Shannon and her 2 business partners were planning this year’s Christmas party for their associates. An afternoon open house. Shannon asked if I would make an assortment of dessert finger foods? Guest list was under 40. Well sure, doesn’t sound like an enormous amount of work. I might have however forgotten my age once again. I am baker, hear me roar. Or whimper softly. 

My peeps outshine my baking-always. Shannon and John, 2018…

Shannon wasn’t fussy, she wanted fudge without nuts, (crazy, right?) cutout frosted Christmas cookies for sure. The rest was up to my discretion-until I mentioned Pecan Tassies. “Umm nobody likes them mom.” Well right there in a pecan nutshell is what’s wrong with society today. Who doesn’t love a 3 bite piece of pecan pie? Really. I love Tassies and dread the future December when I’m no longer up for that particular task. I have been eating Tassies for a half century (unfortunately that part shows). Heck, ever since I started dating Hubs. John’s mom, Mag was great baker and excellent cook. Or maybe the other way around, an excellent baker and a great cook. 

Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas tree, my Tassies how I love thee…

Every Christmas season Mag made a boatload of Christmas goodies. Homemade dipped chocolates, fudge, penuche, cookies and her famous Pecan Tassies. Let me tell you right here and now. For being so dainty, delicious and cute, Tassies are a royal pain in the ass. Way too time consuming. Way. Mag had 4 aluminum Tassie (tart) pans which each held a dozen Tassie shells. The shells are a mixture of cream cheese, butter and flour which has to be chilled before the shells could be formed. You pinch off a piece the size of a small walnut, roll it around in your hand, then plop it in one of the little tart openings. Heavens no, you’re not done. Not even close. Then you carefully use your index finger to pat the dough on the bottom and build up the sides just past in each individual top opening. The filling is beaten eggs, brown sugar, melted butter, vanilla, and lots of chopped up pecans. Why anyone in their right mind makes these scrumptious tidbits on purpose is simply beyond comprehension. You bake them at one temperature for a few minutes, then lower the temp for another few minutes. Royal pain. 

Penuche, delicious and super sweet…

Newly married, without a clue on how to cook or bake anything I eagerly embraced Mag when she was in a teaching mode. She had a lot of patience with me and there was a recipe for Tassies to follow which helped. Many things I would learn to make from Mag had nothing written down, and in those instances I needed to watch, listen and write shit down because she used terms like, “you just add a little sweet gherkin juice.” What? I didn’t even know what that meant. For a 20 something clueless girl, this could be anything from a teaspoon to a half cup. So watch her closely I did. 

Learning from one of the best. Mag & I, early 1970’s…

Practice, practice, practice. Each year I got better at making Tassies. Much of the grief and angst was caused by those dang pans. If one iota of filling bubbled over the top of the shell, you literally had to bring in the chainsaw from the garage to remove that buggar from the pan-because they had melded as one. I suffered through 4 decades of those miserable stinking pans until meandering through Meijer a few years ago and spotted a Wilton non stick Tassie pan. Are you kidding me? The sucker was huge and netted 2 dozen Tassies at a time. I bought 2 pans and haven’t looked back once. The Tassies never stick. Worth every dime. Only wish I would have had these pans when I made 100 DOZEN Tassies a year. (I was a stay at home mom, friends and fellow bowlers would each order a couple dozen Tassies every Christmas. Tough way to make a buck but I always enjoyed baking). 

Well back to this year’s addition of, ‘Christmas baking with Neese.’ As recently as 5 years ago, this little baking party foray would have been easily handled in a day and a half. Not so fast there, sloth-gram. The new Neese is beginning to recognize her limitations when it comes to standing in my kitchen for hours on end. I just can’t with these bum knees. Can’t. So I made one of my famous lists, doling out these six desserts over a few days instead of 36 hours. Listed first what couldn’t be done until Saturday, then it was just a matter of going backwards to my start time. 

The nutless batch…

First was a batch of Fudge. Yeah I know it was too soon to make the candy, but I needed to practice a batch. I do soft ball stage without a thermometer, so 30 seconds either way is the difference between a  beautiful, delicious firm batch of fudge and crap you can beat for two days but will not set up. This batch turned out perfect (which bodes well baker gram) and I thought long and hard how that soft ball looked and felt on my finger, just out of the cold water. Since cookie and Tassie dough have to be chilled, I made both on Wednesday afternoon.

Thursday afternoon I baked 6-dozen-pain-in-the-butt-Tassies, freezing all but a few for the Hubs and me and the party tray I was sending-despite Shannon’s Tassie-less warning. Just something I had to do. Surely there are a few palates out in the therapy world who love these mini pecan pies as much as I do. 

So cute, so good, so dang time consuming…

Friday was a big day for getting lots done. I baked the cookies and made the frosting. I’m not one of those multi-talented folks who make 8 different cutout shapes, or uses non-pareils like there’s no tomorrow. I make 2 cookie shapes, bells and mittens-period. I dare say my frosting is better than most. I give all credit to my Kitchen Aid. I’m just the intermediary. And my cookies never touch each other once frosted (unlike my food which I like up close and personal with each other). So each cookie gets its own sandwich bag-always. In the case of this party I did buy cute cookie bags with Santa’s mug slapped on the front. I frosted the party cookies right before we left for Landon’s basketball game so the frosting would harden a bit. Bagged them when we got home. (Yes, Pioneer won easily so my star, Landon hardly played-not needed when they’re ahead by 30). 

Quite unimaginative but tasty…

Another batch of nutless fudge was on my Friday to-do list; because it’s touchy to get just right in case I needed a do-over on Saturday. My Penuche turns out perfect 98% of the time. Fudge maybe 85%, so I was assuming my Saturday batch of Penuche would be flawless. (It was). The fudge turned out great too, thus I was feeling pretty smug so I tackled the cream puffs too on Friday. They’re not much work, but I’d never made them so small before. I wanted the cream puffs to sit nicely in festive cupcake papers. A couple of them were really small which made the perfect dessert for Hubs & I with grilled hamburgers Saturday night. 

Bite size cream puffs…

Shannon was picking up all the sweet treats on Saturday at 1 and I don’t like to leave very much until the last minute. Makes me twitchy. I washed all the Christmas plates, made my favorite Cherry-Coconut-Nut bars which take like 15 minutes. Next was the Penuche (1 hour start to finish) which turned out perfect. Wasn’t worried about the filling for the Cream Puffs. I use Mom’s recipe for banana or coconut cream pie filling. Egg yolks, milk, flour, sugar, butter and vanilla. Easy-peasy. But I still needed to cut up everything but the candy and put all individual pieces in cup papers and arrange on trays. Plus drizzle chocolate over half the Cream Puffs and dust the other half with powdered sugar. Those 2 little steps would absolutely be done right before Shannon showed up. 

One of my favorites for decades…

My tiny hand held desserts came off without a hitch. Well, after dividing the work between 4 days instead of a day and a half. Sigh. Just have to accept that stuff and move on. I’m really grateful for the things I get accomplished, but sometimes it’s easy to get down because I want to do stuff like I used to. You know when I was young, full of stamina and ambition.

Hope they tasted as good as they looked…

Change is not easy. Especially when it comes to actual physical limitations. I really don’t see myself as getting older and slower. But I am. As sure as my hair continues to grow and show more gray/white. (Which hasn’t been as bad as I thought with an inch now clearly visible). Kind of makes me smile that I’m sticking to my decision. I fretted about my dang hair color for 20 years-then bam! I was simply done using hair color. Why did I stew about something so trivial for so long? I don’t have a clue. Happy baking and Merry Christmas…

It happened a long time ago,
Yet I’m quite sure of the date.
The year our family went from 5 to 4,
It was 1958.

Our dog Spitz, Larry & me, months before Larry died, 1958…

Larry had been snatched from us,
After 12 years on this earth.
I didn’t fully comprehend,
But had loved him since my birth.

Though I was only seven,
Life would never be the same.
For Larry was now up in heaven,
The year Santa Claus never came.

West side of Rock Valley, 1954. Me, Larry & Spitz…

Our house grew oh so quiet,
Larry always picked out our Christmas tree.
But Mom and Dad weren’t alone in their grief,
Shared with me and Mona Lee.

The laughter all but disappeared,
The spark from our family was gone.
We seemed to shrink within ourselves,
Everything said to each other was wrong.

Dad, Mom, me & Mona (pregnant) in 1961…

The years sped by, some sadness left,
Mona got married and I grew up.
Grandchildren were born, smiles reappeared
Our family wasn’t as lost as I feared.

