More often than not my boss is right on track. Once in a while I’m left scratching my head, but not too often. Basically, she’s got a lot on her plate and usually rises to the occasion. She has a lot of love and empathy for all of our children and it shows in how she treats them. Even the kid (not one of our babies, but much older) misbehaving in the lunchroom. Well, bless his heart.

This is our dining area lunch table. Yes, it’s that low…

I don’t know if she was purposely looking for something or stumbled upon a program she brought to our attention this spring. A new way of tracking what we do to and with every baby in our care during the day. Our old way was a printed sheet of paper. Parents filled out their baby’s name, the date, how their baby fared during the night and the last time they ate (the baby, we do not care when mom and dad last partook). These were the top 3 lines. The rest of the sheet was divided in 2 sections with several columns. First, eating and diaper changing took up about 8 lines. We noted the time, if it was solid food, a bottle, wet or poopy diaper. Then scribbled our initials in the last column. There was a space for a comment in case he refused food, ate half, fussed for more, or had a red hiney that required diaper cream after a diaper change. The last small section was on when and how long they slept during naps. 

Enter the new program designed to simplify our lives on how we track our babes throughout the day. (This geriatric dinosaur has so many issues with change that requires brain power). Tracy brought in a laptop for us to use. I’ve not used a computer since I got my first iPad over 6 years ago. Normally I’m the one who opens most mornings, thus it’s my job to get the computer out, plug it in and set it up for the day. I did not remember how to turn on a computer. Michelle had to show me. Several times. Slowly. The laptop had no mouse. I can’t do that whole hocus-pocus thingy with my finger. (My index finger, come on, get serious) Ninfa brought in a mouse from home. (I tell you I’m more work than I’m worth). Luckily the babies love me, or I’d be no use to anyone around here. 

Part of our younger baby section…

I had hoped to get rid of our ginormous dry erase board once this Neanderthal learned the computer ropes, but it’s still needed for timing diaper changes and food/bottles. Three columns, starting with their name, when their diaper is due to be changed, plus the next approximate feeding time, whether it’s a bottle or food. We find some babies can go a bit longer than their schedule, others need their food or bottle several minutes before. Kind of a loosely timed demand schedule I guess. We’re not going to let a four month old cry very long before we get his bottle. They fidget, suck their fingers, complain and you just know they ready to eat. The bigger kids tend to congregate by the kitchen gate, trying to hunt you down as you pass by (often to get that complaining little one his bottle). They all have their own tell. Little shyster card sharks. 

On the new computer program all of our babies names are on top. You click on their name, scroll (yes, I can scroll) down to the appropriate category (there’s a whole lot of them) but usually only the top few are most frequently used. Solid food, bottle, sleep, diaper, cup, incident report, or activity. The activity button includes things like tummy time, playing with others, going outdoors, art project, or the category I use everyday, brushing their teeth. I remind them as they’re finishing a meal it’s dental hygiene week (dental hygiene week is every week, the toddlers just haven’t called me on it-yet) and I’ve set the timer for 90 seconds of rigorous brushing, which usually garners me some blank stares or a waving of their hands with a yada-yada-yada. Although they tend to get excited when I bring them their tooth brush and sing the song about brushing. And unless I’ve cleared their table or tray tops, you’d be surprised how many brush for 30 seconds, fling that sucker across the room, and go right back to eating, after they solemnly swore they were “all done.” They are not to be fully trusted where food is involved. It’s a learning process for them and me. If I don’t get sidetracked, we brush after breakfast, but there have been days when it’s during a lull in the morning (a lull lasts approximately 38 seconds) or after lunch if they’re not too tired. 

Scary, but the bigger kids love this thing. Steps and a slide…

The keyboard has been my biggest stumbling block. At home I use an iPad mini. Phones have grown to the same approximate size. Keyboard letters are very close together. You know how wordy I tend to be? So I want to add a note to some things I accomplished with their little one. “He loved his Mac and cheese, but I made the mistake of mixing in his veggie. Although he loved the broccoli yesterday, he managed to maneuver every single piece of cauliflower back out of his mouth today. Amazing to watch really.” Try typing that when the keyboard letters are about a mile and a half apart. Mistake is my middle name. And I’m anal about mistakes. So this takes me a LONG TIME. The rest of the girls waltz up there and are gone in like 30 seconds. Saying the same darn thing! But I think it’s those  insignificant comments which mean something to the parents when they’re reading the email they get after they get home. How well their baby fared. I don’t want to group 4 babies together to say, “they ate pizza, applesauce, and drank 4 oz. of milk. If he flicked his toothbrush and filled my face with spit while brushing, well Mom can just visualize that little scenario as she reading that night. Smiling, I hope. 

So we have this category I don’t use frequently but I love it. It’s called Milestones. None of my children were in daycare, but as a parent I would guess this category would be a love/hate relationship. You want to know what your baby’s doing and if he does/discovers something, but you want them to do it at home. In front of you and daddy first. I get it. But. If I’m holding a 5 month old and she has a tiny rattle in one hand, should she move it to the other hand, I’m gonna put that down in a the milestone column. At least until mom says, “oh yeah, she’s been doing that since last weekend.” Same thing when they get up on their knees and start rocking, army crawling, drinking out of a straw from their sippy cup for the first time. If I notice a new little saw blade tooth has popped through a gum while she’s laughing when I’m changing her diaper, it’s gonna get jotted down. I’d want to know. Sorry new mommies. This caregiver is sharing. And dang proud (right along with you) of their little and major accomplishments. 

Table & chairs to practice climbing…

The new format has gotten easier, but I’m still painfully slow. At pretty much everything. While this bothers me tremendously, the babies tend to be quite patient when I’m doing something with them. Like singing. They’ll forgive almost anything if I’m singing a song for them. Any song or commercial jingle. They care not that I’m off key, or when I’m making a complete fool of myself. The goofier I act, the more enthralled they become. And really, who am I trying to please-teach-nurture-entertain? The babies. That’s right. It’s why I show up, and buy stuff for our room. Making the best home for our babies when they’re not at home….

This snippet in the life of Neese started in February, 2016. Walking on a beautiful, dry, winter afternoon when suddenly I got a searing pain behind my left knee. A golf ball sized lump appeared. Doctor visits, misdiagnosis, physical therapy, steroids, and cortisone shot helped but it’s never been the same. Can’t pivot at all either way and at times it feels like my leg won’t support me. (Hubs often feels the same way about supporting me). Sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I stand up and walk. Still, it’s 75% better than it was 18 months ago.

Just look at all my perfect bones. Neese, 1954…

Couple months ago, a routine day, worked from 6-1, then ran several errands. Several being too many. By the time I got home my RIGHT leg was on fire. Starting on the inside of my lower thigh, heading under my knee to the back of my calf. Swollen, tender, I used ice gel packs and anti-inflammatory OTC. But after 10 days it wasn’t any better. Sigh. I called for an appointment with my primary care guy. Dr. Arntz poked around said he didn’t like where the swelling was, and suggested an orthopedic guy in his building. Made an appointment but it was a month away because it had to be my day off, a Friday or late afternoon. The discomfort was pretty bad, so I called back asking if there was anytime sooner I could come in? The best she could do was put me on the cancellation list, probably only a day or few hours notice, but my name was added. Never got the call though, he must be a busy guy.

A week before my appointment (Friday, my day off) and my to-do list is extensive. You know weird stuff happens when you have something wrong with one of your big limbs. You unconsciously adjust your gait to try and make it hurt less. I felt like I had shin splints. A couple of toes had blisters from walking awkwardly. The pain was down a titch, but not much.

From the back, Pam, Shirley, Neese with the great knees and Char, 1968…

First on my list that day was meeting my friend Diane for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. As I was leaving home, I got into the Jeep and felt a sharp twinge in my lower back. Tingled all the way down my left leg for a few seconds (not the good kind of tingle). When I got to the restaurant I gingerly got out and felt another bad back twinge. Oh hells bells. After catching up with each other’s lives for 90 minutes, it was all I could do to get up off that straight chair without crying. OK, my to-do list just shrunk to 0. No way could I stop half dozen times and get in and out of the Jeep. Plus walking around. I came straight home. The upside of this? My back now hurt worse than my leg. Yay.

