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…

While it’s certainly been a long time for me personally (try 5 decades), hopefully this current phenomenon hasn’t dwindled low enough to be endangered or more dubiously threatened with extinction yet. What’s going on? We could be on the brink of a world collapse. Let me expound.

I’ve been going to high school basketball games since Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) made the varsity team as a freshman four years ago. They play 20 games a year, (not counting tournament play after the regular season). Over half of the games are against rivals in their own conference. Let’s say 56 conference games in the span of 4 years. That’s playing the same teams, twice a year, leaving about 25 games in the same time frame against different opponents. Everywhere from Traverse City to inner city Detroit schools. Not singling out Pioneer here, it’s one of the top high schools in the state academically. It is however the school I visit most often. Pioneer is a large, diverse, urban school of about 2,000 students, freshmen through senior. These are observations by a curious, interested, somewhat discouraged grandma. 

I remember sitting in our newly constructed elementary school (during the late ‘50’s, pretty sure it was Myrna Ver Hoef’s second grade class. It’s been torn down and replaced, yeah, I’m that old). The hallway outside our classroom door led to the cafeteria, so students from all ages/classes meandered/scurried past on their way for much needed sustenance to get through the rest of the day. The door to my room was open and I watched ‘the big high school kids’ walking, talking, laughing, flirting until suddenly humbling themselves seriously to the mercy of the lunchroom gestapo police, Mrs. Haas, the lunch ticket lady. (For whom I had great fear if my lunch ticket had run out and I had to ‘charge’ my meal. I’d rather face the firing squad). It was game day and I was fascinated, envious, smitten and in awe of the cheerleaders. Cute orange and black uniforms, skirts barely covering their knees, Bobbie socks folded down, white tennis shoes. Perfect hair and makeup. They were just so together. I knew right then I wanted to be a cheerleader. 

Who remembers Friday afternoon pep rallies? What a blast from the past. Lasting about half an hour before we were dismissed for the weekend. But before you could make plans for Saturday, a big Friday night game (football or basketball) awaits. Athletes dressed up on game days. Cheerleaders, donning our uniforms held a pep rally with a mixture of cheers, and short inspiring ‘pep’ talks from team members or coaches (sometimes including a sermonette from Mr. Liaboe on what kind of behavior he expected from students during the game. Lucky us). The object of the pep rally was enthusiastically engaging Rocket booster students to show support for our team/school that night during the game. Didn’t matter who we were playing (although we hated Sioux Center more than the rest of our opponents-combined). The whole high school was excited about a pep rally-because it got you out of class early. Who didn’t want that on a Friday afternoon? I loved pep rallies. Watching our entire high school mingling on the bleachers, screaming out memorized cheers in unison. 

It was common to have 2 bus loads of kids signed up to ride a pep bus for an away game because most of the student population went to every game. I know we were from a small town with a relatively small school, but still. Taking an active, supportive role in attending sporting events drew us together. A neat kind of warm (cool) bond. Some of my fondest junior high and high school memories resulted from riding our pep bus. If the Rockets suffered a loss we might have a quiet ride back to Rock Valley, but with a win we were assured of everyone’s loud, hoarse, raspy voice being heard throughout the trip home. Such great times. The last time I passed a bus load of high school kids headed somewhere during the day, every single kid had his/her head down-practically in their lap. On their phone, in their own little world, while their best friends sat right next to them-doing exactly the same thing. Sad. 

Pioneer has 2 big city rivalries, Huron and Skyline. We play them each twice a year. Four times a season, wherever those games are held, the gym is packed. Four games out of 20. The rest of the games, depending on the night and opponent might garner a hundred and fifty students. Might. I think one of the attributing factors is cheerleaders. Or lack there of. Throughout Landon’s high school basketball career, approximately 80 games, I’ve seen a dozen, maybe 15 schools with cheerleaders at the game we’re attending. This. Blows. My. Mind. No it really-just blows. 

What has happened to school spirit? I simply can’t wrap my head around the lack of cheerleaders for sporting events in school systems. When I was in high school (about 200 kids) cheerleading tryouts were very competitive, nerve racking, with an over abundance of girls clamoring for the highly coveted spots. It was a big deal. Huge. Deal. Shannon cheered during high school and participated in several cheerleading competitions every year. Cheerleaders are still a highly competitive, active group at the college level, so what’s happened in some of the high schools? Can the size of a high school be a contributing factor? Is size detrimental? 

In a high school of 2,000 students, I hope there would be at least 8 beaming, spirited young women (or guys) who should be thrilled and damn proud to wear their school colors in cheerleading uniforms-on game day. Can it be cost? If I remember, I think Mom paid for most of my uniform (skirt, shoes, knee socks and jacket) but I believe the school paid for sweaters, which were worn more than one season. Is it sexism?  Not cool for girls to wear short skirts and skimpy tops. Bring back mid-thigh skirts (or leggings) and sweaters. Apathy? The crowd of kids simply are not enthusiastic about high school sports anymore. Lack of a coach? I’m at a loss here. And disheartened about it. 

Then again, if only a hundred kids show up in support for the non-rivalry games, cheerleading must not be much fun either. I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a cheerleading squad run out on the floor in between quarters or at half time to perform a rousing cheer. There were cheerleaders at our last 2 games (not Pioneer, haven’t seen cheerleaders since Landon’s sophomore year). Huron had a dozen gals on the sidelines. Monroe had 4 who walked along the bleachers and threw out T-shirts. Oh yeah, one of the girls did 6 backflips in a row, spelling out M-O-N-R-O-E while the other 3 shouted out the letters on the sidelines. Yay. Glum.

Cheerleaders are the conduit between fans and athletes during sporting events. (But you do have to encourage the fans to get out there and support the team too). A small way of connecting hard working athletes with the student body population. As one unified group. For a couple hours there are no cliques, just kids supporting other kids. I hope high school cheerleading squads make a comeback. That they are encouraged and supported by school administrators, teachers, counselors and their peers. Mentored and coached until they find some bubbling enthusiasm for high school sports once again. Rah-rah-rah…

At the time I certainly didn’t think we were rough & tough. No one did. If you were brought up in Northwest Iowa, several ‘givens’ describing our little corner of the world were assumed to go along with our lifestyle.

1. We had the best soil in the world for growing crops. When you drove beside the farmer’s field your eyes feasted on the richest, darkest black color dirt on the planet. 
2. When one mentioned living and loving ‘all 4 seasons’ of Iowa, they meant it. The 2 minor seasons, (understudies) spring and fall were simply expected to show up every year. Length of stay wasn’t of consequence as long as you could state, “yeah we had spring last week Tuesday & Wednesday.” Then the heat and humidity found its way to Iowa and settled for a spell.
3. Fall would manage an obligatory visit after we (the locals) whined long and loud enough about the damn heat & humidity.
4. And then came winter. And stayed. And stayed. Lingered until it was almost unbearable. Like the unwanted houseguest who wouldn’t leave. Or ever heard of the saying about over-staying your welcome and smelling of fish. Yet we knew no different. It was just another Iowa winter. 

But we never gave winter much thought. It was a time when the fields rested. The land and the farmers needed the rest, (the other 3 seasons involved the bulk of their work) after feeding the world for another year. Growing up I never fully understood just how cold it was-and stayed that way for months. It was a common sight to see several cars parked at the grocery store. Cars unlocked, devoid of people-but running while their driver ran in to buy necessities. There was no fear back then of your car getting stolen. Another common sight was an electrical cord hanging outside on the grill of your car. What? I know, it looked weird. Cars were prone not to start on frigid mornings unless you kept the car plugged in during the night. I think there were a couple different methods used. The heaters either kept the fluids in your radiator warm or the oil warm with a “hot dipstick.” Some folks had the dealer install a heat pump before they’d take their new car off the lot! 