The family of the boy I loved,
Knew Christmas should be shared.
Mag cooked all their favorites, plus tassies & fudge,
Comfort food to show me they cared.

Ed, Mona, Brian & Brent in 1965…

They celebrated on Christmas Eve,
With family, food and fun.
After gifts were exchanged and eating was done,
Midnight Mass to praise the birth of the Son.

I grew to love Christmas-when we had kids of our own.
Simple ornaments made with their little hands
Fillled with pride for all to see.
Still have the highest priority-upon our Christmas tree.

Christmas 1985…

You might not think about it much,
But traditions are being made.
That doesn’t mean there’s no room for change,
But the groundwork has been laid.

After our kids grew up, we had to allow
The in-laws to have a say.
Of when they choose to spend some time,
At our house and away.

My tree doesn’t change much anymore,
The ornament total is high.
No themes, no rhyme or reason
Just celebrate our Christmas season.

Still adding stockings since this picture, 2014…

I miss our hearth and mantle,
Stockings hung near our neat lake shore.
Now displayed on a goofy curtain rod
On top of the patio door.

I’m more sentimental, the older I get,
My Christmas’s left are numbered.
My throat gets tight when I reminisce
The tears come frequent and quick.

Our own family of five in 1982…

I’m grateful to God who lets me stay,
On earth for yet another day.
I try my best to make them count
Being good, being kind and to pray.

I think about my past a lot,
Messed up Gerritson’s we’d become
Larry, Mom & Dad-now Mona too,
From a family of 5-down to one…

We were happy at Lake Okoboji in 1957…

In January, 2015 I wrote a story called The Burbs. The time frame from this post was during 1987-1994, when we lived in Jackson the first time. That move was significant in many ways. First time we ever moved from our native state of Iowa. (We never thought we’d still be in Michigan 32 years later). I had a great group of friends in Davenport. Leaving the Quad Cities was very emotional for the whole family, and moving the kids was tough on us. They were 16, 12 & 8. Heavy emphasis on tough for the one who had just turned 16.

Great house on McCain Road with awesome neighbors, 1990…

My story on The Burbs was more about my neighbors on McCain Road. I was in my mid-30’s with 3 kids in school. It was easy to meet people. Maybe the root of my loner-ness in recent years has been caused by my hearing loss, but I blame much of it on my age. At least for me, it’s harder to meet and develop lasting relationships when you’re over 60. Everyone my age already has their inner circle of friends. They don’t need another friend to fill a gap in their life. It’s just easier to stay home. But I wasn’t like this 30 years ago. I considered myself quite outgoing. There have been significant changes.

The Burbs house was located in a huge oval subdivision, consisting of about 60 homes. Every lot was about an acre so these homes weren’t very close together. Hard to believe, but at the time I knew the occupants (by name) in at least 50 of those homes. (Fast forward 30 years. We’ve been back in Jackson for 3 years. I know 5 neighbors by name. First name only-of 4 of them). Much of this is my fault. Hubs wanders around the yard, spraying, weeding, mowing, watering. Next thing I know, he’s been talking to a neighbor or a couple out walking for 15 minutes. (Though he doesn’t always remember their names. Chalk one up for me). But that’s just not me anymore. For starters, I’m rarely outdoors unless I’m sitting on the deck, trimming errant branches off new landscaping or weeding my pachysandra bed. Conversing is tough for me. If there’s any distractions, cars going past, wind, tire drone off nearby I-94, or lawn mowers in the background, I miss much of the conversation.

Joshua with grandma Mag before tree taken out and poured patio, 1988

Now about those neighbors on McCain Road. Three of them would be of key importance in my life. Two of the gals, Diane & Elissa are my age and all of us had kids around the same age. Mildred was twice my age, we were as different as night and day, yet we became close friends for a lifetime. After we moved 150 miles west seven years later, every time I came to Jackson to visit Shannon, I spent time at Mildred’s house and went out for breakfast or lunch with Diane.

Mildred passed away in 2006, so our friendship lasted 20 years. She had two children, 5 grandchildren and several greats by then. After Mildred’s family divided up what they wanted and were ready to dispense with the contents and sell her home, I was invited over before the sale. I could choose a couple things that reminded me of Mildred. One item was a small watercolor which hung in the bathroom I used when I stayed with her.

My dear friend Mildred, the classiest woman I’ve ever known…

The other item given to me was one of her plants. Mildred mentioned the plant numerous times through the years. It was given to her by her relatives decades before. She said it was 50 years old when we were neighbors. Let’s just round that date off to 1990, making that plant about 80 years old now. And I almost killed it. I’m a horrible person.

The plant (I named her Millie, I’m so original) wasn’t exactly a raving beauty before she came to reside with me. Mildred had a lovely family room and spent a lot of time in there. The room had an enormous picture window overlooking her lovely backyard. Millie (the plant) spent winters sitting in that window, getting some much needed light during Michigan’s gloomiest season. During the summer, Mildred would move Millie out to her covered patio. There she sat, lopsided, root bound in an old clay pot, pushing out new growth in spite of no preferential treatment. None.

Mildred’s egg coddlers, made in England. No, I’ve never made eggs in them…

So I lugged home the chair I sat in during our visits, the egg coddlers (yes, they’re a real thing) an indigo blue teapot, her hand tailored wedding dress (still trying to get ahold of family who might want to reclaim it. I am hesitant to get rid of the dress, but recently have considered donating it to a lady who makes baby gowns from old wedding dresses for parents whose babies were stillborn). Conundrum. Plus guilt.

Mildred’s everyday teapot, we had tea together often…

I’ve never had much of a green thumb. You could probably tell that when I said I’m not keen on being outside. I’d rather be inside, reading, cooking, canning or baking. Or doing nothing. I’m really good at that. But under my care, Mildred’s Christmas Cactus responded splendidly. Millie was huge and magnificent. Repotting her helped a lot. I’m just anal enough to be enormously bothered by a lopsided plant. I bought a pretty pot, threw in new soil, fertilizer, plopped Millie in there ramrod straight. She was quite appreciative and graced me with hundreds of gorgeous red blooms twice a year. Usually between Halloween and Thanksgiving, and during the spring around Easter. This relationship flourished for ten years.

2015 was stressful but good. We finally got an offer on our house in North Muskegon and closed on it late that summer. We purged numerous pickup loads, embracing our upcoming move and welcomed the downsizing, instead of cringing on what we were leaving behind, selling or giving away. (It was hard. I had grown unhealthily attached to stuff). Shannon and Tracey had generously offered us sanctuary while we renovated our new little home before it was habitable. Yikes, it was pretty bad. We stored everything but the clothes on our backs, (ok, that’s a bit of a stretch but pretty close) and my plants, which I plopped on Shannon’s front porch and promptly forgot.

Millie, in all her glory, 2013. I almost killed her a couple years later….

Six weeks later, mid-October we hired movers for a second time (no, once was not enough) to pick up everything from storage and cram (still) too much stuff in our yet, unfinished house. As I was loading plants in my Jeep I noticed all my African violets were beyond saving. I felt really bad because they were gifted to me, but I was encouraged because Mildred’s Christmas Cactus looked pretty good. I snagged an antique oak plant stand from the movers, set Millie in a south window while we unpacked, moved things around, finished enlarging the master bedroom, and got carpet installed.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching and I was trying to figure out how to feed our family of 13 in a 4 person dining room when I realized there were no buds on Millie. Strange and disturbing. Besides no blooms peeking, my whole plant looked weary, worn out, pale & pooped. (Kind of like Hubs and I after feverishly remodeling for 2 months). Come to think of it, I’d felt her soil several times in recent weeks, never giving any thought that she never needed watering. In fact, the dirt was still sopping wet after being inside and not watered once for several weeks.

The watercolor I was given was Mildred’s estate, 2006…

I was beginning to panic about losing Millie. Realistically it was impossible because I had trimmed her numerous times during our decade together and ‘started’ many baby plants with the clippings. So Mildred’s heirs lived on and I knew where the adoptees had been placed. All three of my kids had Mildred’s young-uns (although Shannon keeps trying to kill hers. She’s good with plants except for Millie Jr. Dr. Shannon’s either too busy healing people or baby Millie is lonesome for her mama and me so she periodically comes to stay for extended visits. Both boy’s plants continue to thrive). Still-it’s not the same. I didn’t want to lose the original mother plant.

I needed help. One of my old Rock Valley school buddies, Marlys Etter’s hands are all green thumbs (yes, she looks strange but Marlys is oblivious, so play along). I asked her what I could do to save Millie? She said, “she’s drowning Neese. No matter how long you wait, that soil is not going to dry up. The roots of your plant are literally rotting. Get her out of there now. Save what you can. Start with some gravel, new soil and plant the greenest, driest clippings you can salvage.”