I still had most of Friday through Sunday to heal before work on Monday. Ha! Ironic. Working at FCC has been a trip. I was literally sick for the first 8 months. Caught everything the babies threw my way except hand, foot and mouth. I worked through bronchitis, pneumonia, sore throats, cold after cold, my sore leg (which took over a year to feel somewhat better), until I built up some immunities to those little buggers (the babies and their good natured way of literally sharing everything with me). Only to have my back go out. By Sunday night the thought of bending over to pick up anything about made me cry. Standing or laying down wasn’t too bad, sitting however was almost impossible because I couldn’t get into an upright position for at least a minute. After finally managing to hoist myself up, I was still hunched over, legs shaking and my back unable to straighten. But within a minute or 2, I was standing somewhat normally and could walk pretty good.

Char, gal from Canton I can’t remember & Neese’s brown knees, 1962…

So I hobbled into work Monday morning, knowing I couldn’t stay once the babies (who am I kidding, over half of them weigh between 20 and 30 pounds now, they’re practically teenagers) arrived. But I did get our room set up and ready for the day. When Liz showed up, I explained my sad state of affairs and crippled my way back home. Did the same thing on Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon though, most of my back spasms had stopped. Whew. They were wicked. Piercing, sharp pains that sucks the breath right out of you. Feels like you’ve latched onto an electric fence. Zap. Happened sometimes just moving a couple inches, but most often whenever I tried to bend over. An inch or a foot, didn’t matter.

Wednesday I tried to work. Big mistake. It is impossible to work in our room and not pick up crying babies, bend over, or move fast to try and prevent a disaster. One kid can now get our door open so you gotta jet if he pulls the door handle down. Someone else spits up on the floor and the rest of the gang find that puddle fascinating and want to investigate. The high chairs need to be washed, (they’re low to the ground) floors need to be swept again and again. That day was my longest ever. (And I love our babies and work) My reprieve was a 30 minute lunch break, but sitting down hurt worse. I lost 3 days of healing by working those 7 hours. The spasms were back twice as bad. Didn’t think Friday and my doctors appointment would ever get here.

1953, with perfect limbs…

After filling out 5 pages of new patient info, a nurse leads me to X-ray. Well this was different. She did not want me to lie down, but instead climb 3 crudely made wooden steps which were covered in red out door carpeting. The railing resembled part of a walker where you place your hands as you shuffle forward. No need to remove my slacks, socks or shoes. She snapped front and sideways of both knees which I thought was odd. Back to the waiting room for a couple minutes before my name was called.

Small exam room, painted gray. One wall was filled with framed MSU & U of M and the Lions football pictures. Not an avid fan of any, I only recognized one. Desmond Howard in his now famous Heisman pose. Although one of the Lions pics could have been Barry Sanders, but I don’t remember his number. My X-rays were snapped on a lit up frame of bright white. Dang, those knees look pretty darn good. My legs look rather slim. Sweet. Shades of light and dark grays, some stark white spots. (Why I didn’t snap a couple of pictures while I waited I’ll never know. Old school and I don’t think that way).

These are not the joints that are gonna give me grief. Really???

Doctor Kenyon (pretty close to my age I think) waltzed in, shook my hand asked how I was doing? What’s wrong? Told him about my 6 weeks of pain in my right leg, then proceeded to my aching back. “I don’t do backs. Here’s a guy, practices in Ann Arbor and Chelsea. He’ll fix your back.” Hands me a card.

We were 2 feet apart, Kenyon was facing me, and other than glancing at my X-rays a couple of times, he talked right to me, so I don’t think I missed much of what he said (though soon I was in a state of shock and denial). “Both your knees are in horrible shape. It would be fraudulent of me to order an MRI or do arthroscopic surgery. Total knee replacement is your only option. You’re missing cartilage, it’s bone on bone in spots, see this big white spot here?” I nodded numbly. “That’s a huge bone spur. You’re growing extra bone which is trying to replace what you’ve lost. You’ve been walking so badly, your tibia is starting to turn the wrong way.” WAIT. WAIT. JUST. ONE. MINUTE.

“Um, do you actually mean my leg bone is turning the wrong direction,” I asked incredulously? “Yes, that’s what I mean, but not just your right leg. Both of your tibias are turning.”

Tibia, tibia turn around,

Tibia, tibia touch the ground.

Tibia, tibia go up the stairs,

Tibia, tibia say your prayers…

Yet, through it all she maintains her warped sense of humor. What a trooper!

Now I knew shock was setting in. I don’t remember laughing hysterically, and he didn’t get out the straight jacket, so I think I kept my near surface meltdown at bay. For the moment.

“I’m gonna give you a cortisone shot. Should help for a few months, but I wouldn’t wait too long. Call me when you’re sick of the pain. Whichever knee hurts the worse, we’ll replace first,” he concluded. Stuck a needle under my kneecap, and pushed hard. Yikes. Done. And walked out.

I admit I haven’t been able to sit on my haunches like this for a decade. Me with neighbor baby Cindy, 1957…

But. But, my aching back. Knew I was gonna have another miserable weekend if I didn’t get something to help with the back spasms. Crippled out to my car, called the office I had just walked out of and asked if there was any way someone from my primary care team could see me today. Yup, my doc’s assistant could squeeze me in at 2:30. Drove home, ate lunch with an ice pack on my back. Lezlie listened to my symptoms, felt around the hurting spot (C-4 she surmised), took me off work for a week, wrote a script for a muscle relaxer and suggested X-rays. I love her. She’s the gal who treated me during my 6 weeks of bronchitis/ pneumonia bout 2 years ago. While she had strongly suggested I spend a few days in the hospital, she was fine with me coming back and forth to the office a half dozen times to check, change prescriptions and order breathing treatments, but not be hospitalized.

I waited for my prescriptions, stopped at the Professional building to get the X-rays taken, and limped home. Talked it over with Hubs, who was as surprised as me with Kenyon’s assessment of my joints. John has hip issues and our son-in-law Tracey’s had total knee replacement. Tracey recommended his orthopedic doc, who’s supposed to be one of the best, so I will be getting a second opinion as soon as I can get an appointment. The back spasms have stopped, my knee feels the same-pain wise, plus very stiff.

The bees knees. Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

Something occurred to me after Kenyon said I was walking strange, causing my bones to curve. At work as I leave the lunchroom, I walk down a hallway which faces a 30 foot long glass frame hanging on opposite wall, at the t-intersection where I turn left to go back to the baby room. Right now that humongous frame is full of candid black and white shots of kids from all of our class rooms. But I can see part of my reflection in the glass as I walk. Often I think, why do my legs look so weird? Almost bow legged. I walk like I have a cob up my butt. Holy moly. I’ve really been blessed, fortunate with relatively great health. But this surprising diagnosis has knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute. Paging Dr. Carpenter…

After you’ve said your ‘I do’s,’ there might be a gauzy wisp of a vision of growing old together. But you never actually realize what your life will be like after 49 years. Together. Still with the same person. Who knows you better than anyone else. And has hung around through thick and thin. In it for the long haul. We’ve got fortitude and endurance.

Didn’t spend big bucks on elopement wedding pics. Olan Mills special, 1969…

The first couple of decades are normally dedicated solely for the parenthood section of marriage. Trying to raise your incredible creations. Only for a limited time. Just as amazingly, this offer is only for the two of you. These 3 children, available exclusively for John and Denise. Think about that for a minute. There would be no Shannon, Joshua or Adam (or subsequently our 4 amazing grandchildren plus our picture perfect great-granddaughter) had it not been for the elopement of John and Denise. Forty-nine years ago today in Elk Point, South Dakota. Took all of 4 minutes and we were hitched. Joined as one. My how He has blessed this union. Thanks God.

Our party of 5. Joshua 7, Hubs 34, Shannon 11, me 31, Adam 3, 1982…

We talked about it occasionally, but you really don’t ‘see’ yourselves literally growing old together. One of my friends refers to this part of their lives as ‘the 4th quarter, extra innings, or overtime. With the divorce rate still hovering around the 50% mark, it’s great to see silver, golden or beyond anniversary notices popping up. We have become a throw away nation, choosing frequently to toss relationships away as easily as our trash. Rather than stick together, try harder or repurpose.