No way around it we got a lot of snow. Usually fell sideways, zipping in from the west, namely Nebraska. Iowa’s not known for an abundance of trees, so there was nothing to break the wind from storming through. My home town of Rock Valley had such wide streets, the snow piles from the side streets were piled skyward in the middle of main street. For months you were unable to see if your one of your friends happened to be shopping on the other side of the business district, because the snow was piled so high. 

The snow even sounds different when the temperature hits a certain (low/frigid/subhuman) degree. (I don’t know the exact temp it has to be to sound like this, but in Iowa these temps lasted a couple months, namely January and February. But not unheard of in April once in awhile either). Not like the cute little ‘slup’ when your foot hits wet packing snow in Michigan. More like noisy popping corn, or crunchy peanut brittle being chewed by the unmannered. It sounds cold when you’re walking or driving on it. We’ve been in Michigan for 30 years and one morning this week as we were backing out of the driveway, John said, “man that sounds like Iowa snow.” One of the few times we’ve heard that particular noise since we’ve been here. Not a sound I’ve missed by a long shot since we left our native state. 

Rock Valley didn’t have many snow days when I was in school. Normally it wasn’t the below zero temps or the amount of snow that would determine school closing, but more importantly the miles per hour of the (sideways-westerly) winds while it was snowing. Wasn’t uncommon to see drifts reaching the roof of some homes accompanied by completely bare ground nearby. These drifts were a better indicator whether we’d be in or out of school for the day. Surrounding country roads would be completely blocked off from the rest of the world for a day or 2.

Our school district was not above cheating the town kids out of sleeping in and staying home either. Half our town’s population lived out in the country. The great Iowa farmers. (They had to do something during winter’s downtime so they made babies). The gravel roads would be impassable so Rock Valley Community would say, “the busses are not running, but you townies get your butts in to school so we can notch another day towards our 180 state mandated total.” Thugs. Used to just infuriate me. So unfair. Sure enough after a couple days the state and county road crews would have the roads clear enough for school bus service to run again. 

I don’t remember what year the higher-ups (superintendent, principal, school board, maybe even some local preachers) saw the light about our dress code, but I think I was in high school, so mid to late-60’s. Meaning all those miserable winter blizzards, with gale force winds and below zero temps for days on end, we had to wear skirts to school. I’d like to know what yahoo thought that was conducive to a girls learning process. Yikes. 

Snow storms and blizzards meant different things to those living in the Gerritson home besides a possible day off from school. Dad worked for the Iowa State Highway Commission, meaning it was his job to plow highways 18 & 75. Blizzards meant one thing, often resulting in OVERTIME. Yay, we loved overtime. Well, maybe not Dad as much as Mom and I. Dad’s boss, Harry Hewitt must have gotten up every hour during the night to check how much, how fast the snow was accumulating and more importantly how hard the wind was blowing. 

When we first moved to 15th Street, there was only one phone in our house. It was in the kitchen. The stairs leading to the bedrooms were wicked steep with a poltergeist inhabiting the sharp turn near the top step, trying to trip up whoever was disturbing his domain. After Larry died we all slept upstairs. Middle of the night, I’d wake up to the sound of a far away phone-rriinngg, rriinngg. You didn’t have to hurry (no answering machine) because Harry was patient and waited until Mom or Dad stumbled downstairs to pick up the bright orange wall phone. Wasn’t a long conversation, just informing whoever Rich was needed as soon as possible. Once in a while it was snowing so hard Dad couldn’t make it to the State shop (about 10 blocks away) in our car. First man to reach the shop would hop in a truck and plow his way to pick up the rest of the guys. Wasn’t long before Mom had (Ma Bell?) install a phone upstairs which sat primly on the night stand in between their twin beds. (I wasn’t above silently picking up that extension phone to listen to either one of them talking. In my defense they did the same thing to me).

Mom always made Dad’s dinner (Mom called it, making his lunch pail) the night before, wrapped snugly in waxed paper, sitting in the fridge. A banana sat on the table, (wrapped in waxed paper too so the smell wouldn’t seep into his buttered Hillbilly bread-American cheese sandwich). But the smell did seep. Dad’s whole lunch pail smelled like a banana. Always). Dad ate the same lunch 9 days out of 10. On the the tenth day he’d get 2 peeled, hard boiled eggs, each wax paper wrapped like individual hard candies. Another smaller, twisted piece of wax paper contained approximately 50 grains of salt for his eggs. Dad’s black metal lunch pail sat wide open on the table waiting for the fridge items and his thermos of fresh coffee to be locked in place in his lunch pail lid. 

When I opened my paper this week there was a picture of some governor (I don’t even think he’s from an ice cold, snow producing state, maybe Kentucky) making a statement how he thinks people are getting soft about winter weather. If I look back on my youth, I might have to agree. Hubs and I WALKED everywhere all winter long on our dates. We’d duck into a small notch outside of the Catholic Church, away from the wind and not close enough to the street for anyone to see us. That was our make-out spot. (Hubs purposefully wore no gloves so he could try for second base). If I was at his house during the evening and the weather was utterly brutal, his dad might give me a ride home. Never let Hubs drive me home, didn’t trust him with his car, but if Jim was still awake, I’d get a ride. 

Things are different now. Times change. Twenty-four hour TV weather stations are commonplace. And they tend to sensationalize every weather pattern. I remember several years ago, The Weather Channel’s Jim Catore was spotted walking in downtown Des Moines, Iowa. The headlines of “The Register” the next morning read something like, “Oh no, Jim’s in town!” Meaning he was there for some ‘epic’ weather pattern and wanted the rest of the U.S. to give their FULL, UNDIVIDED ATTENTION to him on whatever was plaguing Des Moines at the time. They wanted everyone to experience it with Des Moines. But that wasn’t exciting enough for the weather dudes. Why limit only hurricanes with catchy alphabetical names? Let’s start naming snow storms. This is just unbelievably lame in my book. It’s merely a snow storm, nothing more or less. But a snow storm with a name (anticipated for days ahead of time) sounds much more ominous doesn’t it? Think scared straight. 

We didn’t have the term ‘polar vortex’ as part of Iowa speak. The weather dude on Channel 11 in Sioux Falls or Channel 4 in Sioux City would simply say, “we’re in for a cold snap, or cold spell.” Right there was enough to let everyone know to bundle up their kids really warm before they went outside or had to walk 9 miles to school. While some really appreciate the educated Meteorologist of today stating the snow will start precisely at exactly 6:11 as opposed to the local weatherman of the ‘60’s muttering, “we’re gonna start seeing some snow right at supper time, so it would be a good idea to stay home tonight.” I’m really not on board with all the hype they constantly spew. Why does the weather department have to be called ‘Storm Team 8?’ 

You can say all you want about knowledge equating power, but some of the changes in the world have not benefited us. Some have been a detriment making us fearful and soft…

I’m on the cusp. Teetering on the brink. Trying to remain objective with something I have very little control over. I find it increasingly difficult, though worth the effort. Still. Why does it bother me? How can I steer clear of the bombardment of negative Nellie’s? Facebook has changed my life-plain and simple. For this profoundly deaf loner, Facebook has opened up a world I would have never known. I embraced it hook, line and sinker. Or should I say stinker? 

I started writing this in late December. (I’ve been procrastinating to post it because it’s uncomfortable & controversial-2 feelings I detest and avoid at all costs). I was simply contemplating a New Year’s resolution. I’m not too keen on resolutions, so I rarely make them because keeping them is impossible. While I was writing I wondered how long I’ve been on Facebook? Just as I was checking my exciting, informative newsfeed, Facebook sends me “Congratulations on 6 years” being part of Facebook. So this life changer occurred in 2013.

It’s not always easy bringing Neese into the scary world of new technology. Several years before 2013, Joshua and Ariana mentioned how much they thought I’d enjoy Facebook. They’d look at each other and say, “someone needs to start Mom/gram with a Facebook account.” But deep down both knew exactly how much work this would entail for the start up person. I’m high maintenance on anything techie. Just ask Josh. I still pelt him regularly with:  

1. I don’t know how to do this.  

2. What does this mean?    

3. Where did that go?   

4. I’m having issues with my blog. Now I can’t add pictures to my stories. Can you come over for a day to help figure this out? I’ll cook. Yeah, I’m still not above using bribery on my kids. (And no, I got no pride).