Yup, between moving twice in 8 weeks, I let 4 gorgeous African Violets die…

That was 3 years ago. (Sarah & Adam’s beautiful Cactus, Millie Jr. Jr. Jr. is doing exceptionally well, and Sarah’s offered me clippings for a starter plant. But I held out, hoping I could nudge Matriarch Millie back to her feisty self). No, I didn’t lose the original plant. But she’s a shell of her former self. Maybe the word I’m looking for is dormant. It’s like she was in shock (sick from my neglect) and needed to ‘lay low’ until she felt better. Three years. No more summers outdoors either. Millie was royally ticked but I stood firm. She had the life of Riley in North Muskegon. Covered and protected by our front porch where she got tons of light but stayed out of direct sun, wind and rain. But the front and back of our house now offers no protection, so Millie’s spending all of her summers indoors. Period.

The beginning of November this year I noticed something. Millie seemed bigger, greener, taller. And what were those tiny growths on the end of some of her fronds? Oh my stars! She’s pushing out buds like there’s no tomorrow. While Millie’s top heavy in some spots, kinda frail looking elsewhere, and definitely not yet needing a trim, she looks fully recovered and healthy. My Millie’s back and right on schedule…

She is a bit lopsided, but Millie’s made it back from the brink, 2018. Thanks Mar…

Haven’t talked much about Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) lately. I’m in denial. For sure. But excited. Any recent newbies reading my blog, Landon is my 18 year old grandson. His middle name is Andrew. When he was 4, Landon decided he’d rather be known as Drew. Sigh. I like the name Drew, but I love the name Landon. To me, he’ll always be Landon, but I’m in a very small minority of 1.

Landon 4, changing his name to Drew, except for me…

Although he wasn’t born on a basketball court, if I hadn’t been there myself, I would have sworn Landon came out spinning a basketball on his index finger. He’s the epitome of slang speak, ‘Gym Rat.’ Landon’s dad Tracey was Jackson High’s basketball coach at the time, so by the time L was 2, (and still in diapers), he was a regular on the team. Landon didn’t see himself as a 34 inch mascot, he was just one of the guys. It took several serious talks, over & over to convince Landon he could not run out onto the court during games. If he wanted to sit on the bench and stand in the circle during time outs he absolutely had to stay off the court. There is no doubt in my mind, these formative years with daddy and his high school team on the court have shaped Landon into the player he is today.

One of Landon’s first travel teams, he’s in the middle, bottom row…

There’s no denying Landon’s got talent up the wazoo. But there’s so much more. By junior high, he’d somehow magically acquired (and was utilizing) this uncanny ability to “see or read” the court during a game. Didn’t always end well because Landon’s picture perfect, threaded passes through 4 different players were not always anticipated by the rest of the team. Still most of his teammates eventually caught on and were ready when he zip lined the ball to them. Since he hit his teens, Landon’s been in the gym by 5 am. Everyday of his life. Not just basketball season. He has played and practiced year round since middle school. He practices before practice, lifts weights, strength training, shooting copious amounts of free throws and 3 pointers, over and over. Watches hours of basketball films. Although he makes everything look easy, Landon’s certainly clocked in the hours. He’s wildly talented, smart, good looking, sure of himself, likable, charismatic plus kinda cocky. (Occasionally prone to talk trash).

Number 3, Landon, 2017…

Deciding which college basketball scholarship to accept is every parent’s dream. Landon had several college offers and after visiting various campuses, chose Holy Cross, near Boston. The college is run by Jesuit priests. Goodness & mercy abounds. Shannon, Tracey and Landon were all impressed with every aspect about Holy Cross. Famous, successful alumni from all walks of life, everything from CEO’s, to a Supreme Court justice. (And the alumni wholeheartedly support their alma mater, making Holy Cross one of the highest endowment donating colleges in the country) You can pretty much go anywhere, write your own ticket, do anything after graduation. Get this. His freshman year at Holy Cross is the equivalent (approximately) of what we paid for our little HUD home before extensive renovations 3 years ago. One year of education, including basketball. Oh. My. Word.

Another 3 for number 3…

While I’m a little bummed Holy Cross is 800 miles away, I’m happy with Landon’s choice. I’m all about playing time. Minutes matter. Is it more advantageous to play for a bigger school, sit the bench for a couple years and get minimal time on the floor? Or play for a smaller school and get the chance as a freshman to make a huge difference, be a star with some serious playing time? I think Landon’s gonna own that Patriot league.

Racking up some points for Pioneer, 2017…

I’m here to offer helpful suggestions for the rest of his college life. (Yeah, that’s what his gram is for). I’ve no doubt he’ll be an enormous asset and very successful on the court, but my hope is for him to be as equally successful off the court. I don’t see classes posing a problem. (Holy Cross does not recruit players with a gpa under 3.2). So we’re good on basketball and studies. I hope. Dude, study. Seriously, though in this day and age, you must remember this one thing at all times. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, rest assured someone is recording you or snapping pictures. Of you. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

Landon…

Now I’m gonna advise him on charisma and cockiness. Landon draws people in. Which is great, as long as you’re attracting good people. But I hope he’s not only drawn to athletes. That’s a mighty small circle. Just be nice. To everyone. It’s really that simple. Acknowledge the kid (and mean it) from South Dakota, who at 5’5” might not know (or care) you’re a jock, but is literally studying to become a rocket scientist. Smile, say ‘hi’ and be sincere to gals and guys who aren’t in your social circles. Just be nice. Be polite. Be courteous. Being a nice guy doesn’t hurt you. It gives you enormous mass appeal. You want to leave your mark on your college years? This is how it’s done. You’ll be a rock star. Remembered fondly by everyone, from all walks of life. That’s how you’re gonna leave a mark on Holy Cross, besides on the basketball court.

About the truth that game. My man…

So Landon’s senior year of basketball starts Monday night. How can this be? I’m not ready. Three years ago, as a freshman, Shannon forwarded me a letter to Landon from his coach saying, congratulations, he’d made the Varsity team. (Including the sentence, ‘don’t get too cocky. You’re making great strides offensively, but you have to work harder defensively’). Which he has made a priority since. I was disappointed but not with Rex’s insight. I thought Landon would sit the bench the whole season, instead of getting some serious playing time starting on JV. While he didn’t ‘start’ his freshman year, he did get adequate minutes right off the bat. The first time Landon went into the game it was mid-way through the first half. Landon immediately nailed a 3-pointer against one of Ann Arbor Pioneer’s city rivals. The whole student section erupted with, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” (I cried). How about the time he scored 29 points, 9 three-pointers and a jumper, in the first HALF of a tournament game? (I bawled). Or winning a three point shooting contest against some of the best high school players in his age group? Landon walked off the court and handed me his trophy. (I sobbed all the way back to the hotel). These are a fraction of his high school standout moments. I truly hope and believe he’s not done making highlights (on the baskeball court and off) for this gram just yet…

My notebook to keep Landon’s stats. Senior year for # 3. Sob….

Have you ever had a fleeting thought, problem or solution for a split second-then just as suddenly it disappears? You’re not really troubled by this and it might be years before it pops up in your head again. Sort of like you’re waiting for that second shoe to hit the floor, but never realized the first one smacked the floor boards a long time ago.

Adam, late fall 1979. No apparent ill effects from his traumatic beginning…

It began in the early 80’s. I’ve talked about it before but let me recap for a minute. Adam. Our unplanned, amazing youngest child. Who was darn near impossible to get borned. (I don’t think borned’s a word, yet somehow it works here perfectly). Shannon was 8, Josh was 4 and I was going through a difficult pregnancy. My due date was September 7. At the tail end of a long, hot, humid Iowa summer. (Not many women plan for a late August or September birth-unless they’re sadistic). The only thing that felt good-was nothing. Nothing felt good. Literally. I was humongous. And swollen. With about a month to go I was in for my 8th month check up, which included a pelvic exam to see how things were progressing. 

Yikes, late August, 1979. A couple weeks before the addition of Adam…

Doc was frowning and muttering to himself. Said something like, “something’s not right. His head seems too small and you’re huge. Let’s take an X-ray, and see how this baby’s doing.” Came back in the room after he had studied the X-rays wearing a bigger frown. “It’s not your baby’s head that’s so small, those are his little feet. His head is under your right breast. But I believe something’s not right with this baby.” (Well why not scare the living shit out of me while you figure out exactly what’s wrong with my child)? “His head should be tucked down, with his chin on his chest. Instead he’s looking straight up your throat, head tilted way back. First, I’m gonna try and get him out of that breech position. He’s not too big to freely move about, yet seems determined to stay feet first.” 