Yikes, prom 1966…

I’ve always admired single parents. Holding down 2 jobs or more, trying hard to be mom and dad to the children you want so badly to grow up as responsible, kind, productive, hardworking, sincere adults. I don’t think I had the ‘right stuff’ to be a successful single parent. I thought child rearing was hard enough with 2 loving parents in the game. Glad I’ll never have to find out what I’m made of in a single parent home.

Worthington Iowa, with Joshua 1976…

John and I both have some quirks, most barely noticeable after nearly 5 decades together. One of his is, he likes to read the paper. To me. Drives me insane. Why? Because I love reading the newspaper. By myself. Especially a real one. Crinkly, it has its own smell and feel. Fits in my hands. Only happens 3 times a week. The Rock Valley Bee, Thursday and Sunday’s Jackson Citizen Patriot. Every other paper I have to read on my iPad. Ick. Still hate that. There is something special, sacred about sitting down with the daily newspaper. Now the Sunday paper is a fraction the size it was 10 years ago. Hubs, no need to read to me just yet. My ears are faulty, due for a recall, not my eyes.

Too cool for captions…

Our life together is one big ritual. We each have assigned tasks, most of which were never really assigned, just assumed. I’m the better cook, driver of cars and washer of clothing. He can fix anything, does the mowing, snow removal, and fertilizing. I weed my awesome pachysandra bed of ground cover and trim our new landscaping. He handles all grilling, or smoking of pork butts and ribs. He has just started to help me some when I’m canning. He vacuums 95% of the time, I do dishes about the same percentage. I hate sweeping floors. Wish he loved to sweep, but he does not. Dang it.

Both captivated by someone at Les & Mary Jane’s house, early 2000’s…

Is there a certain weird habit/ritual you’ve done for decades in your marriage, yet are reluctant to acknowledge? Or maybe you’re not even aware of its existence? We have one. I doubt John has ever realized it’s what we both do. I would dare bet, he’s never given one single thought there’s a quirk we share. A constant we never change, without thinking about it.

Grandparents day at Landon & Peyton’s school, 2009…

We’re both fond of popcorn at night when we’re watching TV. However, John’s popcorn tastes better than mine. (I think he uses more butter). Yet he thinks I make better popcorn. (I use less salt, so he actually tastes the popcorn). What this really means, while both of us want popcorn, neither of us want to get up and make it. Which takes about 5-7 minutes. No microwave popcorn in this house. Beyond gross. Yellow Jolly Time kernels live here. In bulk. Along with real butter. I believe we are on our 4th Stir Crazy Corn Popper. I know, crazy, right?

Visiting the Falls in Sioux Falls…

The Stir Crazy has a wide base which heats up to achieve the same temperature as Hell. A clear plastic dome sits on top of the base where all the delicious kernels end after they’ve popped from hell’s extreme heat. The dome holds enough popcorn to feed a packed theatre of starving teens, showing a first run horror movie. Or just enough for John and Denise. But here’s the conundrum. While we both like popcorn (who am I kidding? It’s one of my favorite foods, along with fresh tomatoes and cotton candy) while Hubs just likes popcorn. And we like it different. I don’t want much salt, but plenty of butter. He likes lots of salt and lots of butter. Thus after the corn is popped, half of it has to be put in another container, before the condiments are added. Which has always been an old Tupperware bowl. OK, here’s the quirk. Whoever makes the popcorn gets the Stir Crazy Dome. Unwritten law since the beginning of time, roughly September 22, 1969. The remaining lazy ass, reclining in the family room, waiting impatiently for the maker of popcorn to add melted butter, salt, unscrew my lid of Diet Pepsi, hand me 2 paper towels, gets the old Tupperware bowl. EVERY. TIME. The holier than thou person, maker of night time popcorn always gets the dome. Always. How did this even make it into our marriage rules? Don’t know, but yet it remains. In between ‘Denise will be too lenient with the kids, John a bit too strict.’ Just above, ‘do not flap the covers after you fart?’

Hitting our stride in year 15 or so…

These rules/family values/even our quirks have been in existence to help this marriage thrive and survive for the last half century. We’re not about to change what works for us. I’m sure every couple has their own serious and whimsical set of ideals on how to coexist with another person for 49 years. They might be etched in stone, or loosely tossed around during margarita Monday’s. Whatever works-to make it to 50…

The maker of popcorn always get the best bowl. Crazy, I know…

To the one who does nothing, the old Tupperware bowl is sufficient…

I’ve not had many bosses during my life because I haven’t work outside the home very long. Some bosses were terrific, some terrible, and others somewhere in between. I blogged about my favorite boss a couple years ago. His name was Mark and he was 3 notches above terrific. He owned several McDonald’s restaurants. I never witnessed him being unfair to an employee. He treated everyone with respect and always went out of his way to be approachable and kind. The world needs more Marks spread around the business world.

The best boss-ever. RIP Mark…

We took a quickie trip to Iowa late this spring. Shannon’s been wanting to go and had a few days off. Next year is my 50th class reunion (yikes) so we’ll be staying for several days, thus no guilt about a shorter jaunt this year. We probably over stay our welcome most years anyway.

Peyton tagged along which was a trip in itself. She got acquainted with cousins she rarely gets to see. Plus she learned how to drive a golf cart, tooling around the tiny village of Langdon like she owned the block, (silly girl, everyone knows that honor belongs to John’s nephew, Ken. And yes, Langdon’s only about a block long and wide). Learning to drive anything, that fabulous new-found freedom feeling might have been the highlight for her, minus the time she drove smack dab into the tree in front of all of us. 

Peyton & Shannon…

We squeezed in most of the important things on our ‘to do’ list. I know it might appear that visiting relatives came in dead last after prioritizing everything else from Wells Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream (everyday) to picking up a couple pounds of dried beef and 8 old fashioned ring bologna’s in Orange City, then continuing with Almond Patties from Casey’s in Sioux Center. Lastly heading further south to Scheels in Sioux City for some Iowa gear (go Hawks).

Love my new Iowa shirt…

Yet we did manage to visit much of the time. Quiet early morning chats or late night talks with Hubs sister Elly, his nephew Ken’s family, including their grown children and John’s 2 brothers, Les and Jim and some of their families. A large, boisterous group met us at Les & Mary Jane’s early Saturday afternoon, (cousins swim time) then ate at Archie’s in Le Mars for supper, then went back to Les & Mary Jane’s after we got the boot from Archie’s (kidding, we were all pretty well behaved). 

Just like Hubs & I ate when we were kids. Red ring bologna, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut. Sorry about the drool…

We spent a fair amount of time with our nephew Andy, treating him to ice cream at Wells and lunch at Bob’s Drive Inn. Bob’s, one of the few places which advertises Taverns on the menu. The Taverns are not like the recipe I make however. Good, but not the same, more like a Maid Rite. Andy had just moved back to Le Mars after a stint in New Mexico. It was great to see him and we enjoyed our time with him a lot. Love you Andy. 

Shannon, Andy (1st cousins) and me after Wells ice cream…

On Sunday morning we met for breakfast in Le Mars. A place on Highway 75, which was packed and busy. Like many small town’s eateries, a few strangers and passers-by, but mostly the same weekend crowd. Families meeting on Sunday after church, a couple big tables sporting same age young families with small children, where high chairs, Cheerios and sippy cups abound. All one-upping each other on the prowess of their own amazing offspring. 

Cousins, Peyton, Marissa and Miranda by the iconic Wells ice cream dish…

We were a party of six (Les, Jane, Shannon, Peyton, Hubs and yours truly) and were shown a table far from the front entrance, which was ok with me. I was hoping for less noise. I always sit with the wall on my left side. (My left is my lesser hearing ear) so found myself facing one more row of small tables against the restaurant’s back wall. The back wall was partly covered with paneling, a chair rail and paint. My eyes were immediately drawn to 3 small crudely made signs taped just above the chair rail. 

Are you kidding me? In full view of several tables of customers. Dipstick…

Oh my stars! Who is this asshole named Kent? Doesn’t he realize actual paying customers are privy to his immature rantings plastered for everyone to see all over the wall? How can anyone work for such a douche? And why would they? I forced my eyes away and looked at some of the help scurrying about. Nope, they were neat, hardworking, and appeared to be busting their hump trying to serve good old Kent’s customers great service and hot food. Wow. The pay must be fabulous. If I saw a negative, derogatory sign like this where I work, I’d be sorely tempted to paste old Kent right in the kisser. 