Fact of the matter, I’m kind of struggling with Facebook lately. I’m enormously grateful how it connects people. Namely connects them to me. There’s no way I’d be in contact with most of my friends without Facebook. Over half my friend’s list actually. That’s amazing. (Thanks friends). How this inept grandma managed to search out old acquaintances, relatives, classmates, former co-workers, neighbors, or they reached out to me with my limited technical capabilities. Reconnecting with them has brought me countless blessings for which I’m eternally grateful. I enjoy being a small part of their lives. Family get togethers, scads of pictures, grandkids, vacations, joys, goof ups, even issues that are not always joyous like an illness or surgery. It’s been a 2 way street with my friends. They seem mildly interested in what’s going on in my life. 

The part of Facebook I’m struggling with is the (anti) social part. Since I’m not a charter member I wonder if some folks on Facebook have always placed their political agenda upfront & center? Angry comments on opposite political leaning memes. So many different groups, screaming to be heard (through the written word). I would not have made a good lawyer. Although I have strong opinions, I don’t like to argue. To what end? Am I really going to change anyone’s mind typing my opinions? Never. And I don’t want to lose friends because I view the world completely differently than they do. I might make a comment on something I agree with, but it’s very unusual for me to argue/vent/rant about something I feel is completely off the charts. I have on occasion but it’s rare. But it’s getting harder for me not to comment. And I find that troubling.

I don’t recall much negativity on Facebook until about a year before the 2016 election. Maybe there was but it wasn’t noticeable to me. Of course my friends list was well under 100, thus as the number of my friends increased, so did the big divide on anything political. (I’m an equal opportunity friend to both sides of the political spectrum. Yay me). 

It seemed to me half of the country perceived President Obama on the same level as our Savior, while the other half of America viewed him as the devil incarnate. Political memes started showing up on my newsfeed. Liberal, conservative & off-the-wall-crazy. I absolutely couldn’t wait for the election to be over with so we could get back to normal SOCIAL media. Well slap me upside the head and call me naive. Facebook memes have gotten worse and much more frequent since the election, at least on my newsfeed. I was really counting on a 2 year reprieve before the large mass of politicians/Hollywood stars hit the road, vying for who’s gonna live in the White House after the election in 2020. I didn’t get my much needed 2 years. I didn’t get 2 months. Not even 2 days. No, I believe the day after the election was the worst day ever on Facebook.

Most of me hates every political meme, right or left. But part of me is so discouraged with spiteful posts, I’m inclined to jump into the fray. And that’s not a good thing. Angry comments are not conducive to my calm, happy demeanor. (Sarcasm added to lighten the mood) I don’t want to unfriend, unfollow or stoop to a lower level. On most days I can easily scroll past derogatory stories with nary a blip. I do mean MOST days. I refrain from reading negative comments (and making my own dumb ass comments) on memes I find questionable. I do this instead. There are 3 tiny dots on the upper right hand corner of each post in my newsfeed. (Are you shocked I know this? Me too). When you touch these dots you’re given these options:  

1. Save   

2. Hide from my newsfeed  

3. Snooze this person for 30 days  

4. Unfollow   

5. Give feedback on this post   

6. Turn on or off notifications on this post.  

See, we all have options. I use # 2 frequently, because some posts bother me. Bashing one side or the other, name calling, with no real solution. I just remove the post from my newsfeed. Easy peasy. (Although they’re not always easily forgotten). You gotta wonder, who thinks up this crap? And why does anyone find it necessary to repost it? Some seem so full of hate, it literally scares me.

I understand getting worked up when a disturbing meme rolls across your newsfeed. (Hmm, well that’s certainly a questionable statement. Nope, this one here might be downright batshit crazy). But I will never, ever understand giving up a friendship over a Facebook post. That’s just petty and shallow. I can’t possibly be the only person on Facebook with friends who believe (and post) the exact opposite of what I believe, right? Am I? Has anyone tossed away a friendship because you’ve been offended by a picture, quote or comment? Have you cut someone out of your life over controversial issues on Facebook? Not me. I’m even hesitant to unfollow friends. Most of their posts are great, thoughtful-about their family. We may feel completely opposite on key issues like the size of our government, abortion, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness (ok, now I know for a fact you’ve gone off the reservation with that post, get back on your meds-stat. Just kidding) but you’re my friend and I want to remain friends. I’m choosing friendship over feuding about things we often cannot do anything about anyway. All it does is spread hate.

So I’m stuck (mostly happy) in the middle of 2 very different sides in America, and will continue to ignore (biting my lip, shaking my head, feeling sad and leaving my fingers idle) unpleasant posts. If there was an alternative Facebook where I could keep all my friends but every stinking, hollow, mean spirited, political meme, statement, argument and comment were prohibited, I would join in a heartbeat. Making my social media-well more sociable again. Not the world we live in today. Too bad, laments the naive Storyteller from a one-stoplight-town…

It wasn’t much of an ‘aha’ moment, but a decision I’ve been waiting for since 1985. (In some areas I have the patience of Job). From the first time I used L’Oréal to color my salt & pepper hair when I was in my early 30’s, I assumed when I hit a big milestone in my life, I’d simply quit dyeing my hair. Ha. Milestone after milestone zipped by. My 40th, 50th & 60th birthdays. Clearly I was not emotionally ready to give up brown hair. And just like that thirty years slipped past. 

I haven’t worked in the infant room since October. Makes me sad. Stopped working because something’s wrong with my leg. Pain and swelling causing me to limp. It just got to be too much on hard surface floors, lugging those adorable babies around. So I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon, and have been staying home, getting lazy. One week at home, bam, it hit me. I was washing my hands, glanced in the mirror and thought, I’m not gonna use L’Oréal again. (Think my winter-stay-at-home-status had a lot to do with the timing of my decision, though it was unconscious). Who knew this monumental decision would occur like a casual random thought? So simple. No gnashing of teeth, no wringing of hands. Huh. (Since I am spending more time at home, co-workers aren’t gawking at my head with revulsion. On the other hand, I waltz into Landon’s basketball games like I look and feel semi-normal). 

 I never tried squeezing an extra week out of my dye job. Same thing goes when Hubs is stripping an antique. “I’m not here to save half a container of stripper,” he says as he begins. Glops that crap on good and thick, waits a few minutes and either use a paint scraper or steel wool. That’s how I felt about L’Oréal. When the instructions state you can go 6-8 weeks in between uses, they lie. My gray roots were half an inch long by week 4 and my hair looked drab and faded. As a rule I stretched it out to 5 weeks (max) before opening another box of # 7, dark blonde. Wonder how many dye jobs I’ve had? Hmmm, if I used an average of 10 boxes a year for 33 years. Wow, that’s a lot of peroxide on my head, seeping inside. Vanity, ugh.

It was that mindset that’s plagued me since I started on my L’Oréal roller coaster. Just the thought of those glaringly prominent gray roots on the top of my head sent me into a panic and caused me to hyperventilate. Knew once I finally made a decision to grow out my natural color, life was going to be a bitch. I’d wear a hat everywhere, (if I dared to leave the house at all), dwelling in my dark basement for months or spend major bucks highlighting my hair (again, which seems silly since I’m trying to rid myself of all fake color on my head) to make the transition less ugly. Hogwash, hasn’t been the case at all.

I did buy a new hat in the beginning as week # 5 zipped by without temptation causing me to open another L’Oréal box (my stash of 7 unopened boxes still sit in on the shelf in the linen closet). I thought the hat would be the first of many I’d wear all winter. I’ve worn it-once. I have been styling (my hapless style can hardly be considered as such) my hair differently which has disguised or hidden most of the emerging white/gray matter rather well. That will not be the case after my next haircut though. Hubs kept saying, “you should see how white your hair is in back.” How is that even possible I thought? My hair has to be the same on the top, front and sides right? Not even close Einstein. 

