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.

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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…

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…