Not a lot better, but at least a polite ‘thanks’ appeared…

What contributes to the making of a good boss? How can one be the best guy in the world while another is just a plain dick about stuff? (I first named this blog post-Kent, the dick… Then decided that was as insult to my good buddy Dick B, the car guy, so had to come up with some other title without the word dick in it. Does not have the same ring though. I really, really liked Kent-the dick. It just fit). Communication skills are a must when one is a boss. Well, Kent does communicate, I’ll give him that. But not in a positive manner. He’s rude, crude, and condescending. Yikes, not too many complimentary terms of endearment here for Kent-the jerk. Well, what’s good for the goose, is good for the gander. With 3 small signs, Kent managed to place an inexpensive piece of inanimate equipment far above the feelings of his employees, (and in a way, his reading customers). Well done dick-um-I mean Kent. Mission accomplished…

Yes, he really says, “if I see you being disrespectable you will buy it” Kent…

It was one of those beautiful, late summer days when I was healthy and happy. We were living in North Muskegon, on Muskegon Lake, at the bottom of a hill. I didn’t particularly enjoy living at the bottom of the hill because this narrow strip of land was only a couple blocks long and wide. Everything in the world except Muskegon Lake existed-on the top of the hill. And it was pretty steep to get to the top. 

My favorite color combination…

I’d been walking every day for about 3 years. Meaning if I wanted to walk farther than 2 blocks, I had to trek to the top of the hill. After 3 years it was no big deal, but those first 6 months took everything I had just to huff and puff my way to the top of that little hill. What made this sweat inducing jaunt worthwhile wasn’t really at the top of the hill either. It was literally the ‘hiking to the top’ part. North Muskegon has more that their fair share of trees, like the rest of our forest infused state. The tree trimming code in Michigan states as follows: don’t trim anything-ever. Not even a twig. Let nature (wind gusts of more than 50 mph) do it for you. Free. I’m from Iowa and expect to be able to look west and see straight through South Dakota. We have near forest conditions everywhere I look, except when I’m at Lake Michigan.

Except, in the instance of this dang hill in North Muskegon. There were no sidewalks below the hill, so walking up or down is done on the road. Many mornings as you’re walking up, just when the altitude makes you short of breath (kidding, that was caused by rolls of fat, not altitude), this was the most picturesque scene. My breath literally caught every morning and not because of my slow/slug/slothness. The top of the hill was one huge wall of very dense green tree foliage. Varying shades of green, mostly kelly. Above this dense green wall of trees was the most vivid blue sky. Chicago Cubs Blue. Usually cloud free until noon. There’s always a time limit on sunshine in Michigan. One of the biggest differences between Michigan and Iowa. Iowa has abundant sunshine-winter and summer. Most days are split evenly between baby blue or sullen gray skies, but with just enough gorgeous ones like the Cubs blue sky to keep you walking up the hill everyday. 

God bless America. We will never forget…

I had my cell phone, but it was still more of a novelty and I hadn’t gone through the process of having it permanently attached to my body like a tattoo just yet. That would come soon enough when Mom and Dad started their decline, and an emergency phone call was no longer a rare occurrence. I was in my own little world. Listening to some funky music compilation from Joshua, my tech wizard kid. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Beatles, CCR, Pointer Sisters, but I had walked to the same music for 3 years! He changed all that for me.

My plan that beautiful day was to put on my Parish Visitor hat, so I was trudging up the hill by 7 and home again by 8:30. Cool down, eat some toast, shower and be on my way. The older folks I visited don’t get moving too early in the day, thus I was in no rush. Done with my walk, but still appreciating the hill scene with those stunning contrasting colors. I felt really good. 

The skyline before…

I’ve never been one to watch TV, especially during the day, so I was just ready to head upstairs when Hubs called me from work. It was right before 9. “Turn on the TV, a plane just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. How could they get so far off course?” I sat down at the kitchen table, clicked on the news and watched, horrified as the second plane crashed. Dumbfounded, it just seemed surreal. Mesmerized, I wanted to stop watching before I got sick, but was unable to pull my eyes from the TV. Or stop crying. OK, there’s definitely a loss of life through a few floors, but I honestly felt this was as bad as it was gonna get. Then John called back. “I think the whole building might come down!” I couldn’t come to terms with that. “I don’t think so, the damage looks to be on a few floors.” “Denise, do you know how hot jet fuel burns? It’s gonna melt the steel holding that building up.” The engineer was right.

Horrifying, 9-11-2001…

This still was not the worst. The news started covering the Pentagon crash, then the Pennsylvania crash. Thousands of people running away from the Towers, (as the first responders still continued to run into the buildings) covered with blood, ash in the smoke filled streets. But I will never forget watching in horror as people on the top floors-started jumping. Quite honestly, I could not believe what I was seeing. My mind simply couldn’t comprehend or refuse to accept this was their decision. At first I thought, why are they throwing stuff out the window? Just head down the stairs, you’re wasting valuable time. But they knew they weren’t going to make it out. As a psychologist would explain a few hours later, “this was the last decision these people could make on their own terms. Would you rather have fire and smoke consume you, or come to terms with your own impending death and decide how to end your life?” What an awful tragedy for America. Unbelievable how much some people, cultures, and religions hate us. I always thought we were the good guys and the world loved us. We help everyone. Naive Neese. More countries hate us than love us. Sad. 

There are no words…

Two things stand out in the days that followed. First thing happened the very next day, Wednesday the 12th. All the local churches were opening their doors for anyone to pray. For the victims, our country. Seeking solace through God. I drove to the closest church, got out of the car the same time as the pastor. I said something about needing some quiet time with God because I couldn’t understand or accept. He said, “this is our fault. America asked for this because we didn’t side with Palestine.” To me, this was as unbelievable as the folks I watched jump to their death the day before. And so began my disdain for organized religion.

Second thing happened a few days later. Muskegon had just built a beautiful mall about 10 miles away. I thought I was ready. Hopped on 31 south, got off on the exit and down a couple blocks to the stoplight. There was a Perkins Restaurant at the stoplight across from the mall. In Perkins parking lot was a humongous American flag, rippling in the breeze. Still flying at half mast. I couldn’t pull my eyes from that beautiful flag, commemorating all those lives lost. And here I was, trying to get on with my life. Pulled into the parking lot sobbing, turned around and drove home. Filled with guilt for wanting my regular life back when I hadn’t lost anything but my insensitive naiveté. No, I was not ready. I’ll never forget… 

We all remember…

Change is inevitable. Virtually impossible to cruise through life and not be affected by what happens to us, around us, or to those we love. How we respond to the good, the bad and ugly in life can help or hinder who we eventually become. Still, the older I get, the more I resist change. I tend to like things the way they are or used to be. 

3 year old Neese, busy making mud pies…

Even after I hit 40, I never gave a passing thought about the actual physical changes my body would experience as I aged. I watched my parents age, but their physical limitations never smacked me upside the head. Wearing blinders to avoid the inevitable. When I style my wet hair (using the word ‘style’ loosely as I really don’t have a style) my raised arm resembles a flag waving gently in the breeze. Or that my right hand would turn into some kind of gargoyle since the first of 2018. Stop growing extra bone, hand. Just stop. My younger Neese never realized age spots, wrinkly skin, and thinning gray hair (yeah, unable to face that one yet) would make an entrance and stay (uninvited) forever. While these minor changes are unsightly, even more disconcerting are actual changes which test my perseverance. My muscles are weaker, my vision’s fuzzy, my wrists, knees and shoulders snap, crackle and pop with any movement. And I certainly didn’t realize most of my hearing would disappear, only to be left with more noise than when I could hear. 

Graduation with Joshua, my early 40’s, no glasses or hearing aid-yet…

I wasn’t always like this. I remember how I used to be. Not trying to recapture my youth, I’m happy where I’m at. It’s only been 2 decades since I’ve become an introvert. No denying how drastic that change feels at times. When I remember the young Neese, I recall being quite social. Never the ‘belle of the ball’ but occasionally quick witted, rather outgoing, certainly outspoken, sometimes kinda funny, often smug and always sarcastic (ok, tiny pieces of old Neese remain-my sarcasm button is in relatively good shape and still under warranty) who wasn’t afraid of being front and center to get attention or a laugh. I was rarely subdued. Or quiet.

