dumb kids, after dating a long time, but had no business getting hitched. I was still a teen. We did it anyway. And here we are, 49 years later, still hitched to each other. No one thought it would last. We did.

My comment was to a mom of 3 years old twin girls. One of her twins is still on baby formula because of a medical issue. Mom was complaining about the cost of formula these days. Shannon was born in December of 1970, so most of her babyhood was during 1971, thus my title. First, never during my pregnancy, labor or birth experience was I ever encouraged to try nursing. I don’t think it was very popular back then. Right after she was born, I was given a painful shot in my hip/butt to dry up my milk.

Though Similac was the popular formula of that era, it’s not the product Shannon’s doctor recommended. Dr. Stauch was pitching a formula called SMA. It came in liquid or powder. The liquid cans held 13 ounces of concentrate. You mixed it with 13 ounces of water and divided it up in several bottles. We used an electric bottle sterilizer, because we were drilled over & over, bad things happened when anything near your baby wasn’t sterilized. (Once, poor first time daddy was trying to help when he inadvertently used one of those triangular shaped can openers (he stills calls it a church key. What’s up with that?) to open the can of SMA as I walked in the kitchen! “Ack! Shannon’s gonna die, that hasn’t been sterilized.” Dang he felt bad, but ‘cleanliness next to Godliness’ had been pounded into this 20 year old mom. I insisted we throw the whole can away. Oh my word). Twenty six ounces was what Shannon was supposed to drink in 24 hours. When she was newborn, we started with 4 ounces in a bottle. As she got older we used less bottles but with more formula in each one.

I can’t swear on a Bible that these were the prices back in the day, but pretty sure I’m relatively close. We were debt ridden, broke, behind, bills up the wazoo, yet I don’t remember buying Shannon’s formula as being a big deal. (Ok, the mom was complaining her 3 year old’s formula costs as much as their house payment. She didn’t specify it’s something other than normal baby formula-I didn’t get to ask because Facebook wouldn’t let me. Or maybe she has a super low house payment). Anyway, I started doing the math on some of our costs as I remember back in 1971.

Hubs was working in Sioux City at Channel 4 as a program director. Loved his job, (running the newscasts, making commercials for dorky local companies). He just couldn’t make any money doing that job in such a small Midwest city. He was bringing home a little over a hundred bucks a week. We were making $80 car payments on a 1967 Mustang lemon. (Absolutely hated that cute car) By the time we had Shannon we’d already sold John’s 1965 Impala. Too expensive having 2 cars, which he couldn’t even drive because of too many tickets/accidents/racing the damn thing. Our rent was 60 bucks for a 3 room house that shook when the train went through town right across the street from our front yard.

John acquired some debt before we eloped, maybe $450. (I know it sounds like a pittance, trust me, this was the equivalent to 8 or 10 grand now) on a credit card from a trip through the Black Hills, Yellowstone and Canada with his buddy, Rod. Plus he bought a 13 inch COLOR TV on payments. All for ‘Star Trek.’ Egads man. Phone bill, utilities, insurance, gas, groceries. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that hundred bucks wasn’t gonna last nearly long enough. Good times.

A can of SMA was 29 cents, so formula cost us about 2 dollars a week. Even with our dire budget constraints, certainly not enough to make me hyperventilate that we couldn’t afford to feed our beautiful baby. (I must tell you though, 4-1/2 years later when Joshua was a born, I was shocked when a can of formula had doubled in price since Shannon). In ’71 a jar of Gerber baby food was a dime, and had some the most clever names. Blueberry Buckle, Cherry Cobbler. Positive all were packed with sugar and starch, they tasted great. But it wouldn’t be long before Gerber and other companies realized all those additives were not healthy for babies. (Dr. Stauch, the best pediatrician in the city had us start Shannon on cereal when she was 4 weeks old). We used cloth diapers but when Pampers were on sale, we splurged and bought a 30 pack for a dollar (normally they ran $1.30). Pampers were only used when we went away for the weekend, or she had a bad case of non-stop poops.