Gently Doc placed his hands under my right boob where you could clearly make out the outline of Adam’s round (and normal sized) head. Working his fingers clockwise he slowly moved Adam’s (we did not know at this point he was a boy, that fun fact became clear a bit later) head until it was snugly in my groin. Hustled me to X-ray, then I waited. All the while, lying on the table, watching Adam’s little head move slowly counterclockwise until he was all comfy again under my right boob. Oh. My. Word. Doc waltzed in, proud of himself because Adam’s little head was clearly down in my groin on the X-ray minutes ago. Placed his hand on my abdomen and spotted Adam’s little head tucked neatly under my boob. Hmmmm. Doc went through the whole procedure again, including another X-ray. (For the love of God, please stop with the X-rays). This time Doc watched in amazement and disbelief at Adam’s steady progress. Returning to where he was most comfortable. Little stinker. 

Honest the doctor encouraged a small glass of wine for milk production. At Elly’s house for Christmas, 1979…

Doc conceded. “Denise, looks like you’re gonna have this baby breech. It’s your third pregnancy, I don’t see this as a big issue. He still has plenty of room to move in the right position before you go into labor. Don’t worry about this. You’ll be fine.” 

Long story-short, (long version is called, Party of 5, September, 2014) both of us (Adam and me-though John almost killed the doctor afterwards, so maybe I should say all 3 of us) nearly died during (or after) the delivery. They couldn’t get Adam’s head out which was the last part of the little guy coming down that worn out path. Scary and terrifying time. Hubs was extremely upset that I didn’t see a specialist in Sioux Falls or Sioux City after we learned he was breech or insist on a C-section. 

Those rubber pants! Adam about a year old, 1980…

Anyway, everything was eventually fine and dandy and I’m veering away from my storyline. The point I’m trying to make was the huge traumatic impact this pregnancy had on me. Physically and emotionally. I did not feel well for about a year after I had Adam. Plus walking on eggshells around Hubs because he was still furious with the doc and me. Safe to say from August of ‘79 through December of 1980 took a huge toll on me. 

Besides not feeling well, parts of me seemed to age decades overnight during the 14 months before I hit the big 30. It was like one day I stood in front of the mirror and noticed for the first time half my hair was gray. WTH. When did that happen? After I picked myself off the floor I called for an appointment with my hairdresser. “Holy smokes Joan, help.” She suggested a non peroxide rinse which would last 6 or 8 weeks. Covered the gray and just slowly washed out with shampoos. Well that worked for a couple years, but the grayer I got, the more stubborn the gray hair became. My gray hair seemed royally pissed for using shellac on a regular basis and picked up the slogan, “resist.” Yes folks I made up that now infamous slogan-it’s really all about my hair follicles-not politics. Thieves stole my line. 

Salt & pepper by 1981. And looking like a complete dipshit to boot…

So in the year of our Lord 1983 I started dyeing my hair with permanent hair color. Since I was young (33) and still supposed to have brown hair, my first choice was L’Oréal (remember Cybil Shepherd sitting in a chair, looking absolutely stunning, advertising the use of L’Oréal-because you’re worth it) medium brown. As I aged, when the color suddenly seemed too harsh, I’d move to a lighter shade. (I’m now close to running out of lighter shades-ha-ha) From that very first time I never gave one thought to, “what am I gonna do when I’m done dyeing my hair?” I assumed one day, more than likely a milestone in my mundane life I would simply say, “OK, I’ve had just about enough of that hair dye crap.” 

Never happened. The “when am I gonna stop using L’Oréal” thought might pop into my head close to each biggie in the life of Neese. My 40th, my 50th, my 60th. Zip-nada-zilch. Lasted maybe 5 seconds and I just knew I wasn’t done having fake brown hair or ready to go gray-yet. 

The lovely Esther after 6 months of wearing hats…

I visited this wonderful lady named Esther for several years. She had an Asian background and was getting close to 80. With jet black hair. She’d been dyeing her hair over 40 years. (Not as absurd as you might think. It’s almost been 35 years for me). She had a minor skin issue and had to see a dermatologist. Asked the doctor about the length of time she’d been using peroxide based hair products and should she stop? He said, yes it was time. So she did (unbeknownst to me at the time). I dropped in for a visit a few weeks later (we always had a cup of tea together) and Esther answers the door, wearing a hat. In her house. Told me the tale of her encounter with the dermatologist. To which she added, ”I’m staying in the house and I’m going to wear a hat until my natural color has grown out. I won’t be coming to church this winter.” I chuckled. Oops, sorry. Not really a laughing matter. 

It probably felt like forever to Esther, even though she wore her hair quite short. Several months later on a Sunday, she walks down the center aisle of church, meandering to her usual ‘reserved’ pew with exquisite snow white hair. She looked like a million bucks. Her hair was beautiful. At the time I thought the whole notion of hiding, covering her head up was kind of silly. Not anymore.

I was in the bathroom about a month ago when it hit me. I’m done. Right now. D. O. N. E. Not going to color my hair again. Never realized in the back of my mind, this had been simmering for at least 20 years. Maybe more. You know what a quantities shopper I am. It’s a rare occasion if I run out of anything. Well, if I’m not gonna use any more hair color, I wonder how many boxes of L’Oréal I have stashed  in the cupboard? Goodness there’s 7. Ugh. There’s 60 bucks I’ll never get back.

One time where buying ahead has not saved me money. Oy vey…

My hairdresser said hair grows about a half inch a month. I wear it short, still it’s going to take 6 to 8 months, which now feels like an eternity. Oh Esther, I apologize. Right now is the time I should be getting out one of those L’Oréal boxes. If I tilt my head an inch forward there’s quite a bit of gray in my part line. Looks gross. Yesterday I was shopping and walking behind a gal quite a few years my junior. She had shoulder length auburn hair with about 2 inches of gray roots. I wanted to give her a hug in shared sisterhood of solidarity and mortification, but she seemed quite unconcerned with what was going on with her hair. Good for her. I flip-flop somewhere in between admiration and revulsion. 

I am aware how long (and hard) this winter is going to be. On the inside and outside of my head. I haven’t faltered or changed my mind however. Although I never realized it, this decision has been something akin to having a weight lifted off my shoulders. When I told Hubs I was ‘going gray’ and needed to shop for various beanies and hats, he laughed. After spotting the flying daggers aimed at his heart, he suggested a 6 month stint in witness protection, far from everyone I care about, I laughed. No, I can’t hide out while my natural hair color emerges. Landon’s senior season of basketball starts in a couple weeks. I’m not going to miss any part of it. But I will be sporting an Ann Arbor Pioneer stocking cap to games this year. 

So done with brown hair. If I hate my gray, I’ll go back to my evil ways…

Truth be told, I’ve seriously been hat shopping. Thanks for that Esther. I wonder what color my hair will be when given the chance to be free and naked?  I’m hoping for striking white, but feel strongly, given my root situation, it’s gonna be just plain salt & pepper-gray with white. Not too drab I hope. There is some concern for the inside and outside of my head. Gray matters abound…

One of my favorite movies has this great quote (memorized by one crazy fan). The movie is “What about Bob,” starring Bill Murray (as a guy with lots of mental health issues) and Richard Dreyfuss (as his frustrated therapist). Dr. Leo Marvin is asking Bob about his background.

Oh yeah, Neal’s still got it, 2016…

Leo: Are you married?

Bob: I’m divorced.

Leo: Would you like to talk about that?

Bob: There are 2 types of people in the world. Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t. My ex-wife loves him.

Leo: So you’re saying that even though you are an almost paralyzed, multi-phobic personality, who’s in a constant state of panic, your wife did not leave you. You left her because she loves Neil Diamond?

Our first home purchase, Sioux City, 1973…

I think these 2 types of people (lovers of everything Neil and the few odd freaks who don’t) have similar aspects in our libes. At least one.

In nearly 50 years of marriage we have bought 5 homes which account for about 38 years of wedded bliss. (Altogether I think the total is 16 moves to homes in varying degrees of niceness. About a dozen of those years, the broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted early ones were renting places because our stay wasn’t long or we didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together, let alone a hefty down payment). Except for a couple of questionable rentals, one house in Spencer, one in Worthington, most just became our home after we lived there a few months.

Spencer rental 1981, Josh, 6, Adam, 2. Home was made from cement blocks. Brrrrrr….