Never coy about being front and center then…

Maybe my slow conversion to aloneness started much earlier. Perhaps being a stay at a home mom (which I wouldn’t trade) for 20 years, (without a car) changed me. Lived in a variety of small towns, rarely staying long enough to get established. Spent everyday-all day with my kids. Since I’ve been such an advocate on spacing children (I’m a firm believer in spacing children at least 3 years apart. Goodness you already have a baby/toddler who’s now learning to walk, talk, pick out weird outfits, use the potty and move to a big bed. Why would you want to set him back a year by bringing another baby into his world)? However, maybe this is the single disadvantage of spacing. Geez, I had a baby/toddler/preschooler in our house for 15 years. Just get one kid ready for kindergarten and pop out another newborn. No, I wouldn’t change that either, though I strongly believe being alone all those years may have stymied my social skills. 

This is a spaced family, Shannon 10, Joshua 4-1/2, Adam 3 months, 1979…

No, I began morphing into a loner soon after I started losing my hearing. At least with me, my hearing loss and isolation went hand in hand. Firmly entrenched. The more hearing I lose, the smaller my world becomes. The isolation part is sneaky, subtle and somewhat depressing. It took me years to realize I was now a whole new Neese. Forever different. Not looking for pity. Compared to every other disease or chronic illness, my profound hearing loss doesn’t register a blip on the radar screen. Plus, look at all the folks my age or younger who are no longer with us. Kids (like my brother Larry) who never got the chance to grow up. Young people robbed of discovering true love or the incredible joy of a newborn baby. Nope, my hearing loss is nothing but a major annoyance in my life. A royal pain in the ass. Nothing more. 

This hearing aid is 8 years old. Time to replace, hoping for new technology…

One thing I believe is sorely lacking in the world today is empathy. Empathy is the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. It’s how we understand what others are experiencing-as if we were feeling it ourselves. Wow. Not sympathy, which is feeling sorrow for the hardships someone is going through. Wouldn’t an empathy app make lives better? It would be a roller coaster ride for sure. Emotionally draining, leaving us physically exhausted. So we’ll fix that part by limiting the length of our empathy app to 30 seconds. The knowledge of what others are feeling would linger indefinitely. But my amped empathy app would go one step further. For a few seconds we would literally ‘feel’ what they feel. Physically. 

Wouldn’t this be a godsend when you’ve got appointment with your doctor? “Doc, I hurt my leg 2 weeks ago. This is what I feel with every step.” Or, “I’ve been feeling this unbelievable fatigue for months. It takes everything I have just to get out of bed.”  Doc would literally experience a torn muscle or fibromyalgia coursing through his body. Might help with diagnosing and decisions for treatment and medications. Empathy-the app everyone needs.

Not me, but pretty much my life, yakking on the phone-before deafness…

While I wouldn’t wish my deafness on anyone, I’d like everyone to experience 30 seconds inside my head. Now that’s a scary thought isn’t it? Not the what I’m thinking part of my head, geez you guys are friends. Friends don’t do that to friends. Just briefly visit the noise department on the 5th floor. That’s all. I guarantee you would not go crazy because of time limits. You’ve all watched an old movie where an alien takeover forces everyone to fall to the ground while grabbing their head and covering their ears to help block out the screeching/sonic boom/loud sirens. That’s me. Deaf, but noise filled. This is my world. Welcome to it. 

Niagara Falls. Rushing water sounds fill my head even when I’m not there, too bad…

Little did I know, losing my ability to hear birds sing, crickets chirping and “listen to the rhythm of falling rain, telling me just what a fool I’ve been” would not make my world silent. I got the exact opposite. How is that even possible? When one goes deaf, shouldn’t the silence be deafening? Au contraire. I’ve got more noise in my head than U of M’s Big House-on game day vs. Ohio State. Filled with 100,000 rabid fans sporting maize & blue and scarlet & gray. Ugh. Nasty teams.

This is what TV looked like on every (3) station after midnight…

I can’t determine what you’re saying because of all the noise in my head. Reading your lips works, but I’m still a rookie. And it only works if you’re facing me. This major grievance began the same time I started losing my hearing in my left ear. Subtle and sneaky. The noise is similar to an old time TV station that went off the air. There was this circle sign with an Indian that came on TV when that particular network was done programming for the day, usually midnight. I called it snow. Kind of a loud, static noise. Which now rested comfortably on the top left side of my head. This was still OK because the hearing in my right ear was phenomenal. As long as I could keep this 20 mile an hour wind gust sound/static/snow/water waves on just one side of my head, I was good. 

Niagara Falls Rapids are one of my favorites-except I hear them constantly…

A couple years later the hearing in my right ear started going. Oh hell’s bells. Soon I had dueling banjos in my head. A wind tunnel/waves of water on one side and a revved up chain saw on the other. Awake and trying to function like a normal human during the day seemed to keep the noise decibels within the ‘I’m still sane on the range.’ But oh boy, watch out for nighttime. I was done working, done thinking, bone weary and sleepy. Until my head hit the pillow. 

The more quiet the room, the louder the noise. The noise is actually my brain trying to help me for the sounds my ears no longer hear or recognize. So this wacko brain of mine makes its own noise. Thanks. Loads. Which at times has come temptingly close to driving me over the edge. Because there are no distractions at night, only your thoughts. White noise (fan) helped for a few years when something odd occurred to me. I could no longer hear if the fan was on or off, so that strategy no longer helped keep the monster noises at bay. The irony is Hubs can no longer fall asleep without the fan. Ha-ha, it’s just a laugh a minute here. 

I begged my ENT, (ear, nose, throat doc) if he could eliminate the 24/7 noise in my head? Surgery, cut the nerve or something? Anything? Please, I’m begging you here. No can do, my deaf patient. The noise is constant, though not always the same sounds, loudness or frequency. Varies at times from a dentist drill, to an engine whine, but usually sticks with a noisy gust of wind/water. If I were using my 30 second time limit empathy app, my ENT could accompany me with the duo noise blast inside my head. Hopefully finding a solution to why this deaf person still hears way too much-but not much of substance or value…

I don’t know if Iowa laws still remain the same as they did back in the Stone Age when I was a teen. I’m sure I’ll be corrected if I’m not remembering right. I believe when you turned 14, you could get a learner’s permit. In the Gerritson abode it meant this: Mom and Dad were supposed to tag-team teach their youngest child-me how to drive a car. So with about a year to go before I took Driver’s Training I could become an accomplished driver. Right.

Yup, this Rock Valley Rocket booster was claiming all roads her territory now…

Unlike the majority of families in the mid-60’s, my parents drove cars with a manual transmission and a clutch. Ugh. It takes some skill and a lot of concentration to learn how to drive a car with a manual transmission. This was done on one of the cheaper varieties from Chevy. I believe it was a maroon 4 door, 1963 Nova. Three speed on the column. For anyone younger than 50, the gear shifter thingy was connected to the right side of the steering wheel. Try to envision that little scenario.

Much like our 63 Chevy when I learned to drive a straight stick…

Neutral was in the middle of this 12 inch span and could be moved a bit towards the dashboard or pulled in towards the driver. Me. Neese was learning to drive. Watch out world. First gear was pulled in and down towards your lap. You wanted to shift to second gear when you were going about 10 mph. Mom was pretty patient. My left foot had the clutch depressed to the floorboard. My right foot was either on the brake (if there was ANY kind of slight in-or decline), otherwise my right foot rested lightly on the accelerator. Not hard enough to race the engine. I was fairly coordinated.

This may look easy, but combined with the clutch, accelerator, brake and parent, it wasn’t

Mom would go over the sequence again and again. Push the clutch in, shift to first gear. NOW, AT THE EXACT SAME TIME, EVER SO SLOWLY, let the clutch out with your left foot as you apply light pressure to the accelerator with your right foot.