As far as some food staples, Startkist Tuna cost 29 cents but was on sale every couple weeks 4 for a buck. We ate a lot of tuna. A lot. Whole chickens were 25 cents a pound. We could eat chicken dinner for about a dollar. Doesn’t sound like much until you had seven dollars to spend for groceries and payday was another week away. (Hubs cut the chicken into pieces, if I did it the parts weren’t recognizable, nor was I very handy/safe with a sharp knife). I think hamburger was 59 cents a pound. (Except when this bargain shopper spotted an ad at a shady area meat market advertising hamburger for 39 cents a pound. That burger had so much fat in it I almost burned the house down. Hubs didn’t have eyebrows or any hair on his arms for months after dousing those flames. Yikes).

Shannon had to wear corrective shoes even though she was months away from walking. They were open toed white high tops and fit in the palm of my hand. When you looked at her, you’d say they were on the wrong foot but that was the purpose. It was the way I carried her when I was pregnant, her feet turned in, so the shoes turned her feet out. The price of those itty-bitty shoes, which only fit her a couple fleeting months was $30. Nearly broke us. She wore corrective shoes until she was about 4.

Health insurance was paid for by John’s employers, but there was always a 90 day waiting period. For this young couple that meant when he started a new job-I could not get pregnant (or have the pregnancy covered) before those first 3 months were up. No prescriptions were covered and if Shannon needed an antibiotic, the money for this week’s groceries were in jeopardy. My birth control pills cost $1.25 a month.

We were not in a position to eat out very often as the numbers clearly indicate. We’d get McDonald’s every other Friday when John cashed his check. What a treat that was for us. Every couple months we’d spring for a pizza. Shannon was possessed with Pizza Hut which was a fairly new franchise. I can’t remember the road in Sioux City where one was located on a big lazy curve. We literally had to distract her or cover her eyes when we drove past. If she saw it, she’d squeal, over and over, “Pita Hut, Pita Hut, Pita Hut.”

While we lived in Hinton there was a very small diner on Highway 75 called J & D Cafe, easily still remembered by me because it’s the same initials as John & Denise. They made a wicked good Hot Beef Sandwich for $1.25. When we got our federal tax refund, or Dad slipped us an extra 10 spot, that’s what we’d spring for. They also made real homemade pies. I’d get a piece of Coconut, Lemon, or Banana Cream pie for 60 cents. Think of it, a meal for under 2 bucks. Yet we couldn’t afford it even once a month. The more you make, the more stuff costs, the more you spend. And we made close to nothing.

Most of those first years truthfully, were quite painful. Even reminiscing about them makes my mouth go dry. But the lean years shaped us into who we are today. I wish we’d had it easier during the first 5 years, but then I’d have a lot less to write about…

Had I been given a choice which part of my anatomy I’d maintain a life long grudge against, with diligent consideration for all my flaws and shortcomings, (not counting anything that goes on in my head-so stop with the suggestions) I certainly would have made a different selection. I have legitimate gripes against my complexion, ears, pear shaped figure, feet, butt, boobs, weak arms and hands. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I keep hurting the same little ‘piece of Neese’ for the last 50 years.

It all started in the early 60’s at school. One of my least favorite subjects-physical education, P.E. for short. Horrible class, ugly uniforms, wasn’t fond of the teacher. Semesters divided up in segments featuring a variety of sports. All of which I had absolutely no interest or ability. But this particular sport wasn’t as bad as most. It was gymnastics. Don’t remember a single piece of equipment besides the pommel horse, which was kind of fun. Pretty sure there has been little or no change in the horse from ancient times of my youth through today. Not sure how wide the horse is but several inches. With 2 evenly spaced gripper thingy’s for your hands. I was attempting something radical like walking one end to the other. It’s a stationary horse! Doesn’t sound dangerous for a young preteen does it? Nope. Yup.