How come as a teen I detested being home with a passion but once I got married, ‘home’ (shitty rentals, humble first, or very nice lake home) became my sanctuary? I’ve never suffered from anxiety issues (at least it’s not a phrase I’ve ever coined when describing myself) but about as close as I come hits me with this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach a couple days before we leave on vacation. I simply don’t want to leave. My house. Not a feeling of impending doom like we’re going to be in an accident, or meet with some disaster. More like heading out of my comfort zone where I don’t have as much control. I would rather stay home, protect my little crib, (ha, that’s kinda funny when I type it out. I’m about the least likely person to protect anything) cook my food, sleep in my own bed and use my bathroom with Little Nemo swimming happily through my tile wall.

Davenport stucco, neat home, it was huge, 1985…

There are 2 ways this feeling usually goes away. Once it’s a done deal and I actually leave. Most often my vacation ends up being a fantastic experience. Or if Hubs or someone else stays behind in the house while I’m gone. I don’t know why I abhor leaving my hovel unattended. But I feel loads better when someone stays behind to watch my little pad. I feel like I need to ‘mark my territory’ or wrap the house in bubble wrap. It’s not like we have much inside or out, but this strange feeling seems to follow me wherever I hang my hat.

Rambling ranch and best neighbors ever, Jackson the first time, 1989…

There are probably some of you who are furrowing your brow and thinking, what is wrong with this crazy old broad? It’s a dang house, easily replaceable, get over it. Nothing’s going to happen and if it does, deal with it. Although it’s not fear of something happening to the joint, but more how much better I feel when I’m in it. Are you thinking, Holy Hanna, anytime I can stay in a nice, clean, fancy hotel, eat out at great restaurants, go sight seeing and have no day to day monotonous responsibilities? I’m in. Their home may be exquisite but to a wanderlust it’s just a house. Somewhere to eat, sleep and shower when they need time to plan their next adventure. There are places they wanna go, things they gotta see. Can’t do that from a Lazy Boy. (But I like the Lazy Boy).

Yes, much like Big Bird, I too have a nest…

I want to see those places too. I’ve stated my whole life, I have no desire to cross the big pond, there’s too many exciting places in the US I’ve not visited. And no, I’ve not forgotten my trips to Europe-2 years in a row. Think of it, twice! (Thanks so much Shannon, both trips were beyond amazing. Something I’ll never forget or regret). But I never went through life, jotting down place after place on my plastic pail list either. I didn’t long to see Italy, France or Germany, it just sort of happened, although it was unbelievable. Plus, Hubs stayed behind and stood guard over my tiny dwelling so I could rest easy while I was gone.

Only home by a lake, North Muskegon, 1998…

So how come I can’t be carefree, leave at a moments notice and not fret about my little homestead (and being here) while I’m gone? What in my DNA causes me angst unless I’m in this exact spot doing my regular routine? (I might need therapy-if I only knew someone). I don’t think it’s age related because I’ve been like this my whole adult life, but I do fear it is getting worse as I age. I enjoy being here. I long to stay home. I’m hypnotically drawn back here after short stints elsewhere. After work, I simply can’t wait to get to my little crib. I don’t want to stop 5 different places running errands. Or go out to eat. This is my sanctuary. I’m comfortable here and safe. Sweat apparel is approved by management, makeup’s not required.

Our present dwelling place right after we landscaped, 2016…

It’s not that I don’t get cabin fever. After 2 days on the inside, there is a sense of urgency to go somewhere-anywhere. Drive the Jeep, stop a few places, interact with some other humans gracing our earth. But after a couple hours, that need has been filled and the urge to drift homeward is strong. I want to be home. Does anyone else feel this way about their little residence? Are these feelings unhealthy? Do I care if they are? While envious when I read of friends traveling around the country, there haven’t been many times when I wished it was me instead of them. I like being home. No, I love being home. I’m ok with that, just wish the longing and needing part to always be here would be a little less annoying and intense…

If you’ve been following my blog during the past 4 years, you pretty much know there’s not many subjects I won’t talk about. Besides politics. Politics are fiercely personal. Most of us STRONGLY believe one way or the other, but as a rule tend to hold these beliefs close to our vests. I try not to argue with friends who have views different than mine, because it just causes hurt or hard feelings. Who wants that? Besides, I’m not gonna change their mind and they’re sure not gonna change mine. For the most part, I have no trouble baring my soul, faults, aspirations (a haphazard attempt to make you think I aspire to anything) misgivings, shortcomings and sins in front of others.

My favorite spot-Niagara Falls, on my way to Paris, 2017…

This is different though cause it’s more of an uncomfortable or embarrassing story. It’s about our house. Can you believe we’ve been here 3 years already? I pretty much included you guys with our remodel, taking you along through the purchases, frustrations, decisions, lost furniture. Deciding to take out a wall to enlarge our bedroom. Remember when I couldn’t find the shelves to a couple of my antique china closets for months? So all of my Delft and Waterford sat in boxes while I searched every nook & cranny. Recall where I finally found them? In the bottom of those long, narrow boxes with our framed pictures. Goodness. I wasn’t ready to hang stuff up until the glassware boxes were empty, but couldn’t find the shelves. Pretty funny now, but at the time, very aggravating.

Our house turned out great. Small, but we’re comfortable here, it suits our needs. New appliances, floor coverings, paint and more paint. New driveway, sidewalk, plus an addition on the garage. Hubs is somewhat satisfied with our yard thus far. We had no grass to speak of which drove him crazy. One huge hollow tree, only shrubs on the east and north sides, which were as tall as the house. We tore out the east side, had the hollow tree removed, and left the privacy shrubs in the back. Planted new shrubs, a couple of gorgeous trees added 6 tons of river rock and edging.

All of our new cute, little shrubs. Wow, everything has really grown…

The room that needed the most work was also the smallest. Our bathroom was HIDEOUS. No lie. Window was moldy, tub was indescribable. We kept the toilet. That’s it. Had the room tore down to the 2 x 4’s and started over. Eliminated the tub (caught some flack for that, “it’s gonna hurt your resale not having a tub.” Don’t care, we’re not gonna use the tub and we sure don’t want to step over it for the rest of our lives) tiled the floor, walls and step in shower. It’s the nicest room in our house. Truth. Nothing fancy but very nice. Couldn’t do anything about the size-it’s small with an abnormally big-ass window smack-dab in the shower. I hate it but we didn’t want to buy new siding (the siding and furnace were the only 2 things we didn’t have to spend money on). So far. 

My bathroom buddy, Nemo…

We didn’t start on the bathroom for 6 months. There was a shower stall downstairs, plus the questionable/but usable sink and toilet upstairs, so we made do. After picking out everything for the rest of the house, we just needed a little break. When our contractor was ready to tackle the bathroom during the spring it was actually fun again to decide on cabinets and fixtures. Tile pattern, size, color was a tough one. I loved the one I chose, a mixture of grays/blues and khaki. But when Duke started tiling the walls it didn’t look anything like the pattern I picked out. Lovely but predominantly shades of grays/blues, missing khaki. Didn’t really matter but we picked out shower door trim, faucets, handles with a khaki base in mind, so chose oil rubbed bronze. Had we realized the tile colors were more grays/blues we definitely would have gone with brushed nickel. Our bathroom is fabulous and I’m happy with the results. 

The “real” Nemo….

Now this might get a tad uncomfortable. Shouldn’t be, but having a conversation about doing anything in the bathroom constitutes TMI don’t ‘ya think? Me too. No matter, that’s never stopped me before, so here goes. 
I’m anal (oh boy, here we go with the butt jokes) about my phone. A 3 year old iPhone (dropped 3 times, starting in Italy, 2016) which I treat with kid gloves. In every room of our house, I set my phone in exactly the same place. Why? Because I’m very deaf and have a lot of trouble figuring out which direction sound is coming from. Although it rings infrequently, for my peace of mind, I need to know where to look when it starts ringing. Placing it in a familiar place let’s me locate it quickly. 

Look carefully, here lives Nemo, Jesus & Tinkerbell….

I don’t like bringing my phone in the bathroom. Who wants to fetch it out of the toilet should it take tumble number 4? Kind of a double edged sword. For safety’s sake I should have it in case I fall. So for the most part my phone does tag along in the bathroom when I shower, but I don’t fart around (a feeble attempt at potty humor) with it. My phone sits safely on the back of the toilet while I-well you know. Which is a complete waste of time. Why would God design us this way? Seems strange. Needing to flush (that’s 3 and counting) our bodily wastes frequently, day and night. I hate using the bathroom. But since my bathroom is totally awesome, my reactions remain mixed. 