If not done with the precision movements of a brain surgeon wielding a scalpel, the car stalls. Once you hear something being wound too tight, take your foot off the gas with your right foot while depressing (wow, this was actually hard & scary) the clutch to the floor again with your left foot. If that wasn’t confusing enough, your right hand now had to manually move the transmission from first to second gear. Your left hand is steering the car BTW without power steering. Move the shifter thingy back up to the loosey-goosey neutral spot, then gently push it a bit towards the dashboard. Then straight up towards the headliner. Ta-da, you’re now in second gear. The clutch should be all the way out and you are still pressing on the accelerator to go faster. One more gear to go. Now you’re up to about 25 mph, Mom’s yelling encouragement or “slow down, hit the brakes, stop, or we’re gonna die,” when it’s that time again. We’re shifting, we’re shifting. Take your foot off the gas, push the clutch all the way in and shift to third. Right hand takes the gear stick and brings it straight down.

My first car was a green nifty-50 Chevy like this one during the mid 60’s…

Once you’ve mastered starting from a dead stop with a clutch on an incline, your status is forever changed to the ‘pro series driver.’ But as an inexperienced driver, tackling a stick shift from a dead stop-on an incline was enough to break me out in a cold sweat and my mouth was as dry. If you don’t give the car enough gas while you slowly let the clutch out, you start rolling backwards. Scary enough, but to be certain you’ve got moxie & mettle, make sure an impatient old Dutch guy is riding your bumper 2 feet behind you while you try these 12 steps at once. If an grumpy old Dutch guy is not available, you can get the same hyperventilating effect doing this when the roads are slick. Why, oh why couldn’t one of our cars be an automatic? Was that too much to ask?

The easiest way to make sure you don’t stall the car while stopped on an incline is learning to ‘ride the clutch.’ Not an acceptable option if a parent was with you. This method is rather hard on a clutch for some reason. But it’s what I did many times as a rookie driver. Instead of leaving the clutch depressed to the floorboard while you wait, you let the clutch out-about a 1/3 of the way. If you don’t give the engine some gas at this point you’re gonna stall, and if you use too much gas, you’re gonna start moving. Remember you’re at a stoplight or stop sign so you really shouldn’t run either one. But if you do this just right, your car stays motionless. The clutch is out a bit and just a touch of gas. Sounds as though you’re goading the guy next to you into racing as soon as the light turns green. These learning experiences however were conducted in Rock Valley. We had one stoplight (I was so smitten with Rock Valley’s one stoplight, it’s what I chose when naming my blog) smack dab in the middle of downtown, only one lane each. And it was flat as a pancake, so most of my ‘riding the clutch’ was done from stop signs on an incline or in some other small town where I was just looking for trouble.

I was legally allowed to drive unattended now, hallelujah…

Didn’t take me long to master driving a stick and little did I know it would be about 20 years before I’d buy my first automatic transmission car! Most of my stick shifts though have been on the floor and not the steering wheel. And I very seldom stalled a car. All of our kids learned how to drive a straight stick too. I think every one of their first cars were manuals. Even Ariana, our first grandchild drove a straight stick for several years. Actually great skills for anyone to have.

Mom had some different money ideas. Thought nothing of buying Shannon a fancy wool Sunday coat to be worn one winter when she was little, but would not spend a dollar on a new paring knife. Mom made it abundantly clear early in their marriage she was chairman of several committees which Dad would not get a vote. One area of concern was money. Mom decided where almost every penny went. Dad did have spending money, but Mom doled it out. Bills were paid early and mostly in cash. Tithing to the church wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. No questions or doubt. She was strict in her savings goals. As chairman of the car acquisition committee, her job was to decide what kind of cars they would drive. Mom felt a small engine, 4 good tires, some steel to protect them, a heater and most importantly-the cheaper manual transmission were sufficient to meet the needs of their travels. Period. Once Mom became chairman on these important committees, she was reluctant to give them up. Ever.

Practiced driving on many gravel roads with corn fields on both sides…

By the mid-70’s Mom stopped buying cars that were considered mid-sized. She bought a new Chevette, manual tranny of course, paid cash, drove it for a couple years, then gave it to Dad. And bought another one, different color, for herself. When GM stopped making Chevettes, she was unsure what to do to meet her new car goals. Hubs suggested a Ford Escort, which were relatively new. My parents and John had long been GM consumers, but for the first and only time in her life, she took Hubs advice. (Yes, believe it, there are still miracles). Bought an Escort, loved it, but had to order it because she refused to have or pay for a RADIO. Oh my goodness. Although she would sweat bullets during some brutal Iowa summers, she wouldn’t order a car with air conditioning for several years.

Dad’s sign, trying to get his message to the masses…

Always felt bad for Dad’s sake. After Larry died, Dad became very involved with several different ministries. One was visiting and preaching to inmates in prison, which he would continue to do until a few months before his death at 91. The other was his special sign ministry. Large wooden, hand painted signs he designed (no offense Dad but I’m using the term ‘designed’ loosely). He used old boards he saved from buildings he took down and nail them together. Give the whole thing a coat or 2 of paint. Decide on a catchy or clever saying, like um, “7 Days without Jesus makes one weak,” and just start painting. No lines drawn, he’d just wing it. His apostrophe’s always make me smile when I see pictures of his signs. They looked like where the commas should be, but still in the general apostrophe vicinity. Dad’s signs were meant to catch your eye from highway 18 or 75, so they stood pretty tall in the corn fields. How did he get his signs to their appointed spots? He drove the smallest, cheapest car in America. Dad sure would have loved driving a pickup. But it was not to be.

Looks like this one could have been worded better, but it was definitely Dad…

I think one of Dad’s coworkers helped him with his signs because he had a pickup. After a few years of Iowa’s wicked winters and scorching summers, Dad’s signs would start taking a toll from the weather. He’d fetch the sign, bring it back to the garage, plop it on 2 sawhorses, make any repairs, add a fresh base coat of paint and give it a makeover. He had a small notebook filled with potential sign sayings and was just itching to use a new religious catchphrase that would surely draw the eye of those zipping along the highway. Perhaps forever changing the life (and afterlife) of one weary traveler…

Dad passed away just over 10 years ago. Mom’s death was in 2004. Some days it feels like multiple decades have passed, other days it seems like yesterday and I can recall conversations with one or both of them in great detail. At times I swear I can hear the sound of their voices, and see some of Dad’s quirky mannerisms, or Mom’s occasional scrutinizing glance. 

The earliest picture I have of Mom & Dad together, early or mid-1940’s…

They were married 62 years. The sheer length is quite impressive, but if you truly knew my Mom and Dad, you’d be shaking your head in disbelief and wondering how 2 such different people could have possibly stayed together that long. Had to be grace of God. No, that might not be right either. By the time I hit my teens I thought these 2 people would be much happier-apart. Why didn’t they simply just split up? What held them together? 

Dad, tending the garden, late 1950’s…

I blogged about my own marriage awhile back. The many differences between the Hubs and I. Some are silly, like real butter-Diet Pepsi (me) vs. Olivio-Diet Coke (John), some not so funny. I was more lenient with the kids, but maybe to be a halfway successful duo in a  2 parent household, you need one who is more strict than the other.  In most instances though, when really important issues come up, we were on the same page. On many counts, we are quite compatible.

Just the cutest! Mom sunbathing around 1950…

Mom and Dad didn’t share much common ground-down to the foods they preferred. Dad liked his meal separated or compartmentalized. I think this might have to do with their different upbringings. Dad’s family had more mouths to feed and spuds were a great way to stretch a meal, like noodles. My Mom, on the other hand lived with her maternal grandparents after her mom passed soon after she and her twin brother were born. The Wanningen grands were not wealthy but comfortable I think. Not sure if every meal at my Dad’s boyhood home included meat but pretty sure potatoes were a staple. I can remember eating crispy fried potatoes at Grandma Gerritson’s house when Dad and I were visiting a long, long time ago.

Sioux Center Iowa, about 1930. Wanningen grands, Mom and twin brother Floyd…

Anyway, Dad’s preferred meal always included a meat: beef roast, meatloaf, ring bologna, or pork chops. Mashed, baked, fried or boiled potatoes, gravy and a vegetable. He would have been happy every day with a divided plate holding one of these meals. Mom, not so much. I think she could have easily been a vegetarian. And she wasn’t that keen on divided dry little compartment meals. She much preferred casseroles and soups. Tasty broth to compliment soups or a thicker, creamy base holding the meat/potato/veggies together. She, like me had to have something cold to compliment our meal. Usually cranberry sauce, apple sauce, pickled beets, or fresh tomatoes during the summer. Yup, their differences could be summed up between a 3 course dinner plate for Dad, or a casserole/soup for Mom’s supper. Mom certainly cooked both kinds of meals but leaned more to Dad’s choices on meals even though she might have chosen something different. 