This clutzy kid took a header to the floor off the horsey. Good news, my left elbow took the hit, saving my questionable complexion. The school called Mom to pick me up. We drove 4 blocks to Dr. Hegg’s office, only to find a sign on the door that Doc was out of town for the week. I was devastated because I loved Doc Hegg. Gruff, but sincere and kind. (I was in serious pain, Rock Valley had no hospital yet). So Mom decided to go to Hull, about 10 miles away. Can’t recall who the doctor was, but he informed Mom I had dislocated elbow-not a big deal. Gave me a shot of morphine, rolled it back in place, put my arm in a sling for a few weeks and that was it. Or so I thought. Although I’ve never been particularly athletic, nimble, or coordinated, I’ve never been accident prone either.

I got on a health kick in the late 90’s for several reasons. I was in my upper 40’s, had recently stopped smoking and gained some (30 lbs) weight. Started working at McDonald’s, assuming since it was called work, I could eat a cheeseburger and fries everyday and not gain weight. Wrong. Gained some more weight. The Hubs was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes and encouraged to lose weight to avoid medication. Here’s the deal, plain and simple, I don’t wear fat well. My legs, arms and neck stay relatively normal looking but I just balloon through the middle third of my body. Not attractive. At all. These red flags were signaling some big changes to my life.

For the better part of a year I stayed on a strict diet and lost 75 pounds (yes, while I was working at McDonald’s. Once a week I’d eat a dozen fries, hot out of the fryer or take 2 bites of a sausage biscuit on my break, my only McD’s food). The best (smartest) part of my dieting/lifestyle change was the addition of a daily walk. At first I could only walk a couple huff-puffing blocks, but I stuck with it. And grew addicted to walking every day. Everything about my life was better when my day included a walk. My second profound life change came when I started going deaf about the same time. At first the loss was only in my left ear which wasn’t debilitating, though after a couple years was affecting my balance. When I was walking and looked up, I’d walk right off the sidewalk.

I’m not always eager to recognize or accept changes in my life. One morning when my schedule was full, I started my walk too early-it was still dark. Late September, 2003, a mile from home when I slipped on some acorns on the sidewalk and fell. Oh nuts! Flopped myself back to a sitting position, grabbing my left arm. Huh, my elbow was not where it was supposed to be. Yikes. Hubs took me to the ER. They thought it was dislocated-again. An orthopedic doc rolled it back in place but was fairly certain from the X-ray, I had chipped a small piece of bone off and needed surgery. Nope. Yup. Damn.

Repair work completed, some hardware inserted and a dozen staples (stapling human flesh is beyond gross). Afterwards Doc said I would probably have limited movement, my arm permanently bent at a 40 degree angle. There was a small window of opportunity in the coming weeks to lessen that elbow angle with some tortuous physical therapy. Sounds like fun right? (He also concluded that I probably chipped off that piece of my elbow during the fall when I was 12, but it went undetected).

After 6 weeks in a sling I went to my first physical therapy session. Sharing my orthopedic surgeons goal of my having a useful, relatively straight left arm, I was paired with a petite German gal, 5’11” weighing in at 240 named Brunhilde. Honesty, I cried during every therapy session. Brunhilde pulled, tugged, manipulated, twisted, applied heat, melted wax, electric current and hot towels to straighten my arm. She succeeded. Although my arm’s not completely straight, it’s damn close. It was unpleasant and miserable but she did her job (and really, really enjoyed her work. Yikes).

Soon I was back to my daily walk, but had been recently diagnosed with Ménière’s disease, affecting my inner ear causing balance issues, noise in my head 24-7, vertigo, head spinning (not the Linda Blair kind) and nausea. I had to be more careful when I walked. Constantly aware of sidewalk structural conditions and debris. But I am a slow learner. Autumn of 2009 I was about 2 miles from home, it was just getting light out, (dumb) when my striding tennis shoe (foot included) found a rock just as I stepped off the curb. Twisted my ankle, went down hard. Landed on my left elbow. Not surprised, are you? Picked up my headphones, glasses, put myself back together and felt various body parts. Nope, think I’m good. KEPT ON WALKING FARTHER AWAY FROM HOME. Made it about a block when I started seeing spots. Reached for a sign on the bike path to steady myself and woke up under a bush. Soaking wet, leaves clinging to my clothes. I’m so done. When I got home, discovered blood running down my arm, a hole in my shirt where my least favorite elbow met the unfriendly blacktop. My elbow was huge.