When I finally found a mirror to check out the back of my head I was surprised. The back looks frosted. Underlying white with light brown tips. But because my hair on the bottom back is much shorter than the length on top of my head, it’s not going to be very much longer until most of my hair in back is salt & pepper (without brown highlights). Each time I’m in the bathroom I tilt my head forward to see how the top looks. Oh my. But I’m not mortified like I thought I would be. I find it humorous-as in ha-ha funny. For the record I’m amazed this mess makes me smile when I thought I’d be second guessing my decision, embarrassed to tears and wallowing in self pity. I’m kinda impatient how much time it’s taking to grow out. It’s short hair for Pete’s sake. I can’t imagine how long it would take if my hair was shoulder length. I’m about halfway now, so probably 3 months to go. 

So I continue with my hair-rowing, hair-raising mostly gray growth spurt. It actually hasn’t been as mortifying as I thought it would be. It’s difficult to visualize what I’m gonna look like when the drab brown ends are gone. I am hoping for gobs of white but there seems to be a healthy dose of various pepper shades surrounding my brain. That mystery will solve itself soon enough. A new pair of glasses is one of my first orders of business. Some neat frames which make my highly anticipated gray/white/silver/black head of hair-POP, exhibiting my effervescent enthusiasm for life. OK, now you know I’m just yanking your chain…

It’s mid-January and Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) senior basketball season is half over. Sniff, sniff where’s the Kleenex? I was determined not to miss a single game this season. I didn’t even make it through December (memorial service far away). The game I missed wasn’t important, just a Christmas break challenge with 8 schools participating. Pioneer lost-but Landon scored a season high of 31. Of course I wasn’t there, rooting for him or keeping stats. Both losses could actually be my fault. (He ain’t heavy, he’s my grandson).

Senior # 3 Landon, wearing a rare smile during the game against Skyline, 2019

Normally, I have a game day routine and stick to it. When I arrive at the gym while Landon is warming up, I get out my 4 year old journal (Landon’s entire high school basketball career by grandma) and set up a fresh page for tonight’s game. By hand, in ink, crooked lines included. In the case of Pioneer’s first loss (Landon’s only sub par game) against Canton, I ‘drew’ up my game page while farting around-at home-during the afternoon. What was I thinking? Their second loss was when I was out of town, unavoidable, but still.

My basketball journal of Landon thru high school. It’s actually showing some wear…

So to catch up, Pioneer’s had some blowouts, thus several of Landon’s games, he’s played very little or not at all during the 4th quarter. As it should be. If the starters are not needed, let them sit and give the rest of the guys some playing time. He’s averaging 20 points a game, not bad for missing quite a few 4th quarters. So far this season, he’s had a couple games with 25 plus points and an unusual game played before Christmas break.

Are you kidding me? One Landon surrounded by 4 Skyline players…

I believe for conference standings they need 14 games but for the year must play 20, so they scramble trying to find opponents to fill up their schedule early in the season. Pioneer’s last game before break was at home against Traverse City Central, which is quite far away. Conference play starts after Christmas.

Did I know anything about Traverse City? Not really. When Tracey was coaching Jackson High, the Vikings routinely played some big high school from Traverse City during preseason. After Jackson beat TC soundly 3 years in a row, they cried ‘uncle’ and no longer wanted to play the Vikings. Huh. This Traverse City team sure knew a lot about us. Especially Landon.

Number 3…

Pretty sure I know why. A couple weeks before the game there was a article on mlive about Michigan’s 2019’s Mr. Basketball. Every year an award is given to the best basketball player in the state. What position they play makes no difference. This article listed the early contenders and gave a short bio on each one. Landon was on the list. No surprise, he’s been one of the top guards in the state since his freshman year. Will he win? As a grandma and his # 1 fan I believe he’s the total package when it comes to one of the best all around players. Duh. The list named a dozen early hopefuls. I don’t know all the players but I’m quite familiar with 3. One is Landon’s teammate Kasean Pryor. Good shooter at 6’8” and doesn’t hesitate getting physical in the paint. While this is natural for most guys 6’8” Kasean runs about 40 pounds lighter than the rest of the swinging-elbow-brutes nearby. Another early Mr. Basketball possibility is from Ann Arbor Skyline, one of Pioneer’s arch rivals. His name is Ryan Wade, a left handed, good shooting guard. Ironically, both Ryan and Landon have committed to Holy Cross, so they’ll be playing college ball together. When they’re not wearing different colored uniforms on the court, they’re good friends. The third kid is amazingly talented. Played AAU ball with Landon a couple of summers. His name is Romeo Weems, 6’7”, and has been touted as the front runner since his sophomore year and will most likely win. If it’s not gonna be Landon I’d be happy if Romeo, Ryan or Kasean wins.

Ryan Wade with Landon hanging close…

It’s not unusual for the student section from the opposition to give a ration of shit to a specific player during a game. They’re high school kids, I get it. Landon’s really good. Several sport business groups have routinely made highlight videos and interview him after games. Plus Landon’s not above getting lippy during games. Seriously wish he could block out that stuff, but he can not. I’ve seen him glance in the stands once in a while. My deafness prevents me from hearing what’s been yelled, but as focused as he is on the game he still hears the taunts. But it’s usually the student body of schools in our conference who know Landon really well (except by his given name). Because they play each other at least twice a year, and they’ve watched him for 4 years.

Landon, not happy with the ref’s call…

But this obnoxious Traverse City team. They didn’t have many fans so I assume it was the junior varsity guys (their game was over) doing the harassing. But it was non-stop the whole game. Every time Landon touched the ball they chanted, “over-rated,” (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap). Every. Single. Time. You know how many times the point guard touches the ball coming down the court? A lot. Even to me, it was distracting. But here’s the deal.

Looking over options…

It was a close, low scoring, back and forth game. No sitting out the 4th quarter for the best ball handler in the building (state). Landon played all but a minute or 2. (Side note: I don’t know what Pioneer has done to their gym. but it’s been unbelievably warm in there. The boy’s faces are flushed after they warm up and the game hasn’t even commenced. I don’t ever remember the gym being this stinking hot. No, it’s not hot flashes. If I’m toasty, trust me everyone else is sweating buckets. Turn down the heat in there on game days-please). Pioneer led 22-19 at half. Landon had 9 of those points. We stretched the lead a bit in the third, only to lose it during the 4th quarter. But we squeaked out a 47-45 win. Landon ended up with 23, virtually half their total score. Over-rated? Not hardly. Now shut up and go home.

Who’s open…

Friday night was a big game against our rival, Skyline. We haven’t had the best success against them during the last 4 years, losing the last 4 in a row. Landon sprained his ankle last year against them and we lost by 20. Plus I hate their gym. (I’ll take Pioneer’s sauna compared to how steep Skyline’s gym is). I’ve been to the Coliseum in Rome, Skyline might have used the same architectural design. Narrow and steep steps. I only venture down about 2 rows beneath the wispy clouds when I’m at Skyline. Plop my butt down and don’t move. Peyton (our multi-talented, coordinated ballerina) almost tumbled down those killer steps a couple of years ago. Yikes.

He’s got a lot of drive…

But this game was at Pioneer with a packed house. You’d better get there early when we play Huron or Skyline. Both student sections were filled to capacity, harassing each other during the game. Skyline led by a point at halftime. Second half would swing our way, increasing our lead to double digits. A good game to win. Landon was spot on defensively but a little off his average and had 13. Pioneer is hoping to come out on top of the conference by season’s end and have a good tournament run. So at the midway point, we’re 8-2. Anxious to see how his year ends up, but not ready to have it be over. Go-Landon-go…

Landon’s official stat sheet by gram…

When one lives in Michigan (long winters-gobs of snow) and the holidays have just peaked for another year, any thoughts of winter travel usually includes heading south or several hundred miles west. This year after Christmas however, we found ourselves packing our warmest winter duds, checking The Weather Channel frequently, and praying for travel mercies in preparation for a seldom winter trip destination to-northwest Iowa! 