Mom in a teaching moment-cleaning light fixture w/Shannon, 1971…

I smile when I think of some of Mom’s soups and casseroles. I still make most of her soups. Chicken (though I’ve been using pearl barley more than rice the last few years) Vegetable Beef, Pea (whole, not split-ever) Bean soups. But Mom had this one hot dish. Her favorite ‘go to’ casserole. Dad and I could smell it as we walked in the house. We didn’t say anything because 90% of the time she catered to what we had requested for supper. But with the regularity of a well oiled clock we could count on this casserole making it to the supper table almost every month. 

Mom, Mona, Ed & Dad, September 1960…

It was called Tater Tot Casserole. Sigh. It’s been blocked from my memory bank for awhile, the same way we tend to delete the negative. Something like this. Ground beef, browned with onion, drained and maybe mixed with Cream of Celery soup. Mom did not like or use Cream of Mushroom, but she might have used Cream of Chicken. This was placed in the bottom of a glass baking dish. A can of drained green beans plopped on top of the ground beef mixture. Then came those rascally tater tots. Each about the size of a walnut in the shell. Frozen, pale, kinda of funny looking. The entire top of the beef/green beans layers was covered with white-frozen-ping-pong-ball-sized-tater-tots. Sigh. In her defense, Mom did make it halfway appealing. Our gas stove temperature had to be set pretty high because when she plucked it from the oven and placed it on her trivet potholder, (thus sparing the table), the-little-stuck-together-rice-size-fake-potato-tidbits were nicely browned. Really, about the only meal Mom made that I didn’t care for. Mom wasn’t a fancy cook but everything she fixed was tasty. But where tater tots (much like McDonald’s frozen hash browns-yuk) were concerned, there’s only so much you can do with that shit. 

Mom & Dad with first grandson, Brian in 1962…

Dad expected supper on the table every night, except Saturday by 5 pm. (We had our big meal at noon on Sunday, so Sabbath suppers were more sandwich type, though none of the Gerritson’s exhibited even the slightest basic knowledge on how to make a good sandwich). Even Dad’s daily lunch pail had only buttered Hillbilly Bread, with one slice of American cheese. Topped with another slice of buttered bread. Never had to worry that Dad would come home with mayo or mustard stains all over his bib overalls. Ha-ha. But supper was to be shared. We prayed, ate, read scripture, prayed again together. 

Mom & Dad visiting us in Jackson about 1990…

After Larry died, Dad became obsessed with helping others/church committees/visiting the sick/preaching the gospel/spreading the word of God. He had places to go every night so an early supper was mandatory. He needed to wash up, eat, change clothes and get out of the house to save some souls. Mom had supper to fix, laundry, ironing, windows to wash, lunches to make, sweaters to knit. And nothing excited her less than going out after she got home from a hard day at work. 

Happier times, a year before we lost Larry, 1957…

I have a difficult time coming up with any compatibility where my folks are concerned. Dad was very social, Mom was an introvert. They weren’t even reading the same book where discipline was concerned when raising us kids. I don’t think Dad was even consulted most of the time. Yet they remained together. I’m sure a big part was the stigma of divorce. Not a popular choice in a rural small Iowa town. Which was predominantly Dutch, a half century ago. Since I was only 7 when we lost my brother Larry, maybe I’m just not aware of how happy Mom and Dad were before his death. I don’t remember them fighting or angry voices very often. Larry’s death took an unbelievable toll on all of us. Perhaps they just accepted and made the necessary adjustments for the enormous fissure that opened between them after he died. Mom and Dad. Different as night and day. From personalities to food preferences. Together, for better or worse 62 years, plus one month-exactly…

A later church photo, maybe early 90’s. Classic Mom and Dad…

Hubs is not a shopper, never has been. Hates it actually. Prit-near torture if he has to go to a mall. It’s gotten worse as he’s aged. Even 20 years ago he could putter around Meijer for a half hour in the sporting goods, hardware or automotive department. Now he complains that Meijer only has groceries and clothes, which is probably pretty close to the truth.

Meijer produce department. They’ve eliminated most departments besides food and clothes…

So when he says, “do you need anything from the store,” he’s not actually offering to zip 3 miles down the road to Meijer for 20 bucks worth of groceries cause I’m too tired. Oh no, he simply means from my expanded kitchen/larder/bunker/ which is open 24-7 for our convenience. (This is located in my laundry room). Don’t go thinking this dude needs a cape. He would never willingly go to a ‘real’ store for me unless there was a dire emergency. In his defense however, Hubs has always realized his crazy ass wife loves to grocery shop. That can’t be normal. But it’s the way I am.

My kitchen is small. Not able to store much more than the absolute necessities. But my large laundry room downstairs has these built in cupboards which make a perfect ‘larder.’ Two huge cupboards, floor to ceiling, deep sections, 3 shelves each. One cupboard holds all of my home canned goods. The second one holds everything my kitchen doesn’t. Ever since I had more than 2 bucks in my purse to spend on groceries I’ve been a quantities shopper. (And quality). My second pet peeve (number 1 remains the jerk who refuses to get out of the passing lane-then continues to drive way too slow) is running out of something when I need it. Whether it’s toilet paper, eggs, baking powder or L’Oréal hair color, there’d better be a replacement on the shelf somewhere in this house. If I have to go to the store because I’ve literally run out, rest assured I will be buying 10 of whatever I’m lacking at the moment. Just the way I roll.

My home canned goods for 2018-so far. Still have to do apple sauce…

Hubs enjoys novels similar to The Walking Dead series on TV. Some weird strain of biological war/zombies/ has wiped out 90% of the population. The few humans remaining have to trek to North Dakota or some such place and the odds are never in their favor. So when John asks if I need something, he’s actually only offering to walk downstairs to ‘the other store.’ Yeah, he thinks it’s funny. Every time he reads another book he says, “when the real apocalypse hits, we’ll be able to live here and eat for at least a year, maybe 2. If we die, let’s hope the good guys come through our house and find your store downstairs. Since coffee is at a premium in every single apocalypse book, they’ll be in heaven when they spot your half dozen cans of coffee.”

Don’t judge. I keep a lot of canned goods on hand because would if I get hungry for Tres Leches Cake? Cannot be made without a can of Cream of Coconut. Note: that’s not Coconut milk which is common and cheap, but Cream of Coconut which is hard to find and expensive. To prove I’m not a hoarder I will tell you I only have one can of Cream of Coconut in the house. See? I can be normal. But the day I use that can, its replacement will appear on my next (constant) grocery list. Count on it.

Yup, only one of these on my shelves…

I need a lot of stuff in the house because I still cook and bake a lot. And we eat good. The older we get, the less we go out. We don’t enjoy eating out as much as we used to. Portions and prices are two big reasons why plus I can usually make it better. And I’m not that great of a cook. Normally I stick to a plan. I’ll march downstairs on the weekend. Head to the freezer, pluck out a package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts (tasteless according to Hubs. He thinks everything should be made with dark meat) a beef roast, package of ground round and a nice ham bone. The decision’s been made, the next 4 nights suppers (Crockpot Chicken and Dumplings, Hot Beef Sandwiches, Taverns and Ham & Bean Soup) are now on the menu. When my life is in sync, this is normal behavior. Well, as normal as I get. Then again, sometimes I open the freezer and stare into space. Geez, what can I make that’s different or we haven’t had in a while? Or I’ll ask John, who might say, “I’m hungry for salmon patties, fried potatoes and cream peas, or meatloaf or beef stroganoff.” We both have our favorites. I try to be fair. Or we’d have spaghetti once a week along with turkey and all the fixins. Every week. At least once.

I often make soup twice a week. Hubs likes soup, but nearly as much as I do. I’m more than ok with a big bowl of homemade soup everyday. Right now I’ve got a hankering for Chicken Corn Chowder and Red Skin Potato with Bacon soup. Soup is one of my favorites as far as leftovers go. Which is the real the reason I cook. So I can bring good food to work. I get up at 4 and get my break at 10:30, Lord willing. I’m starving by 10:30. Walk to the lunch room, toss my entree in the microwave. Nibble one of my fingers down to the first knuckle during these excruciating 3 minutes. Today was the last of my goulash, (John’s request) a slice of bread, fresh blackberries and Diet Pepsi.