Oh man, I didn’t even know how to tell John. He held his tongue (though I’m sure he wanted to throttle me) and called the same specialist. Yup, broke again. Number 3 and counting. But I didn’t need surgery, just a fiberglass splint for 6 weeks. And more therapy. I did receive a stern lecture from doc to stop injuring the same arm, there wasn’t much else he could do to fix it. Again.

So I hurt my left elbow last summer and it hasn’t been right since. I’ve lost strength and mobility. Finally, 8 months after the fact I saw a specialist. X-rays confirm my elbow’s a mess but don’t know if I broke it for a 4th time. Doctor recommended physical therapy to help with tendonitis. Vicious cycle, not using my arm because of numbness, tingling and pain which causes the tendons to tighten. To date, I’ve suffered through 3 sessions of this nasty therapy business leaving my arm in various shades of purple, blue, maroon, yellow and green. Holy moly.

Nice hot pack on my arm for 10 minutes, but it’s all downhill after that. He/she slathers my arm with a Crisco like substance. Then the Tool (physical therapist) uses a tool akin to a thick, wide metal butter knife. Scraping it hard, over and over a small section of my arm. Besides being painful, it feels like they’re gouging this instrument over guitar strings. Ping, ping, ping. The Tools suggest resting 3 days in between sessions. Well no shit Sherlock. My arms so tender I can barely wear a shirt sleeve the day after therapy.

Is therapy helping my hopeless, hurt elbow? Too soon to tell, but I remain optimistic. And sore…

These posts show up on my newsfeed. Various ‘parent’ bloggers sharing the trials and tribulations of raising little ones. Whether it’s something cute, troubling, sad or hysterical when I comment, I try to be supportive and positive. I remember those days very well, though the majority of moms have their children much closer together that I did (I was all about saving my sanity). Instead of starting every comment with, “little kids, little problems. Just wait until they’re teens.” My go to phrase is, “you can’t imagine how fast the time goes. This ‘not sleeping all night’ will not measure on your radar in a very short time.” I get it, parents need to feel they’re not in this alone. Other parents are in the same boat.

I have been watching my 18 year old grandson Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) play basketball his whole life. Landon’s dad, Tracey was a high school varsity coach when he was born and dad hauled him along to practice before he was potty trained. Landon was playing in a winter travel league by the time he was 10. Went to numerous basketball camps every summer, often winning free throw or 3 points contests competing against boys much older than him. He’s been a phenomenal ball handler since the first day he picked up a basketball.

Like the new mom who feels her days (or nights) will NEVER end, I felt the same way watching Landon play basketball. Year in and year out, his skills/moves/shots/defense/passing ability/court presence became noticeably better to others besides his number one fan. Me. He’s been watched by college coaches since he was in junior high. And I never thought that part would end. This is my fourth year of living in denial.

When the realistic gram looks at Landon, I know this is just the beginning for him. For Landon so far, basketball has been one long teaching camp. Hundreds, no thousands of hours, waking up at 5 to get to the gym, smelly weight rooms, body glistening with sweat, listening to strict trainers, practicing free throws, running laps, learning new plays, defenses, missing family suppers, never going away for spring break because AAU was in full swing by then. Adjusting to new/different /supportive/hopeless/clueless/knowledgeable/and sometimes just plain lousy coaches year after year. (During a game a couple years ago, one asshat coach told Landon at halftime to stop shooting. The reason? Landon scored 29 points in the first half. The coaches kid on Landon’s team-not so much. I recently spotted this dipstick at a game. I can still feel the cut as I bit my lip to refrain from yelling at this lowlife in front of hundreds of people. Yes I can show restraint at times. Honesty, I didn’t want to embarrass Landon).