One of my favorite pictures of Elly…

The yearly pilgrimage to Iowa just as winter begins-ended decades ago when our kids were still young. The Hubs and I felt it was time to start our own Christmas family tradition. Instead, we traveled to Iowa during spring break or summer vacation to get together with family. Although I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life-Iowa will always be my home. You might think just because they’re only a couple states apart the weather/seasons are similar. Heck no. Not even close. Iowa’s summer’s are hotter and more humid. Winter’s in Iowa are colder with more wind. Michigan usually wins the snowfall total. Spare me-please.

Jim, Arlyn, John, Elly & Les, 2002…

Spending much time during late December/early January in Iowa reminds me of a difficult birth/delivery. After your beautiful newborn makes their debut, you forget how miserable and painful labor was. Iowa’s just like that. While chugging our way west from Michigan, I didn’t have to check mile markers. It was easier to watch the outside temperature drop a degree every few miles. Started above freezing in Jackson, around 35. By the time we hit Spencer it was 7 and that wasn’t the low for the night. We would soon learn 7 above wasn’t that bad-as a couple of the days dipped several degrees below zero.

Elly showing Adam 7, her special Christmas tree, 1986…

I had forgotten how hard and crunchy snow sounds under my shoes when the temps really plunge, or how long it takes my windshield to defrost when not in a garage. I failed to fully appreciate most Michigan snow falls straight down from above, not out of the west at 20 mph with wind gusts often higher. I wasn’t even remotely surprised when I started my Jeep and was awarded a yellow warning light and beep telling me all 4 of my tires were low. On two different mornings. While I do most of the driving, Hubs is the gas and tire filler upper. One morning it was so freaking frigid it took him a long time to get the air in the tires back up to 36 psi. Finally done, he plopped into the Jeep with a groan. After a minute he said, “did you put my seat warmer on? Turn it off please. My butt’s so cold, I’m afraid it’ll crack.” We’re hopeless, that gave us the giggles-which felt really good. Probably better than it should have considering the reason and timing of why we were actually in Northwest Iowa during January.

John & Elly early 2000’s…

The way it began. Mid morning, 2 days after Christmas. I just started taking decorations off the tree. Love the tree, love the lights, but after Christmas is over I’m so done with decorations. I long/need/require (for sanity’s sake) my house back to normal. It would literally require me experiencing an epiphany to leave my house decorated until epiphany. I max out on the house being ‘out of whack’ after 3 weeks. Twitchy. Order needs to be restored. Posthaste.

The Christmas tree skirt Elly made for me, 1981…

Every year I go through the same ritual. Make an oath to myself before I set the tree up and get the ornaments out. I’m going to take my time and make some-hard-some-not-so-hard decisions about which ornaments perch on my tree, and the ones that no longer hold a tight grip on my heart strings. Every. Single. Year. Yet I never follow through. Never. I know which containers hold my favorite ornaments and start there. By the time I slip the lid off container # 4, I’m spent. Nope, I’ll have more time after Christmas to pick & choose what stays, what’s offered to the kids and what gets donated to the local religious thrift store after the family has celebrated the birth of Jesus for the year of our Lord, 2018. 

Elly made me this Nativity set in 1979…

Now there’s a couple hundred decorations laying around in separated piles all over the living room. Waiting patiently to be snuggled for the following 11 months in bubble wrap. Hubs phone rings. It’s our nephew Ken from Langdon, Iowa (near Spencer) with devastating news. His mom, John’s only sister passed away during the night. Although she was 88, the news is a shock and unexpected. We had just received a Christmas card from Elly. Hubs called her a couple weeks ago and they talked at length. Elly assured her baby brother she was feeling good, and still planning on trying to make it to her 90th birthday. She was getting along fabulously with her new cochlear implant (an updated replacement of her first version) and life was good.

The front of the card read, To my brother and sister-in-law…

Ken would call back after the kids decided when Elly’s memorial service would be held. John sat in his chair, numb, reminiscing about the sister he adored. They really had nothing in common, she was 18 years old when he was born. By the time John was 2, Elly had married Dewey. But the 5 years we lived in Spencer during the late 70’s changed all that. True, Elly & Dewey were my parents age, yet they became our best friends with a bond that would last the remainder of our lives, though we never lived close to them again. They became a third set of grandparents to our kids. Josh, then 7, reprimanded Adam (a toddler) constantly because Adam insisted on calling Elly and Dewey grandma and grandpa. 

Christmas 1973, Elly, Eleanor w/ Matt, Kerrie & Mag on the organ…

So early on December 29th, John and I head west for a long day of travel. Had some dicey weather as we dipped south to get around Lake Michigan by Chicago. An hour of sleet/rain mix slowing traffic down but the rest of the trip was uneventful. We arrived in Spencer unscathed but pooped 13 hours later, only to learn the hotel has no elevator. Up a long flight of stairs, lugging our suitcases with 2 bum legs, 2 tired backs and lacking enough ambition to waddle downstairs again to fill the ice bucket. On the upside, I slept really well the first night, which is rare.

Oh boy. Highway 18 on New Year’s Eve, 2018…

It’s difficult to look forward/anticipate/dread going to the actual service. No one’s ready to say goodbye to Elly. Mom to 4, gram to 10, great-grandma to 19, only sister to the 3 remaining brothers, (1 brother, Arlyn passed away 7 years ago). Plus friends-too numerous to count. The little Methodist Church of Langdon was packed like a can of sardines which is a testament of how much Elly was loved and admired. Though much of the circumstances were sad, it was great to hug and visit relatives I’ve not seen (or ever met other than Facebook posts & comments) for years. How come it’s always a funeral that binds/brings us together? 

Elly, me & Kerrie at our house in Spencer, 1979…

Lots of Elly anecdotes, goofy recollections and stories, accompanied by laughter and tears. The way she would have liked. I think Elly would have been blown away with the number of people, squeezing in shoulder to shoulder to pay tribute to HER. Amazed and humbled. 

Christmas in Spencer. Elly & Joshua 1980…

Elly had sold her big 2 story house after Dewey passed away in 2013. She moved to Langdon which is about 3 miles from Spencer, next door to Ken & Jeannie. Right across the street from 2 of her grandchildren, Ben and daughter Destiny in one house, Brandy and her family next door to Ben. Elly’s daughter Val lived right behind her. (Langdon or Lawrence-ville-it’s truly a family affair). Whenever we visited, we stayed with Ken & Jeannie, an easy way to spend time with Elly. John would head next door when he saw Elly drinking her morning coffee on the porch. We’d always have supper together and visit until Elly got tired and someone walked her home. After the memorial service it was hard to see Elly’s empty house or realize she wouldn’t be walking over to eat supper and spend the evening with us. 

Love this pic at Les’ house. Elly, Kristin, Ken & Kerrie around 2015…

Our dearest Elly, you were special, you were loved and you will be missed. I imagine she’s been singing regularly in heaven’s choir since she arrived. No longer bothered by her profound and annoying hearing loss, but belting out solos or duets with Dewey again. Preach…

Dewey and Elly, now singing duets with the angels…

 
It was the fall of 1970, and we just celebrated our first anniversary. We were broke, deep in debt, and expecting our first child. Sigh. We’ve all been there, right? Some of us just dumber & broker than others. 

The nomad clan of 2 (plus 1 expected soon) were on the move. Just a few miles outside of Sioux City. A small burg called Hinton. The little rental house was about 20 feet from Highway 75. Rent was half the cost of our adorable duplex but about the same size when we were needing more room. Remember the dumber part here folks. And when I say ‘little’ rental, I really mean it. This house might have been the original blueprint for tiny homes. Three rooms. 3. Maybe 600 square feet. A small kitchen with a tiny bathroom off of it. A good sized living room, thank goodness, it had to be. It was part living room with our early American couch, chair and gigantic 13 inch color TV. Part dining room with our early American 48” round maple table and 4 chairs. Plus part nursery with our garage sale bargain, 5 dollar, lemon yellow, lead based painted crib with 6 slats per side. Awaiting the birth of our yet to be determined baby boy or girl. The only bedroom barely held our early American queen size maple bed and one dresser. The bed was shoved tight against the wall so we could walk sideways to our tiny closet. The double dresser wouldn’t fit, thus it also resided in the living, family, dining, nursery room multiplex. 