Honestly, it’s not as-overwhelming as it looks…

John has suffered from a chronic affliction since the day we got married. He is helpless, unable and incapable of finding a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge. Place my hand on the Bible, it’s the gospel truth. The man can wire a garage, put in a gas line where there was only 220 electric for a dryer. Replace an engine in a car. Has the vision to ‘see’ how a multi million dollar factory machine line is gonna run and make the parts he needs. However, if his life depended on it, he could not spot that damn gallon of milk. In an empty fridge. Sad. But true. My cross to bear.

My ‘larder’ is important. And I’m anal about FIFO. Hey, I worked at McDonald’s for years. One of the first things they teach you. First in, first out. When new stock comes in, the older stuff gets put in front so it will be used first. Always. Usually the maintenance man’s job but every crew worker at one time or another has had to help put away stock if the maintenance guy was busy doing something else. I’m constantly moving stuff around downstairs, checking expiration dates. I mean geez, it’s not not like I have 20 cans or jars of something. OK so maybe a dozen to 15 cans of tuna but really, who’s counting? When I say we eat good, I’m serious. Thus my tuna casserole uses 4 cans of tuna. Yes, 4.

This odd store really isn’t anything new with me. It’s just never been in one handy location before because I always had much larger kitchens. So all my grocery stash was in several different cupboards as opposed to one gigantic place now. When the kids were grown up, on their own but still single, anytime they were visiting meant they would do much of their grocery shopping right out of my cupboards. For free. Win-win for everyone. I was adament they tell me when they took the last of something because you know, it had to replaced immediately. Stat. There are still rules when shopping at mom’s house.

Shannon moved about 6 months ago. Her house is very, very nice. And big. Italian marble, mosaic floors, fancy ceilings 20 feet high. Her kitchen has 3 ovens. 3. Her ‘pantry’ is right off the kitchen. Even the pantry is cute, and the approximate size of my whole kitchen. She was trying to get her pantry organized and utilize that nice space, so she ordered some shelving racks. The kind you see in stores where you take a can of soup out and another rolls in its spot. Gonna take care of all her canned goods. Except they didn’t fit on her pantry shelves. Bummer. She dropped them off at our house to see if I could use them since she didn’t feel like sending them back. Well there’s more than enough room in my larder for those racks. Wish she’d ordered a half dozen. Dang. I hemmed and hawed about which cans should go on these racks. So many cans, so few places for such a great display. Well as long as I was finding the right spot for the racks I might as well rearrange the whole cupboard and check the dates on everything….

Not a week goes by where I don’t see a couple of posts on Facebook about clothing. A genuine concern from a complaining mom. Her unhappiness with the manufacturers of children’s clothing. Usually girls clothing. Upset mom’s been shopping but has come home empty handed. And angry. Why? Because some little girls clothing offered has become too grownup, too suggestive, and mom doesn’t want her kid wearing that crap. I notice this ‘kids growing up’ way too fast in a lot of areas. Yet when you talk about it to parents most say it’s gotta stop. Let little kids be kids for awhile.

Jovi Marie, 18 months. Wearing totally appropriate clothing and wearing it well…

We have a staff meeting 2 hours a month, always at night, right after the last child leaves and we’re closed. Classes on various subjects dealing with children. Everything from being an advocate for all children, CPR, discipline, to community outreach for kids. We’ve been working on a long series right now on conscious discipline. The speaker has a great sense of humor and I’ve enjoyed her take on young children. A large clip of her last class was encouraging teachers to let our small children play. Yup, it’s that simple. Our kids are spending too much time with the iPad, in front of the tv, in organized sports and activities at a very young age, but not spending enough time playing in the rain. It seems as though mud, rain, sand, playing in the grass is actually good for kids. Period. Who knew? And we don’t let, or actively make the time to encourage them to simply play outside together enough, using their imagination and some old fashioned playground equipment.

Our room continues to evolve. For 3 years it’s simply been the infant room. Up to the time babies are between 12-14 months, they’re ours to care for and help mold. Then, because they’re toddlers, they would be eased into the next room with The Wonderful Ones. Sounds logical, has worked well. Until it was decided to let the babies remain in the infant room longer. Ease the enormous stress for them of having to move from our room. Don’t get me started. Already expressed my strong feelings what a bunch of hooey I think this is.

Now I’m fretting from a couple of those changes, not particularly the change itself, but the timing. This goes back to the manufacturer’s inappropriate clothing for kids. In a world where we constantly say, let them be little kids, it seems we’re doing exactly the opposite. I was a stay at home mom raising our 3 children. My kids slept in their cribs until they were dry through the night. Which happened about the age of 2-1/2. Then they got a big bed because they were big kids.

Where breakfast and lunch is served, but not for very long. Gotta go, gotta go…

Our babies each have their own crib to nap in. State law requires babies under 1 must have their own crib each day. Every child over 1 but under 3 must have a crib or cot. When the babies get fussy, we rock them to sleep. Maybe takes 5-10 minutes and they’re out like a light. Lay them down in their assigned crib, note the time and move on. Recently 4 cots have been added to our room. The cots sit about 3 inches off the floor. We throw on a crib sheet, move the immobile babies out of their designated area during nap time so the big kids can sleep there. Two or 3 people sit between the cots and lay down toddlers approximately 40 times, patting their backs until they fall asleep. Why? I don’t understand or see the advantage.

The other change is worse. Now the one year olds are supposed to sit on small chairs at a table which is about 15 inches high. For 2-1/2 years I’ve been able to feed 4 kids at one time. A couple usually are already eating finger foods while 2 might have cereal, jars or pouches of baby food. I sit on a bench, facing them. Each high chair tray holds a bowl or plate with food if they can feed themselves. I use masking tape with their names for the ones with baby food. We play pat-a-cake or I’ll sing songs or old commercial jingles while they eat. Pick up their sippy cups (also with their name on it) 20 times because it’s still fun to throw them even though they’re mere inches off the floor.

Imagine, if you will the game of whack-a-mole. A table with holes every few inches. Your goal is to see how fast you can ‘bop’ the little mole who sticks his head through one of the holes. But as soon as you make him disappear, another appears in a different hole. It happens very fast and constantly. Well that’s what a table of 4, 13-18 months old looks like. Just without the mallet. Now matter how hungry they are, they cannot remain seated. It’s like their little butt has a minute timer and they have to stand up, push away from the table and walk away. As soon as you set one down, show him his plate, drink, fork or spoon, another one is leaving. Then another, and another. Constant battle to get them sit for 10 minutes. They’re definitely eating less. Too many distractions. Other’s plates and silverware are now within easy reach. Why do we insist they eat at a big table when they’re not big? We just can’t let them be little when they’re still little. Why is that? What’s the advantage with cots and tables as opposed to cribs and high chairs? I don’t understand the reasoning, and find this very frustrating.

One morning this week I walked in our room, and noticed a new table and 2 chairs in the play area. The chairs resemble Adirondacks, and the table solid maple or birch, round and quite large, maybe 40 inches. Sitting about 15 or 18 inches off the ground, my first though was, is that not the cutest thing ever? Followed by, wonder which one of the boys will be standing on top of the table within the first 2 minutes of spotting it. As God is my witness it did not take 2 minutes. Let’s hope the novelty wears off quickly for the table and chairs.

How cute is this? They would rather climb on than sit so far…

One of our oldest kids wasn’t feeling the need for a nap. Major meltdown and this cutie has a set of pipes. Worthy of window shattering. Since she was disrupting the entire room, her immediate need for sleep was abandoned for the moment. I was rocking a baby to sleep close to her loud complaints. I growled and said, “woman” and tickled her arm. Tears forgotten, she squealed with delight and backed just out of my reach. Only to inch closer and closer with a huge grin on her face. Then I growl “woman” and repeat the tickle. Which made her giggle, back up and start all over again. She’d throw her head black, laugh maniacally (she really was tired). It was then I noticed her wide open mouth. “Hey, when the kids have more teeth than me, do they finally get to move?”…