I know I’m being stupid, silly, and selfish. Can’t help it. Landon’s really just coming into his own. When the not-so-practical gram looks at him, I still want him to be a high school freshman. Proud because he made the varsity team (if you remember, I was less than enthusiastic about him being on the varsity team. I thought he’d get more playing time on junior varsity. I was wrong. In my defense, it was November of 2015, so I almost made it through the year without being wrong). I never thought his 4 years of high school basketball would last all of 2 seconds.

Except for some minor injuries, a concussion and a stress fracture in his foot (which seemed to take forever to heal), Landon has continued to excel in becoming one of the best point guards in the state. Reads the court better than most, and is just as excited when his teammate scores off one of his assists, as he is making his own great shot. Very unselfish player. I just can’t impress on you enough how awesome it’s been to watch him play and grow. And be a small part of his journey. But this is just beginning of his journey.

Now let’s get to Landon’s last basketball game as a Ann Arbor Pioneer. Ugh. Didn’t think it would end this way. This might have been a mistake on my part. Maybe I wasn’t the only one looking ahead to the probable Friday night matchup. That was the game I didn’t think we could get past. (And here it is only March and I’m admitting to a mistake. Let me say though, I never like playing the same team 3 times during a season. Anything can happen. And did). This flying insect themed team, (talk about a buzz kill). In the past, these gnats have had little trouble keeping up with Pioneer during the first half. Normally though, by the third quarter is where we’d extend a nice lead. Pioneer was simply out of sync-the whole game. None of the usual shots were falling for the rest of the team. One dude couldn’t hang onto the ball, another didn’t drive in the paint at all, another guy’s 3 point attempts would not fall. When you’re behind 46-41 in the third quarter and your point guard has 21 of the 41 points, you’re in deep shit. He’s the playmaker, passer, assist dude, plus a great shooter. But he should not account for half of the team’s point total. (Though I try hard not to be vindictive, my fervent prayers on Wednesday night was for the ‘no see’um bugs’ to lose by 40 on Friday. They lost by 20. Probably not right to thank the good Lord for answering that one-at least half way.

Landon had a good game, but his team as a whole played poorly. Simple as that. Final score was 63-52 and Landon had 26. Half their total points. Pioneer finished the year with an awesome 18-3 record. As a 4 year varsity player, Landon scored 1,109 points for the Pioneers. Dude. You rock. Seriously. You rock.

I was numb driving home after the loss. Couldn’t accept Landon’s playing days, with me rooting for him in the stands was over. No more high school stat book to keep. It’s too soon. Reality hit after I got home and changed clothes. Since Landon became a freshman varsity player, Tracey has provided me with Pioneer sportswear for the games. I keep them on the right hand side of my closet. I slipped off my purple shirt, stood by my closet and cried. No need to hang it back up until next week, or next year. As Jovi would say, “all done.”

On the upside, Landon gets a 3 month rest (the first and longest since he started playing organized ball. He sure can use it) before summer. Shannon mentioned he’s playing in an all-star game this spring, so I’ll get to watch his awesome moves one more time before he leaves for college. Landon will be spending several weeks at Holy Cross this summer, come back home for a bit before embarking on his collegiate career. I’m excited for him and very proud. Something he’s worked for his whole young life. It’s quite an accomplishment. Hope Landon makes the best of this golden opportunity, doing something he loves-playing hoops, plus getting a top notch education with his scholarship.

Still sad (and haven’t come to terms that’s it’s over yet) I won’t be watching Landon play in person twice a week. Young moms, remember that when you’re up for a couple hours during the night with a fussy baby. Life (their babyhood, childhood, basketball games, dance recitals, school plays, concerts, graduations, staying at grandma’s) goes by lickety-split. Way too fast. So be grateful for your kids. That part of our lives doesn’t last near long enough. Slow down and enjoy the ride…

Magdalene Viola was born 109 years ago today. Wow! That’s hard to believe. And makes me feel ancient. Mag’s eldest child (Elenore) recently passed away just before her 89th birthday, so the dates must be right. Mag was my mother-in-law from 1969 to 1994. She would have continued in that capacity if she were still alive.

.