One would assume living within 20 feet of Highway 75 might be bothersome. Au contraire. The rumbling tires beneath fully loaded semi’s weighed down with cattle, hogs, or sheep headed to the Sioux City Stockyards had a natural numbing hum. Highway 75 traffic was a nice distraction that could lull you to sleep. The local cops were diligent about handing out tickets for those who chose to drive through our sleepy burg above the 35 mph speed limit. Heck, it was the way Hinton was financed.

It was just a titch east of Highway 75 that drove us to drink. Railroad tracks. Such a picturesque setting looking out our front door. Constantly moving railroad cars. The trains literally shook our house. The glass in the windows rattled. The floors vibrated. Day and night. Located directly behind the train tracks were (still are) massive silos. Sometimes the trains unloaded grain into the silos, other times the silos were emptied into rail cars.

That tiny house would forever remain a special place in our hearts because we brought Shannon Marie home from the hospital. She was born in early December. I remember this more clearly than I can recall yesterday. She was reclining in a cheap plastic seat on the hardwood floor looking cross-eyed at the lights on our crooked, nearly ornament-free tree.

Something relatively new on TV, geared towards young children was all the rage. A program called Sesame Street. Maybe not as as young as 2 months but Shannon was incredibly bright and I couldn’t risk her missing out. ‘Bob’ from Sesame Street was teaching a lesson on opposites. Shannon was paying close attention. Bob ran towards the camera filming him and when he was very close said, “near.” Then he ran 20 feet away from the camera, tuned around and said, “far.” Shannon got it. 

Our landlord’s name was Louie, but dick would have been more appropriate. He was not nice but greedy and mean. The only decent thing he ever did was waltz over one day to announce he had another rental in town with 2 bedrooms if we were interested. Same rent per month. This was very good news. About 2 blocks off Highway 75 in more of a neighborhood setting. Huge yard with a garage. Little bit run down but Louie was willing to knock off some rent, buy materials to fix a couple things if John was willing to do the labor. Always handy, Hubs happily agreed to make the house a better place. 

Wow, a 5 room house. Kitchen, dining, living room and 2 bedrooms. John laid cheap harvest gold linoleum squares in the kitchen and bath. Painted the cupboards white which helped a lot. Only downside of the house-no furnace. An oil stove/heater sat in the corner of the dining room. Even though the house was small, 900 square feet-tops, the farther away you were from the oil burner, the colder you felt. Fuel oil was expensive and we lacked the money to buy it sometimes. The oil company insisted on cash for fuel oil which was almost impossible for this destitute family of 3. When the oil tank was bordering empty, Shannon and I would go stay with Mom & Dad in Rock Valley until payday. Poor John spent much of the winter, alone, hunkered under every blanket because we had no heat. 

We had some great neighbors when we lived in our furnace-less house. An older couple, Clarence & Ida (probably in their late 50’s, both were still working) were as friendly and devoted to us as their scary-ass-mean-smart-manipulative-demonic-barking-biting-bastard-Chihuahua dog allowed. Ginger, all whopping 10 pounds (although that’s what the real scale read, Ginger knew in her heart she tipped the scales well over 125 pounds and wasn’t afraid to throw her weight around when and where needed). And lest I forget to mention, Ginger sported some nasty habits. 

1. She smoked. (I shit you not. Clarence and Ida had built her a throne which allowed Ginger to be near the top of their antique oak table. They would put a lit cigarette in the side of Ginger’s mouth. Ginger played her part to perfection. She would tilt her head up and a bit sideways and squint her eyes like Tony Soprano. She ran that mafia.
2. Ginger drank coffee. A lot of coffee. From a dainty cup sitting in a matching saucer. And you best add the right amounts of cream and sugar if you valued either of your hands. Or face.
3. Ginger was the Queen. To be adored, spoiled, coddled and pampered. If you think a beautiful, smart, adorable 7 month old baby girl could compete easily or knock Ginger off her throne, you were in for a world of hurt. We kept Shannon far away from Ginger. There was never any doubt who was in charge of that household. Ever. We signed the appropriate paperwork Ginger handed to us the day we moved in. Deep in her black, pinky nail sized heart, Ginger was threatened by this small, cooing, winsome creature her slaves now fawned over occasionally. That simply would not do. Ginger let us know the roles and rules we would play (or pay dearly) when in her realm. Period. 

Clarence and Ida were a dear couple we thoroughly enjoyed but there never was a moment when we weren’t on guard when the Queen was among us. Her castle, her rules. 

Keith and Patty lived in back and off to the side of us. They were a little older than us and had 2 kids who rivaled Ginger in their charming personalities. Geez, was it the water or the entire neighborhood just odd? Threatened by our darling, precocious infant daughter. Patty had a beauty shop in her house, plus about 4 other part time jobs. Keith worked second shift at Sioux Tools and didn’t like to work. At all. Since Hubs worked nights at Channel 4, they became pretty good friends (when Keith wasn’t trying to kill John), doing stuff at midnight when they got home. 

About the night I almost lost my husband of less than 3 years. Keith wanted to go raccoon hunting after work-in the dark-using a spotlight. Hubs was game (a stab at hunting humor). Keith was driving a 1968 Chevy. After prowling around for a couple hours west of Hinton and doing some shooting they were ready to call it a night. Keith walked to the driver’s door and handed John his .243 rifle through the window. When John grabbed the gun, Keith was supposed to take his finger off the trigger-but did not. Resulting in a bullet going through the floorboard, the clutch and bell housing. But not through Hubs though he was deaf for several days. Turned out to be quite an expensive car night for the dumb ass. Keith, not deaf for a few days Hubs.

Most of the time John and Keith went fishing at the river after work. Hubs  always brought a couple of beers, but Keith never drank a beer-he was a Methodist after all. One rare date night John and I were doubling with another couple, (cannot remember who was with us). After supper at Anna Mae’s Townhouse, (best lasagna and French onion soup) as a joke, I was giving Hubs a hard time about going to Joe’s Cocktail Lounge (a strip club). The guys finally relented and we stopped for a nightcap. (The gals did not take off everything, they just seemed to have a lot of layers on to slowly remove). We were waiting for our drinks and I was gawking all over when who do you think I spotted? Keith-alone in a corner booth, nursing a beer. I poke Hubs and subtlety pointed out our teetotaler, sharp shooting, beer drinking neighbor, feasting his eyes on the cast of strippers. John quietly slinks away from our table, heads to the bar, orders another Hamm’s Beer (from the land of Sky Blue Wa-ters) and slides right next to Keith, not allowing him an escape route. Gives him a HUGE ration of shit, starting with “Hi Keith, where’s Patty?” “Umm, she’s in Winnebago visiting her folks. You aren’t going to tell her are you?” Of course John never would, but their relationship was never quite the same. Keith was forever worried that Patty would learn about his unforgivable deadly sin. 

One day, out of the blue, Louie (the dick) stopped by to let us know he had sold our rental and we had 30 days to vacate the premises. Well shit. Managed to find a house requiring a minimal down payment and bought our first home in Sioux City. Not very far from our little duplex in Leeds where we began married life. The house was huge, needed lots of work and paint plus the yard was a hopeless mess-but for a couple of years it was our wonderful home. Guess I have to thank Louie (the dick) for that little push…

We lived in Spencer, Iowa from 1977 through 1981. Our move after life on the Cascade farm in eastern Iowa. Spencer was one of our favorite places to live in nearly 50 years of marriage. We were devastated when we had to leave that quaint town. Color us shocked when we loved the big city of Davenport. These 2 cities were as different as night and day.