Oh good Lord, it’s Jesus…

Who knew as I sat on the pot, my tiled walls are as eager to tell stories as I am? Indeed. Not long after my beautiful bathroom was completed I spotted a perfect Clownfish on a tile. Little Nemo-swimming happily at eye level from the pooper. I know it’s cute and disgusting all at the same time. Other creatures have since randomly appeared-only to disappear the next time I’m using the facility. But not Nemo. And he brought with him an unusual variety of characters to happily live together. Jesus and Tinkerbell. On the same tile. Oh my word. You do have to use your imagination however.

Several times daily I search for more recognizable friends imbedded in my line of vision to keep us company. But most have been reluctant to join our little soirée. Marlin (Nemo’s daddy) has been a no show and I’ve heard Dory is making laps with the blue wave. Nemo’s joined the swimming group from the red wave. Politically, they are are now sworn anemones. Hope someday they again see eye to eye on such matters.

Tinkerbell is a bit harder to envision. Use your imagination….

John just walked past and asked what I was doing? When I didn’t answer immediately, he ventured, “you’re blogging, you know I’m gonna read it when you’re done.” While it’s no big secret, I didn’t know how to describe my strange star studded tile bathroom blog attempt. After hem-hawing around, I told him of Nemo’s existence. Nonplussed he quips, “have you spotted the uniformed Star Trek soldier with Deanna Troi, hovering over him, touching his face yet?” WTH? Pray for me, Hubs has gone Looney Tunes…

Let’s go back 5 years. I retired from Parish Visiting. Our lake home was on the market longer than we dreamt possible-without a nibble. We had followed suggestions and pared down our overstuffed abode in anxious anticipation of our next move in more than 20 years. We were so excited at the prospect of not driving 150-180 miles to see the rest of the family. So many changes coming, just not as fast as we had expected or hoped.

A celebration! Opal turned 100…

You know I have this weird compulsion/obsession/habit with anything to do with making lists. I love note pads, from tiny free ones to odd sized and costly. My stash. Where my ideas are stored, often forgotten, only to be discovered again-usually with a smile. Anything from my mundane grocery list to blog post stories. Just teensie idea seeds-fermenting, ready to sprout. I have notepads all over the house, my Jeep, my purse, even on my nightstand. A suggestion from my friend Cindy in case a bright idea comes to me during a sleepless night. As if. That little journal remains as barren as this great grandma, but the ones in my purse and car have been bearing fruit for several years. Mighty strange how inopportune the timing can be when a thought crosses my mind and I jot down a story line for my blog. Or when I notice something’s missing in my overflow cupboards downstairs which I’d forgotten to write down.

Blog post ideas. Umm, it could be fuller…

One of my more obscure journals for the last decade is about my canning exploits. Sometimes in great detail. It didn’t start that way. Merely a way of tracking what I canned, plus where I bought the produce and how much I paid. Some vendors at the Farmer’s Market just carry better produce for a gooder price (didn’t want to use the word better again). I end up going to the same dealers every time. They get to know you and aren’t offended if you try and dicker the price down a bit. I had no idea on how much I really canned every year until I started jotting down the total number of jars that sealed their way through my kitchen. Boy was I surprised at the number of jars. This was during my busiest years of visiting. These visits always included some of my homemade pickles or jams unless the folks were in a nursing home. (Then they received a small loaf of banana or pumpkin bread or a half dozen cookies).

What I brought along when I visited folks…

At the peak of my canning frenzy (which only lasted 5 years) my total number of jars canned was between 1,100 & 1,400 jars. For one year. Oh my. If you consider the number of jars we consumed, maybe 100-150 tops, that’s still an awful lot of jars setting around. (I think per chance I was possessed). There’s never been any left over from the previous year. I made and gave away hundreds of jars in gift baskets plus brought a couple hundred jars along to Iowa every year. But I digress. This is not about the actual jars I canned, but about my journaling on canning and my all around decline since 2015. No more wacky sidetrack paragraphs.

Just missing my pickled beets cause Hubs hasn’t brought them downstairs yet…

Knowing how wordy I tend to get, it comes as no surprise that the first couple of years, my 10 word descriptions of a day in the life of canning would expand into mini-blogs equally several paragraphs. Sigh. Maybe since I’m not very talkative anymore, my continued writing or tapping out of words was to be expected.

End of the year canning total when I was possessed…

I realize I’m no longer at the top of my game physically. But until a couple of weeks ago, I was working 25 hours a week, carrying around 20 plus pound babies 6 hours a day. Still, how much the last 3 years have affected me is evident by my simple canning journal. I canned a bushel of apples into sauce last week. (Sorry Hildonna, I’m still using a paring knife to peel the apples). First time in my life, I had to sit down to peel the apples, because I’m having issues with my right leg. Ugh. I was optimistic-yet realistic when I drove to the orchard, so instead of buying 1 or 2 bushels of Northern Spy’s for pies, I pared (lame apple peeling joke) down that little number to a half bushel this year for a couple of reasons.

1. Our apple pie consumption is down for the first time in decades. 
2. Neither Hubs nor I need ready to eat pies in our freezer. Ever. Really. 
3. Even sitting to peel pie apples, I gotta stand to roll out pie crusts, mix the apples with my secret ingredients, crimp the edge, top w/ milk & sugar, seal the outer edge with aluminum foil, which is all very time consuming.

First pot of apples ready to go…

So after the applesauce was canned, I decided not to make any pies this year. I should also tell you this bothers me. A lot. It’s selfish and stupid. It really bugs me not to make my pies because of physical issues. I don’t want things to be wrong with me. You know how I detest change of any kind. And I had just resigned myself to let the dumb pie making go this year. Until I got out my old canning journal. What a difference a few years make. In July of 2012 I bought 3 bushels (yes that’s really three) of cucumbers ONE DAY. Do you know how perishable they are? You can’t sit round the house for a week deciding when you’re going to can your famous (yes, I’m gloating) Bread & Butter Pickles. Chop-chop Neese, time’s a wasting. I canned 63 pints on Tuesday and 97 pints on Wednesday. Dang. I mean it. Dang. It was quite common for me to make 100 jars of jam-a day. Who does that besides Smuckers? After one such we-be-jamming-day, my last journal sentence read, “it’s 2 am, think I’m gonna have to crawl up the stairs, my feet hurt so bad.”

Deaf person-running dish water-epic fail on watching apples boil over…

On one of my more lengthy written observations was a day when I did 14 batches of Bread & Butters which took 10 hours (and the prep work was done the day before. Hubs sliced all the onions while I rinsed the cukes and snipped the ends). I discovered after I started a batch on the stove, just as it began to boil, I started a second batch. Cut at least 2-3 hours off my long day. I felt so smart. At least for that day.

Finished product (apple sauce) looks awesome, 2018…

I knew when we moved to Jackson, my big days/months/years of canning were coming to an end. No longer visiting 30-40 people a month, so my canning gift baskets were down to a minimum. Gave Goodwill hundreds of my empty jars before we moved (don’t go there, I’ve bought 12 dozen jars since last summer-referring you back to the possessed canning poltergeist living within). But it was my choice/lack of need/ to take my canning bingeing down a notch when we got here. Not because I’m not physically able.

I know not why I’m compelled to write at length about everything…

Yet I’ve been pitched curve ball after curve ball since we whittled down our living space here in Jackson. About 6 months after we moved (February, 2016), my left leg decided it needed to be lugged along side of me like the loose limb of a zombie. I doctored, did therapy and limped for a year, yet it’s still only about 75%. Three months ago, pain and swelling in my right leg, which hasn’t gotten any better. Waiting for a second opinion on what’s exactly wrong with one or both of my limbs.

Beets are-messy. Neese as backup to “Maroon 5”

The last produce I can for the year are always pickled beets and cranberry sauce. I love both and freely share my beets with the world. Cranberry sauce-not so much. I make 15 pints a year, and I eat a dozen. Truth. I eat a pint a month. (If you should ever get a pint of my canned cranberry sauce-consider yourself very special. Same goes for canned meat or spaghetti sauce. You’re highly revered in my book, just saying. I rarely part with those 3). One of my fondest memories of eating supper as a family when the kids were young is about pickled beets. While no one else ate them, a jar of beets was usually on the table. When I asked for them, Josh & Adam would do these rap like noises with their mouths and start snapping their fingers ‘to the beet.’ Neat to remember those silly supper moments.