She was the oldest child of eight born to Ralph and Carrie. Seven children would make it to adulthood, losing a toddler brother with a ruptured appendix. Mag’s early years were a bit unusual. Shortly after Ralph & Carrie married in northwest Iowa, and were expecting Magdalene, Ralph up and left to herd sheep in Colorado. What? Odd for a couple of reasons. Why didn’t he take his new pregnant wife with him or at least wait until Carrie gave birth? What did Carrie live on? Did Ralph send money home? Did they write love letters? Don’t know the answers to any of these questions unfortunately, but if Mag’s next oldest boys (Jim & Les) have any insight, I’ll probably hear about it.

I think Ralph was awol from their marriage and parenthood for about 5 years. Guess the sheep all grew up and left the herd. Can you imagine that reunion? Might have gotten a warm reception from Carrie, but I don’t think Magdalene was very excited to meet a father she didn’t know at all. The marriage endured however, blessing 7 more children to this union.

I’m sure the dynamics changed drastically once Ralph reappeared and the family’s population exploded. Mag, older by several years was expected to help with the little ones, plus household cleaning and cooking. Whenever she spoke of her siblings when Hubs and I were around, it was with great affection. Not that she hung around home very long. She was in a serious relationship (engaged) when something happened and they broke up. She soon met Jim, the 2 quickly became an item. They got married on Jim’s 22 birthday in July of 1929. Mag was 19.

Jim & Mag were rather nomadic during the first years of wedded bliss. The early 1930’s, the height of the Great Depression. I think Elly was born in Sioux Center. For awhile they had farm in Minnesota which was lost under very questionable circumstances. Once they landed in the small town of Rock Valley, Iowa, they finally put down roots. Though they moved from one rental to the next (until they built their ranch in 1958) as their family expanded, they found no reason to keep looking for home. They had a home. It was Rock Valley.

Jim and Mag would similarly mimic Ralph & Carrie in the births and spacing of their children. After the birth of Elly in 1930 it would be about 5 years before James Roger would join the trio. Leslie Dale is 7 years younger than Jimmy. Only 3 years would separate Les and Arlyn, who was born in 1944. I’m fairly certain they thought their family was complete after Arlyn. Magdalene was 34 with a kids ranging from a teenager to a newborn. She needed/wanted to work to help out the family budget.

But there was one more hiccup in store for the Van Berkum’s. Exactly one week after turning 38, Magdalene Viola would give birth to Johnny Wayne. Surprise-surprise! His older sister Elly was 18 and graduating from high school soon. (This dude would become my husband in another 21 years).

John was more or less left to his own devices when he was growing up. Jim & Mag were working hard to provide for their household of 7. As a youngster John learned to cook his own meals. He knew more about cooking by age 10 than I did when I did when we got married. (I wasn’t really sure how to boil water in 1969. Or 1970. But I did learn-eventually. To boil water- and cook a decent meal).

It was far from Mag’s first rodeo when she became my mother-in-law in 1969. Elly had been married for almost 2 decades and had 4 children. (Their oldest son is a couple years younger than me!) Jimmy and Eleanor were married with 3 kids, Les & Mary Jane had been married for 4 years and just had their first daughter, Kristin. Arlyn, although 4 years older than Hubs got married shortly after us. Mag, the mother-in-law was the polar opposite of my Mom in most respects. Mag was happy to let John and I figure out our own marriage. She didn’t hover, wasn’t nosey, was happy to see us if we showed up on a weekend, but not devastated if we had other plans. She was simply living her life and letting us live ours.

After Mag retired she needed something to fill the hours besides making meals for Jim, babysitting for the grands and Bingo. She signed up to be a foster grandparent for children with special needs at Hope Haven. She found this job/mission/calling immensely rewarding and continued working for many years until her health (diabetes) started failing.