Life in Spencer, 1979. Josh 4-1/2, Adam 4 months, Shannon 9…

The reason for much of our love for Spencer was Hub’s sister Elly, her husband Dewey and their family. They were quite a bit older than us, almost like another set of parents-without judgment. We had more fun together. Antiquing, bowling league, shopping, family meals together at either of our houses. It was a wonderful 5 years and we didn’t want it to end. Wish it would have lasted longer.

Elly and Dewey years after we moved farther east…

I think Spencer’s population was 8 or 10 thousand at the time. We did much of our shopping downtown. Several blocks of various clothing, shoe, department, book & gift stores, pet stores that weren’t part of a chain. Close to The Lakes, it was darn near a perfect place to live but for the winters. Oftentimes the coldest spot in the lower 48, running neck & neck with International Falls, Minnesota. The winters were brutal. But we were young and dumb so blizzard conditions and 20, 30, 40 below zero never stopped us. Sometimes stopped our cars for a few days though.

Shannon, Elly holding Adam, Dewey with Joshua in front, 1981…

We were in our first decade of marriage, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck. Shannon was 8, Joshua, 4 and Adam was just on the horizon. We were living in a concrete block house a few blocks from downtown. The kids had friends in the neighborhood, and a creek in the back yard. We were blocks from a Super America gas station which made their own doughnuts. Almost every Sunday John took the kids and let them pick out doughnuts with sprinkles. I’m not a big doughnut fan but they were always fresh, often warm and pretty good. The kids thought it was a huge deal. The other spot which was quite popular with our little family was Godfather’s Pizza. A new franchise trying to compete with Pizza Hut.

Breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, Spencer 1981…

Do you remember when grocery stores had special displays with arrangements of pots, pans, dishes, or silverware you could buy at bargain prices after you spent money in their store? There was a grocery store I frequented which was near highway 18 south and 71 junction. I think it was a Hy-Vee but not certain. They were starting a special sales event featuring silverware. And I was hurting bad in that department. I had a small amount of mismatched, bent out of shape, dime store junk. One day I walked in for groceries and feasted my eyes on this fancy display of flatware. Shiny, patterned, heavy, made in Japan. The good stuff. Butter dish, gravy ladle, soup spoons, salad forks, ice tea spoons, plus all the regular daily stuff folks actually used. I was giddy with anticipation. And full of new silverware lust.

For every 3 bucks I spent, I could buy 3 pieces of silverware for another dollar. On an average week of spending about 20 bucks, that would net me 18 pieces of brand new, fancy flatware for our home. For 3 bucks. I needed and wanted a lot of it. OK, I wanted it all. All of it. Every piece they offered. But there were several weeks when I truthfully didn’t have the extra 3 bucks to pay for my new table setting after groceries. We were definitely lacking any kind of discretionary fund in our tight budget. And I think there was a small catch. I could only buy their choice for the week. One week it would be forks, the next maybe spoons. And the accompanying pieces were higher priced which caused major problems and thoughts of despair. How to keep up with getting a complete set of 12, plus the serving spoons, gravy ladle and that cute little covered butter dish. I was worried.

My Springtime gravy ladle…

Eventually I did buy a pretty good sized set of Springtime silverware (made in Japan) and was pleased as punch with my humongous matching set. But you know how it goes when you have little kids. You turn your head for 2 seconds and the little stinkers are nabbing some spoons to help dig out a trench for the toy pay loader in the backyard. You ask one of them to clear the table and while they’re helping, 2 forks somehow land in the garbage, never to be seen again.

So 25 years later my Springtime flatware (made in Japan) is looking rather meager in the drawer. I just couldn’t see buying something different. How could I grasp a fork if I wasn’t comfortable with a new pattern texture to which I’d grown so accustomed? Could I even bring an offensive shaped spoon up to my mouth? No, didn’t think I could. I stuck my head in the sand and ignored how few pieces were left in the drawer.

My official Springtime butter spreader knife. Never use it, but I had to have it…

Living around Muskegon got me hooked on estate sales. Wonderful things really. As a rule pretty classy stuff, everything is marked, and the sale lasts 2 or 3 days. The prices were slashed 30% on the morning of the second day, half price during the last afternoon. There was always a line waiting to get in when they first opened. Never me though. I went opening day to look, but after the first 3 hour feeding frenzy, fresh corpses still littering the floor. Those in line early for the sale are crazy. This is the way I viewed the sale: if the item I was coveting was still available when it was either 30 or 50% off, it was meant to be. Otherwise I wasn’t supposed to have it. Period. Bought much of my Waterford collection at estate sales. Some antique furniture but our big collecting years were a thing of the past for the most part.

My Springtime sugar spoon. This I use everyday…

About 10 years ago I was perusing an estate sale of somewhat lower quality. I could jog my way through in a hurry if nothing was catching my eye. Nothing to see here folks, keep moving. Yeah, it was that kind of sale. I tried to be thorough, zipping from room to room, willing something, anything to be worth a second glance. Down to the basement (always last), a room that originally was used to store coal, rested a box. Inside the cardboard box was a set of flatware, still in thin plastic wraps. Oh. My. Goodness. Springtime silverware (made in Japan). Tons of it. I was dumbfounded. Wary. Suspicious. Peeked over my shoulder to make sure no one was going to stop me or grab the box out of my hands. Made my way back upstairs, clutching the heavy box. Hubs was shopping in another room and when he spotted me didn’t know what to think at my dumbass grin from ear to ear.

My 2 serving spoons. They aren’t even shaped the same way…

I can’t tell you what I paid for the whole lot but it was a pittance. Maybe ten bucks. It wasn’t a complete set but a nice amount of the basics, plus the serving spoons, which turned out to be the biggest surprise of all. My closed serving spoon has served me well. Forty years this spoon has attended to my every need whatever I mixed, stirred, boiled, hacked to pieces, beat or served with pride. When I got home from my glorious estate sale shopping spree, I threw all the plastic wraps away and tossed the whole lot in a sink of hot soapy water. Upon rinsing the set I noticed a huge difference between my 40 year old serving spoon and the sparkly new one. The new one was much heavier and almost twice as thick near the tip of the spoon. What?

Never realized how strong I really am…

I have literally beat the livin’ shit out of my spoon. Huh. It’s paper thin in comparison to the new, clunky, chunky ton-o-spoon. Where has all that spoon matter disappeared? Have I been eating bits of spoon with my spoon?

I know the main culprit has been Fudge and Penuche. Each batch of candy I’ve beaten for the last 40 years has devoured most of my favorite spoon. It’s like disintegrating. But what can I do? I hate the new one, all thick, fat and hard to handle. I can’t beat a batch of Fudge with that enormous heavy scoop. I’d need a forklift.

Newbie on the left, candy beater unparalleled on the right…

Every time I need a big spoon I dig around the serving piece section of my drawer until I lay my hands on the familiar feel of my favorite, wafer thin spoon. Ah, there it is. Ready to beat some boiling hot candy into submission and turn it into another success story? Me too. We’re friends, my old spoon and I. We’ve been through a lot together and I’m not ready to give her up or give up on her. I’m not certain which one of us will bend, break or give up first. I’m definitely not ready to give up making fudge, or try to break in her Amazon sized big sister. Skinny spoon still seems up to the task. I like spooning with her. We fit. I hope we both have a few more years of making candy together…

My poor spoon. Who knew I literally beat the shit out of it?

My Mom is on my mind a lot every December. Shannon, Mom’s and my birthday’s are all this month. Mom would have been 92 on the 13th and has been gone for 14 years already. Don’t know exactly why as the end of the year nears, she’s in my thoughts more often.