Here’s the reason for the pretty maroon fingers…

I recently went to Muskegon to visit my friend Joann, and stopped at the Farmer’s Market. People of Muskegon, you are so lucky to have this great produce market. A month earlier I had made 10 phone calls trying to find Concord grapes around Jackson. Finally stumbled across some, paid a fortune, made a few jars of grape jelly. Then, while in Muskegon I spotted a gorgeous half bushel of Concords for 15 bucks. About cried. Let me reiterate. Since moving away, I miss 3 things about Muskegon. My friend Joann, The Farmer’s Market and Lake Michigan. Period. And not necessarily in that order.

Aren’t those jars gorgeous? Yum…

Beets are not as temperamental or delicate as most produce. I waited a couple days before I pickled them. You boil them until they’re fork tender like a potato, dump them in the sink to cool, slip off the skins and trim both ends. Then I hauled them to the dining room table so I could sit and dice them. Sigh, yes another first-sitting to dice beets. Then comes the stand up part. The beets go into a delicious syrup which kinda makes your eyes water. Strong smell from tons of sugar and vinegar with a dash of water. (Still the best part of pickling beets. Those little shits actually stink while you’re cooking them. Hubs always finds something to do outside. He hates both smells though, the cooking and pickling part). So ‘ya dump 10 pounds of diced beets into this ginormous vat of syrup so they can simmer for 5 minutes, (which takes a long time to get back to a simmer). But then you’re practically done as you fill scalding hot jars, turn the lids & rings pretty tight and wait for them puppies to seal with that distinctive pop.

One of our favorites, canned meat, redskins and fresh green beans. With cranberry sauce…

My pickled beets netted me thirty-six pints. And I felt like I had been rode hard and put away wet. So stinking tired. After 36 pints. Makes me want to weep. What happened to my stamina a mere 5 years hence? I don’t know. But I do care. Hoping once my legs heal (Orel Roberts-where are you) or are fixed surgically, I am back. Not stronger than ever-necessarily. Just stronger. Cause I’m beet….

Muskegon Lighthouse on Lake Michigan with high winds. By Mike Dixon…

I’m constantly reminded how fast time is zipping by these days. One of the biggest culprits is Facebook. Every couple days when I open Facebook, I’m surprised by a picture from my memories. Could be from one year ago or 5. It’s my option if I want to ‘share’ the photo again. I’m always shocked when I read, “Denise, we care about you (right). This is from your memories 4 years ago.” How can that be? I swear it was just last year! Upon further inspection I see how little Graham was and realize yup, had to be at least 4 years ago. Too fast. Slow down. 

Our Halloween craft project, a dirt cake cemetery in 2013, Graham 4…

Another ‘tell’ is my old calendars. I jot down little snippets, doctor appointments, grandkid’s events we attended, when or where we go somewhere. It’s easy to page through if I’m looking for something specific. When I buy a new calendar I use my current one (adding yet another year to whatever I want to be reminded of) for keeping track of Mom & Dad’s anniversary, special folks in my life who have passed away and how many years ago. Maybe that sounds morbid but it isn’t to me. While looking through the month of October, my eyes stopped on the 19th, and I realize Mom’s been gone 14 years. Can’t be true. Seems like she just called me yesterday (I can hear her voice distinctly) telling me how much she loved me-the night before she passed away. 

Mom, looking lovely in 1992…

Whenever the kids are around if I mention I’m looking for a gadget or need something, the first thing they say, “did you look for it online Mom?” That’s simply not the way I’m wired. I was raised/taught/encouraged/nurtured to literally ‘shop’ for the things I need. That’s why God made Malls. Duh. Who in their right mind would actually order an apple corer off the Internet? (All of my kids if they needed one). My Internet interest span gets seriously twitchy when I’m looking for something in earnest. Everything seems to take too long. That obnoxious little gizmo-the disappearing/revolving circle which means your iPad or computer’s still busy working/working. Drives me insane. This is not something I notice as I’m wondering around a humongous store and not finding what I want. Then again, I lived a much larger portion of my life without the Internet than all my kids. 

Still computer illiterate in 2000, yet I look relatively happy…

For decades we had the 1.0 version of shopping online. It was invented simultaneously by 3 ambitious business men. Namely Aaron Montgomery Ward, Richard Sears and J.C. Penney. Each pretty much had it perfected by the time I was a kid. It was the stuff dreams were made of. All you could ever hope for and covet in your lifetime. It was called The Catalog. Spring/Summer, Fall/Winter versions, plus the best one of the year, (at least according to our kids), The Christmas Wish Book. Hundreds of pages, literally thousands of items-all for viewing at your leisure. No battery draining, no sketchy service interruptions. It was massive, enticing and in bright colors. All the models were thin, gorgeous and happy. The way life’s supposed to be. Slick, shiny pages, filled with endless choices of the latest clothing trends, shoes, linens, kitchenware, furniture, even your next new home! And pets. You could order dogs, and cars, plus more exotic animals like parrots. 

Mom loved Montgomery Ward’s Catalog. Me too, early 1960’s…

My Mom was the ultimate shopper. She was tireless. Driven. Although she was frugal in many ways and saving money was very important, she loved splurging. She didn’t feel guilty about these little binge shopping escapades either. Part of her savvy savings were earmarked for these special shopping trips. It was a rare day if she were not enthusiastic about a trip to one of the Sioux’s-Falls or City. Shriver’s, Younkers, Penney’s, Sears, Montgomery Ward, she loved and shopped them all. But she could just as happily shop in a nearby, smaller town with independent stores, who were more likely to carry different brands than the bigger department stores. Hokey pete, you didn’t want to walk into church on Sunday and see someone else with the same dress or suit on! Oh the shame.

No words for my coat Mom bought. But I loved it…

Before a new school year started Mom and I would peruse her new stash of Fall/Winter catalogs from The Big 3. (She also received the Spiegel Catalog, but we never ordered much from them). We’d pick out a couple of skirts, slacks and tops that coordinated, hoping that our picks were just a little different than the other moms and my friends. Mom wanted my clothes to be unique. For that reason alone, a good percentage of my school clothes were handmade, like all the sweaters she knit. Mom had an expert seamstress on retainer, thus ensuring my black & white houndstooth wool, fully lined Bermuda (winter) shorts were indeed one-of-a-kind. No one else in their right mind were on the same level of originality (as Mom) or me for that matter, to be wearing shorts during an Iowa winter. Knee socks helped, but still, brrrrr.

Showing a lot of leg for an Iowa winter. Loved the saddle shoes, knee socks…

 
Back in those days Mom did not have a credit card. She just added up the cost of the catalog items, looked on a chart for the additional shipping & handling charge and simply mailed a check with the order form. We’d both be so excited, waiting what felt like an eternity for our order to be delivered. I can still remember numerous packages, tissue wrap, (Mom holding all the straight pins), plastic bags scattered all over our living room floor, while I tried on new clothes. Mom had the final say on everything, including quality control of said garments. If the plaid pattern of a new skirt didn’t match EXACTLY from one seam to another-bam-she’d slap that thing right back in the package for a return. Shopping from The Catalog was about as much fun, but in a different way as an actual shopping trip. Weird.

Just pick out your house from the catalog…

The novelty of catalog shopping didn’t wear off after I grew up (I know that’s still up for debate) either. Catalogs were bigger, brighter and competition remained stiff. Those marketing guys were crafty. Suddenly one catalog arrived which was slightly smaller in size. What! Just as the rest of the catalogs were getting bigger and bigger. Why? So the smaller version would be placed on TOP of the rest of the catalogs in your house. It would be picked up first. Sneaky bastards. 

Oh my goodness…

But there was something special about literally ‘going shopping’ which held so much appeal for Mom, and later me. While walking through the store, my eye was drawn to a piece of clothing. I found my size, grab an item off a circular rack, held it by the hanger, swinging it frontwards & backwards. Touch the fabric to decide if it’s worthy of a trip to the dressing room. Unless it was for Joshua or Adam. Neither were avid (clothes) shoppers, so when I brought home new clothes for them, they were usually agreeable. Shannon-not so much. She was ready to pick out her own clothes when she was 3. Whether I went along for the ride was entirely up to me. 

Shannon’s choice, Mom and I were along to pick up the check…

Still, the allure of The Christmas Catalog was overpowering when our kids were small. From approximately 1975 to 1985 the arrival of the Christmas Catalog somehow transformed our once semi-neat, happy home into something between, Children of the Iowa Corn and a shark feeding frenzy after a ton of chum had been dumped in the ocean. They’d immediately fight over first rights just to ‘look’ at the catalog without someone else gawking over their shoulder or trying to turn a particular page too soon. Sigh. Like king of the mountain. Each kid would grab a crayon, pencil, ink pen, or magic marker and circle the toys that could and would make their young lives complete. If only that tight ass Santa would come through. Yes, I still harbor a huge grudge against Santa. He didn’t exist in my home growing up. Imagine my surprise when our toddlers would echo their daddy’s sentiments about the tubby white haired guy. “No, mommy and daddy can’t afford that train Josh. Why don’t you ask Santa for it?” (Are you kidding me)? Too late to take those words back, but he’d get an earful in bed that night!  “John, who’s got Santa’s financial back here? We can’t afford the toys you’re promising he’s gonna bring. Why do you do this to us every year?”