Mag was a good cook and terrific baker. As a rule, she rarely measured ingredients, but when she was in a teaching mode, would place her unique style on the shelf to speak in layman’s terms, scrounge around to find her set of measuring cups and spoons. All so this young, inept married girl could learn how to make meals for her baby boy. Happy Heavenly Birthday Mag. Hope they’re serving cake…

After living in mid-Michigan for 7 years, Hubs found another job. We tried valiantly to move back to Iowa but the couple of prospects John was pursuing didn’t pan out. Instead the state’s western shore of Lake Michigan was luring us. About 160 miles west and north of Jackson-maybe a twitch closer to Iowa, but not much. What we gained in heading west, we lost by moving north.

You wouldn’t think 150 miles one direction or another would result in much change but it did. Everything from the difference in soil to how our TV preferences were handled. (Grand Rapids, 45 miles from Muskegon held the television strings with TV stations, which in turn deemed NYPD Blue to risqué for their Dutch population. So for a couple years we had friends tape in Jackson ‘from the sinner TV stations in Lansing’ and send it to us. Just kill me now. Obviously I was not mature enough to turn the channel to eliminate such filth, thus really appreciated WZZM’s to make that decision for me). We would be moving without Shannon and Ariana who were living in Lansing. Shannon was about to graduate from Michigan State with her (first 2 of 4, following with her masters degree in psychology, then doctorate-yikes) double major degrees in psychology and broadcast journalism. Joshua was in college too and working part time. We had 2 goals as we were house hunting. Well, I had one and Hubs had 1. Our youngest kid, Adam, was heading into his sophomore year, a tough time to move. (Ironically, all three kids had to change high schools in the 10th grade. Yes, we were terrible parents). So we wanted to find a good school fit for him. Don’t know if we did him any favors but at the time I was convinced that the larger the school district, the more likely he was to do a couple of things:

1. Fall through the cracks and shuffle his way through.

2. Fall in with the wrong crowd and turn out shitty.

3. He did neither, turned out fine, graduated from Western Michigan.

Hubs was fascinated with water. Ugh. He was determined to live on one of the many lakes in the area. I was not so smitten. (Although I love looking at the water, I’m not so inclined to BE on water) Odd as it sounds, neither of us were gung-ho about living on Lake Michigan itself. While one of the most beautiful natural resources in the world, most of the homes on the big lake were not affordable to mere mortals. While breathtaking, many homes on the north side of Muskegon Lake were located on high bluffs requiring 75 steps to get to the water, plus you really couldn’t have a dock. Ok, the main reason Hubs wanted to live ‘on water’ was to have a boat (yes it’s true, boats are one big money pit), but if we couldn’t dock the boat at our house, we had to pay for a seasonal boat slip, which is very expensive. The homes on Lake Michigan on the south side of Muskegon Lake were on flatter ground but most were part of much bigger school districts. We looked in Grand Haven, Spring Lake, Whitehall, Montague and North Muskegon.

I thought Spring Lake or Grand Haven looked inviting until we really started spending time in both towns. Quaint shopping districts, Mom & Pop dives, small town feel, but the traffic was unrelenting/unbelievable and notched up my rage for inanimate objects. The main thoroughfare was highway 31, a north/south 4 lane-smack dab in the middle of town. With one drawbridge eager to snarl traffic for hours during the summer months. Both towns have major vacation/tourism appeal compared to Muskegon. I know not why. Both (lumping Grand Haven and Spring Lake together) have the same stunning Lake Michigan shore line, but for some reason Muskegon is shut out in garnering the market on summer visitors.

Heading north on 31 was Whitehall and nearby Montague. Both smaller towns with nice lake access but had nothing available in our price range when we were looking. Our best bet sat just north of Muskegon called, aptly enough, North Muskegon. A snooty, old money town of 4,000 with their own good sized body of water called Muskegon Lake. (How did they ever come up with these unusual names?) Parts of North Muskegon are only several blocks wide because a smaller body of water (Bear Lake) lounged there. Each lake had access to Lake Michigan via boat, but your boat better not be very big if you lived on Bear Lake because you had to maneuver under a low bridge first. Both homes we had interest in were in North Muskegon Public school district, which we decided was our number one choice for Adam. Small school, great graduation rate, ranked high in the state.