Mom feeding me, Larry & Mona peeking over her shoulder, 1951…

It’s probably the fudge. When I gear up to make Christmas candy, Mom’s fudge pushes its way to the forefront. And it’s not really her fudge either. It’s Mom’s grandma Berghuis’ recipe, so do the math. Mom was born in 1926, lost her young mother a couple weeks later. Grew up in the care of her paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but also lived close enough to spend a lot of quality time with her maternal grands, the fudge and penuche makers. (Frequently on Sunday afternoons, between morning and evening church services. A sin for sure, but you didn’t hear it from me). Meaning this recipe probably originated in the Netherlands before they immigrated to Sioux Center, Iowa in the late 1800’s. They were sponsored by local folks (friends and relatives, also from the Netherlands earlier in the century) who had housing and jobs lined up and waiting for them when they arrived.

Great grandma Berghuis’ fudge recipe…

I love making candy, well, because I love candy. Over the years, I have tried various fudge recipes, marshmallow fudge, evaporated milk fudge, sweetened condensed milk fudge, chocolate chip fudge, (never made peanut butter fudge because it’s useless and gross) but all pale in comparison to the simple Dutch recipe of my great grandma Berghuis. The ingredients are few, but the taste is smooth, solid and deliciously creamy. There are drawbacks. It’s not called Never fail fudge for a reason. Because I’ve failed perfecting it numerous times. Distracted or in a hurry will get me every time. Patience is a virtue to be desired when one makes old fashioned fudge. I don’t use a candy thermometer because my Mom didn’t, her mom didn’t neither did her grandma. It would be disloyal or simply letting them down somehow if I used a different method to make perfect fudge. Just can’t do it.

The hot chocolate set brought over from the Netherlands as a thank you gift to their sponsors…

You can’t miss the window of opportunity given when one makes candy. The perfect soft ball stage lasts only a minute or two. My job is to test it during that short time frame. My failures are usually when I prematurely turn off the heat source. Maybe a mere 30 seconds from victory and the soft ball may look just about right. Don’t fall for this pagan candy wannabe. Be patient and wait another half minute and test again. And again. The effort becomes apparent when that small dot of fudge removed from its cold water grave sets proudly on my index finger for a nanosecond before succumbing to gravity. Perfect. Move it off the hot burner, add butter and vanilla and wait about 20 minutes. Don’t touch, stir or look at it cross eyed during the cool down.

When it’s still too hot to carry the pan to the table bare handed, but the pan has cooled considerably, your second tough task begins. About 5 to 10 minutes of hand beating with a large spoon. I lay an old towel over my lap because that melted butter splashes around until it’s mixed in. I have never made a batch of fudge that didn’t end up on a buttered plate. Never once poured it in a pan. Mom thought her poured, sometimes uneven fudge had some depth on a plate and was pretty and unique. The middle tends to be thicker with some swirly designs as you’re scooping out the entire batch on a plate. And the word ‘nutmeats’ is just so Mom. She rarely made fudge without nutmeats, always using walnuts. Me too unless it’s a specific request to go nutless. Over the years this family fudge recipe remains near and dear. I feel a strong sense of belonging to some exclusive club, surrounded by love every time I make a batch. (Except for the occasional cursing fit when it fails to ‘lose its sheen’ and I’m ready to pour it on the plate. Yeah, there’s that). I hope it’s years before my fudge making days are a thing of the past. And yes, Shannon makes the same fudge, so the tradition lives on.

No uniform, even pieces of fudge in this house…

Mom also bequeathed her soup gene to me. I honestly could eat soup everyday of the year. But her soup days were more determined by the seasons, mine aren’t. If I’m hungry for Bean Soup in July, I’ll be making a pot whether it’s 92 degrees or not. Mom only made Pea (whole, not split) and Bean soup during the winter months for the strangest reason. After a big snowfall, she’d get out her white enamel 4 quart soup pot, pull on her boots and coat, trudge out to the back yard and fill the pot to the very top with fresh packed snow (never yellow tinged). After the pot full of snow melted in the kitchen and she’d gone through every stinking pea or bean, deeming them worthy for our consumption, she’d toss them in the melted snow to soak overnight. Couldn’t use regular great tasting Rock Valley tap water, had to be snow. I don’t know if she thought it was softer water or if it was the fluoride in our drinking water that bothered her, but she always used snow when the peas or beans needed to be soaked.

Mom’s homemade chicken soup recipe…

I thought that whole snow business was a bunch of hooey, plus prohibited me from making some soups during warmer months, so I veered away from that strange tradition. Geez, I don’t even like looking at snow when it’s falling, let alone bring it in the house on purpose. I simply use tap water, soak my peas or beans overnight, drain, rinse and use fresh water to cook.

Mom didn’t make chili very often (neither do I-that’s Hubs department) but she did make great Vegetable Beef, Chicken Rice, Pea and Bean soups. I’ve kind of lost my taste for rice in soups the last few years though. I prefer pearl barley (pain in the ass, it’s got to be soaked like beans or quick cooked. If I’m not feeling the love of pre-soaking/cooking I just use 10 minute quick barley (hanging my head here in shame).

Can’t forget about Penuche (pe-noo-chee), brown sugar fudge…

Maybe the reason I’m prone to Mom’s soups can be explained because we live in Michigan. (Besides our endless winters like Iowa’s, I could easily melt snow most months for soaking). You know how much I enjoy reading ‘actual books’ and ‘real paper newspapers.’ I only get a real newspaper 2 days a week. (Besides my weekly Rock Valley Bee which shows up whenever it so chooses). Last Sunday I sat down with pretty good sized paper because of all the Christmas ads. Front section of the Jackson Citizen Patriot has almost of full page of weather. Local forecast for the week plus this meteorologist dude writes a couple paragraphs about some weird weather related phenomenon, or astounding snowfall amount for the poor schmucks who live in the UP.

No, not a fungus. It’s flour from rolling my loaves of bread that spilled off the counter…

I’ve been down in the dumps all week about his weather article. It just seems so much worse when I see this type of language in print. There’s a tool (besides the weatherman) in Grand Rapids which measures the amount of sunshine we get. During the month of November, there was a possibility of having 17,500 minutes of glorious sunshine in Michigan. We were blessed with 1,500 minutes of sunshine. Turn it around it’s even worse. Instead of the lowly pittance of 8% sunshine, we were graced with 92% of cloud cover during daylight hours. Oh for cripe’s sake, just shoot me now. Weather rants over, I’m spent.

Homemade bread on the rise. Hey, it’s got a cup of wheat flour in it…

Thursday morning dawned dark and dreary, surprise-surprise. Good day for chicken soup and homemade bread. John prefers me to use a whole chicken for soup (dark meat), I prefer 2 big chicken breasts with skin and bones to start. But I had thawed a chicken so simmered him for a spell. Started mixing my 3 loaves of bread and decided to eat totally healthy for the day so I threw in one cup of whole wheat flour. (That justifies the thick slices of bread and the glob of butter slathered on each one). Before that healthy bread dough needed some major smack down I cut my veggies for the soup. That’s when I was hit with such a Mom moment it almost knocked me to my (bad) knees.

Tastes great and I did give a loaf to Ari…

Chopped up a big onion, cried for awhile (just because of the onion-not Mom-induced-yet). Half a bag of shredded carrots chopped in half, measured some 10 minute barley and a handful of small noodles. Got out the celery, rinsed off 4 stalks to chop. Looked at the 5 inner, smaller stalks remaining when it hit me. Mom. She always chopped those beautiful green leaves of the celery stalks and threw them in the soup during the last couple minutes. I don’t know if it was for the taste especially, maybe for the visual appeal, added color or texture to the soup. I’ve done it oodles of times in my life, but yesterday it knocked me for a loop. Just a flood of Mom thoughts. This frequently happens when I least expect it.

It was the small container of chopped celery leaves that got to me…

Mom must have thought those celery leaves added a lot to her soup. If she had extra, she’d lay paper towels down on the counter, chop up the extra celery leaves and let them dry for a day. Store them in a container and the next time when soup was on our supper menu and she was pushed for time, she’d use the dried celery flakes from her spice cabinet. Really, how much love does this show for a simple supper of soup? I should have appreciated her more. Much more. Mom, for always adding celery leaves to our pot of chicken soup, thanks…

Penuche-uncut version…