The reason for many fights in the fall, The Christmas Catalog…

Much has changed in the shopping department since our kids were small. Still, when I need something, my first thought is ‘hmm, where’s the best place to start looking for solar shades?’ A couple hours later, exhausted from limping my way through a couple hard copy (retail stores), I dejectedly conclude the Internet is now my only best hope. Although the days of our kids fighting over The Christmas Catalog used to drive me to distraction, I’d love a do-over sometime. 

The fights were over, just waiting to see what Santa brought. He got credit for all the good stuff…

By the time our third kid got ahold of the catalog for their top choices, pages were missing or ripped, other kid’s choices scratched up or torn out out with a vengeance. Like a horde of grasshoppers descending on a crop of munchies in biblical times. Epic. The beat up sad, tattered Catalog was now filled with barely recognizable toys bearing either multiple circles around it, an “X” marked next to, a pastel heart or the sign of the beast. All that remained unscathed was a pristine page of girdles. Great. At least I’d wouldn’t have to suck in my gut during the holidays…

Don’t take my title here literally. I really wasn’t around when rock & roll debuted. That was a bit before my time. Music was a different world when I was a kid. I remember very little about radio music (elementary school music and church hymns were the 2 biggies in my life) before I hit my teens in the mid-60’s. I do recall fighting with my sister about listening to the radio before we went to sleep at night. She wanted country music on when we were in bed. I wanted quiet, she didn’t. She had the prime spot next to the nightstand and was almost 8 years older than me. Needless to say, I lost that battle. 

One of my first concert experiences. The Roof Garden at Arnold’s Park, 1966…

I think kids today have a bigger interest in music at a younger age than I did. They know all the popular artists, plus every word from their songs. I didn’t have a huge interest in TV or radio as a kid. Until I saw The Beatles. Namely Paul McCartney. Hubba-hubba. And I didn’t get to see him as early as the rest of the world’s teenage population because I couldn’t watch the Ed Sullivan Show (or Bonanza) on Sunday nights. I was in church from 6:30, attending  RCYF (Reformed Church Youth Fellowship). After our youth group concluded, we headed upstairs to catch the evening’s sermon (no sneaking out of line and trying to dodge the rest of the service. Every parent looked over as we filed in. They knew in an instant if you were not among the kids you always sat with). A whole new world opened up to me once Paul professed his longing to hold my hand. And love, love me do. Even when I’m 64.

Paul, my favorite Beatle…

So by junior high the girls I hung out with had numerous slumber parties and music became a much bigger part of my life. In my book, no one ever quite measured up to the Beatles, but there were tons of popular groups. The Beach Boys, Dave Clark Five, Rolling Stones, The Monkees, The Buckinghams, The Temptations, Mamas & the Papas, The Animals, Simon & Garfunkel, Elvis, Neil Diamond (a close second to the Beatles for me), The Righteous Brothers, The Supremes. I’m sure I’ve missed some of my favorites, the list of musicians and fabulous songwriters from that great era were endless. 

Neil, 2017 concert…

One of the earliest entertainers I ever remember watching on TV was Liberace. Anyone remember him? He was flamboyant, outrageous, quirky and wildly talented. What he could do to a set of ivory’s was amazing. I thought he was a hoot, and my Mom loved him. I’ve been thinking about Liberace because of a concert I attended Friday night. That’s right. This little concert groupie with the gimpy leg checked another item off my Plastic Pail list. Namely, Sir Elton John. That’s right folks.

Daredevil P!nk swinging, singing on a trapeze, Truth about Love concert tour…

As soon as I realized Elton John was doing a “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” tour I texted my daughter-in-law Erica (who’s really our concert junkie in the family). Wouldn’t ‘ya know, she already bought tickets for herself and Josh. Well nuts. I had checked some of the ticket sites and knew there was no way my other go-to concert buddy, granddaughter, Ariana could afford a ticket. They were sinfully expensive. But Shannon was willing to sacrifice an evening and go with me (she really doesn’t care for concert type venues). 

Adam Levine, Maroon 5 at the Palace of Auburn Hills…

Six months zip by and suddenly Elton’s concert is upon us. Shannon and I are meeting Josh and Erica at their house and going out for supper before heading down to the fabulous new Little Caesar’s Arena for the 8 o’clock show. Josh & Erica know Detroit like the palm of their hand and delight in choosing different restaurants for us to try. But it was a Friday night, and we had to eat relatively early so I wouldn’t be rushed before the actual concert starts. Geesh. We finally decide on Mexican Town, not new but one of my favorite spots. (Last time we ate there was a couple years ago when Flat Stanley was our house guest for a week. Now that little guy could pack away the fajitas). We snarf our way through 2 baskets of piping hot tortilla chips, salsa and guacamole dip. Mexican Town is famous for their margaritas, but not tonight Neese. I can’t be half tipsy when I’m trying to pick out a t-shirt or find my way to the cotton candy kiosk before the big show. And who wants to get up during an exciting concert, (sitting squarely in the middle of my long row) to run to the bathroom? 

Sir Elton John, Little Caesar’s Arena, Detroit, 10-12-2018…

After ordering modest amounts of food (mini fajitas), platters the size of small yachts are placed in front of us. None of us made a very big dent on our delicious Mexican fare. Couldn’t take the excess food with us either as we were using Uber to get from here to there. (My first time for that too). It had been sprinkling since Shannon and I arrived in Detroit, by the time we were heading to the concert it was a steady drizzle and very cool. But the wait to get in the arena (everyone had to go through a metal detector, and they totally checked every inch of my purse) wasn’t 10 minutes. 

Elton scorching those ivory’s, 2018…

It wasn’t as early as I had hoped though. A mutual split second decision for a slight detour was made to get in line to buy souvenir paraphernalia before finding our seats. First top I saw hanging above my head was a grey zippered hoodie with a large gold sequined E (for Elton, focus people) was moderately priced at $125 dollars. Oh my word. No thanks, but I saw several being worn during the night. Since my arms are always cold I don’t favor short sleeves. Tried on a long sleeved T which hung down to my (sore) knees. Nope. Chose another from the large assortment, meanwhile Erica wanders over, shows me her shirt when the clerk hands me the T shirt to try on. “Good choice, this one’s only available tonight and tomorrow, exclusively for Detroit.” “Sold,” I say happily. Erica’s face fell, she mutters, “man, I should have gotten that one.” Salesman dude was very gracious and swapped Erica’s first pick for our limited edition Detroit super cool shirt. 

Part of Detroit’s skyline, made with a capital E…

The concert. No opening act and Elton walked out on stage at 8:05. He’s prompt. He starts off with one of my favorites, Ba-Ba-Ba-Benny & the Jets. (I’ve been singing this one since I started working because we’re on our second little boy named Ben). I didn’t recognize another song during the first hour which was disappointing. Elton used the backdrop to show lots of pictures, some sad, some silly about almost everything, people, wild psychedelic images. The second hour had more of my favorites, Rocket Man, Daniel, Crocodile Rock. He only changed clothes (and glasses) twice, basically sang over 2-1/2 hours. After leaving the stage at the end of the concert, he came back out in his dressing gown (what a riot) and ended the night with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. 

Elton sang his heart out, 2018…

I guess I would describe the concert on the whole as sedate. Elton, like Liberace, enjoyed embellishing his musical numbers. Almost like a rehearsed ad lib. Added 5-7 minutes to many numbers, playing the piano accompanied by his band. Maybe the people in the top shelf seats stood the whole time singing along, but no one did in the nosebleed section. It had nothing to do with his age (or even mine). I stood for most of Neil Diamond’s concert and EVERYBODY sang along with almost every song. Sweet Caroline, DAH-DAH-DAH! Good times never seem so good, SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD. I mean that was crazy awesome. Elton did tell tidbit stories about his life, one with a picture collage about the AIDS Foundation he started in the 80’s which has raised over 200 million dollars. 

Farewell T-shirt, exclusive for Detroit venue…

Elton John gave a good concert, though not a great one in my humble opinion. But not one I’m gonna be thinking about with a smile on my face for years to come like when I remember the concerts with P!nk, Maroon 5, Paul McCartney, or my all time favorite, Neil…

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road…