Bear Lake was my choice. The small, shallow lake was attractive as you looked from your back yard down a few steps to the water. It’s size lent a cozy, neighborhood feel as you could easily see the houses right across the lake from you. John hated it. Too small, not deep enough, boat size was determined by that damn bridge. Plus he hated the house I liked. An addition (attractive), but built on a slab was the clincher. The lake house Hubs was leaning towards was 2 years old (now how are my hundred year old oak antiques supposed to look in a brand new house with no character or charm?) It rested at the bottom of a steep hill, a comma shaped cul-de-sac consisting of 7 homes, all virtually new. Right on Muskegon Lake, facing south. The lake offered a great view, but across the lake was a rather weary piece of Muskegon. Some kind of gigantic, ugly elevator type structure. I was not impressed.

John got his way. He preferred Muskegon Lake, liked the area better, the newness of the house. My take was this card carrying grudge holder (me) would take approximately 5 years to warm up to this house. (If nothing else, I am consistent). But the Hubs called it right on this one. Though the views across the lake during the day weren’t exactly spectacular, the views at night made up for it. Next to the ugly warehouse thingy was an area showing great promise. It’s called Heritage Landing, a place for concerts, fireworks, festivals, none of which meant very much to me. But there was an abundance of vintage street lights around Heritage Landing. Those lights at night would shimmer all the way to our shoreline if there wasn’t much wind. Made for some very stunning pictures and memories. The night view from Bear Lake was pretty much blacked out depending on whatever house/yard lights from the opposite shore to light up on the water.

Besides boat ownership, my least favorite part of lake living was when the surface water was no longer in liquid form. Oh those damn ice fishermen used to drive me bonkers. Part of the appeal of lake living is the view. Watch rolling white caps blow in during the day, fishing boats idling by, 1,000 foot tankers headed for the BC Cobb plant to drop off tons of coal. No curtains/drapes/window treatments adorned our windows to the south beside bathrooms and 2 bedrooms.

But during the winter was a whole different story. It would be a couple of years before we could afford to bring in some fill and add a sea wall to prevent further erosion. Because our lot was fairly flat and next to one of the few remaining empty lots left on the lakeshore, multitudes of 4-wheelers and snowmobiles saw our property as an easy on/off ramp to haul their shit setting up their ice fishing city. Rude dudes. Zipping right over our back yard, back and forth all night long. So glad when the ice finally broke up in March.

Home ownership on a lake should require signing a prenup. Things you may not think about when you’re overly enthusiastic about living on water for the first time and in your early 40’s. You don’t realize how much work is involved or you might reconsider. Everything from trying to grow a lawn of weed free green grass when you have 4 inches of topsoil covering 8 feet of sand (water, water & more water) to constantly repairing sprinkler heads clogged with sand. The most work however is your shoreline. Sea wall maintenance, invasive weeds, putting in 100 plus feet of dock every spring, hauling it back out in October. By July when the heat really hits the area, seaweed floats to your shore (like standing in line for the lady’s restroom at Wrigley Field. Much too long if you’ve really got to pee). Dark green, stinky, unattractive. (the seaweed not your pee). If you want to utilize your beautiful lakefront, you’ve got to haul that crap out of the water to dry and get rid of it.

After 20 years, now in our 60’s, these jobs that are part of lake living proved to be too much. We still had options, hire it done, bite the bullet and continue doing the work-or move. And that’s where we found ourselves a few years ago. The lake appeal had long since faded. The second floor stairway (including our fabulous master suite) was tough on our joints, up & down several times a day. The rest of our family (3 kids, spouses and our 4 grandkids) lived 3 hours east. Since we were both semi-retired, we were on the road almost every week to visit, attend a function, game, or babysit. We decided to sell and move closer to our clan. It wasn’t a tough decision. We enjoyed living on the lake but the pull was now geared to family. At first the kids, especially the grands were disappointed. They loved the water, especially a trip to Lake Michigan’s sandy beach, but we have not regretted our decision to give up living on the lake for one minute. We are where we’re supposed to be. And loving it…