Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.
Been down, isn’t it a pity, doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.
All around, people looking half dead,
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.

Is this hell? No, just the temperature in Las Vegas the whole time we were there…

Holy cow, that’s one appropriate oldie. I don’t know if this has been a fluke or Las Vegas summers are really this stinking hot. If it’s not a fluke, how can anyone live there year round? And survive? And why in heaven’s name would you? I grew up in Iowa. Without air conditioning. I know hot and humid. But Las Vegas in late July was almost unbearable. From Thursday evening through Monday morning, the temperature never dipped below 90. Ever. And that trend didn’t start when we arrived or stop when we left. Hoo-eee.

They lie. Temperatures were hotter than this every stinking day…

These impromptu adventures (for me) always start the same way. Shannon texted me a few weeks ago, “Mom, Tracey’s not able to go to Landon’s last tournament in Las Vegas. I already booked a fabulous room at The Venetian for 4 nights. All it’s gonna cost you is your flight and tickets to his games.” Man oh man, I knew immediately I wanted to go. Only thing causing me pause was not getting the days off work. I pretty much take off what and when I want but my boss strongly encourages everyone to give at least a 2 week notice when asking for time off. This would be a couple days shy of that. But one of those requested days is my normal day off, so I was only stretching it by 2 days. After a bit of maneuvering and moving around some workers, my request was granted. Maybe a tad grudgingly. But it’s rare for me to request time off without oodles of notice, or not zipping into work if they’re short of help or staying later. This works both ways, which is probably why I didn’t get the stink eye when pleading my case.

Can’t say he’s really famous, but I did recognize him. Guy from the aquarium show called Tanked. Wade and his lovely wife…

Last time Hubs and I were in Vegas was February of 2017. Twice. Neither stop was really for the whole Vegas experience. Saw no shows and didn’t gamble. We flew there with the sole purpose of driving to Yuma (we might not have fully realized exactly how far away Yuma was from Sin City) and made plans to see our niece Wendy and her family before we flew back to Detroit. The weather had been cool, cloudy with rain. Almost uncomfortably cool for what we had expected. And the clothes we had.

View from our room on the 23rd floor at The Venetian…

This recent trip was with mixed emotions where basketball was concerned. I think Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has played AAU ball every spring and summer since 7th grade. But seniors can not compete in this league. And in less than one short month Landon will start his senior year. How is that even possible? Seems like he was just playing a game of H O R S E with me and won easily. Might add he was 3 at the time. And yes, it was a regulation basketball hoop.

Landon, # 23. Went back to short hair. He’s so stinking cute…

Before his regular basketball season this winter this will be the last time he’ll be playing in a tourney. Where have those years gone? And how come they seem to be going faster than ever lately? The tourney is called the Las Vegas Fab 48, meaning how many teams were invited. Landon was playing with a bunch of his buddies for this tournament. Guys who are Ann Arbor Pioneer rivals during basketball season, but they’re all good friends and this team needed a point guard for a couple weeks so duh, who ‘ya gonna call? One of Michigan’s 2019 best point guards in the state.

Bringing it down court, setting up the play…

Landon’s team flew to Las Vegas on Wednesday and was already knee deep in pool play (kind of seeding to get a good mixture of teams and talent in every bracket playing through to the finals. Like play offs, maybe. This is all kind of Greek to me, ask Tracey for details if you must). You can lose games in pool play, your team is then just seeded lower. But with all Landon’s years of summer league playing, once the tourney actually starts, (usually on a Saturday morning), you lose once and you’re done.

Landon in Las Vegas, July, 2018…

Shannon and I were landed on Thursday evening, so we missed a couple of their early pool play wins. His only game on Friday and our first to watch them play and they lost. That sucked. Thus, instead of being seeded first in their bracket and playing around noon, One Nation’s game would start at 8 a.m. And the high school was about half hour away. Just can’t get away from that crack of dawn wake up time. Appropriate for the city that never sleeps.

Terrible shot, but every road leading to Las Vegas has these iron cutout animals. I love them…

With 3 full days ahead of us in Vegas, and not a lot of time gobbled up with basketball, Shannon and I were trying to make tentative plans to fill the hours. We had hoped to see my niece (Shannon’s first cousin) and her family. But Wendy and Tom have lived in Nevada long enough to know spending much of their summer in Las Vegas is not conducive to their well being or all around good health. Hot damn! Exactly. It was just too hot to be outdoors. The extremes felt when exiting a casino, airport, gymnasium, car or restaurant sapped you immediately. It was impossible to catch your breath as the air you were sucking in was hotter than McDonald’s coffee. Take a few steps and your sandals melted right off. Along with your feet. And I’ve learned from experience, every single casino is way too cool. They certainly don’t want you getting drowsy and heading up to your room. Heck no, they don’t make and take your hard earned money that way. Keep it delightfully cool (I saw my breath a few times) and the folks will stay on the casino floor and keep giving up their money.

One of the entrances to The Venetian, looks like Italy…

So forget about enjoying the Strip for a few blocks. How about a show? One of the billboards were advertising the Donny and Marie Osmond Show. I thought Shannon would be thrilled. She grew up loving the duo and their variety show in the mid to late 70’s. (Cute little story about my brilliant pre-schooler back in the day). Shannon had the flu, diarrhea and was quite sick so I was taking her to our beloved pediatrician in Sioux City. As Dr. Stauch walked in, he said, “I hear you’re not feeling well Shannon. What’s wrong?” Precocious little twerp came right back with, “I have the donny-marie-a.” Doc laughed for 5 minutes, then had to apologize to Shannon because she wasn’t trying to be funny.

Shannon, no jokes allowed when she’s suffering from ‘donny-marie-a,’ 1973…

Nope, Shannon was no longer feeling the love for the Osmonds. She and Peyton had zip lined through downtown Las Vegas a couple of years ago, had a blast and she thought I might enjoy being literally scared to death. Let’s see, what exactly would that look like? Floating lazily through the air with temperatures hovering around 120. Trying to capture the city buzz while my face melts off. We decided it was just too hot to do anything outdoors.

The ceiling at The Venetian, Las Vegas, 2018…

Except for the Grand Canyon. It’s not that we didn’t believe in One Nation’s talent and ability. But with 48 teams, some who probably played together for several summers, we thought a game or 2 in on Saturday and we’d be knocked out. What better way to utilize the rental car than drive for 5 hours, spend a couple hours on the petrifying Skywalk and head back to Vegas?

Bright and early Saturday morning, One Nation’s squeaked out their first tournament victory against a Detroit team with a 2 point win. Landon played most of the game and had 11 points. Second game, late afternoon was easier and we won by 9. Landon scored 10. Too late now for a one way 5 hour trip, so the only way we could still visit the Grand Canyon was if One Nation lost early on Sunday. But we didn’t want them to lose. They were playing well as a team and looked as though they’d been playing together for a long time too. As with all his tournaments, you just get caught up and want them to do well. Pretty much let go of the notion that we’d be going any further out of Las Vegas than the next high school gym where One Nation was playing. Looks like we’re playing on Sunday!

All the gyms are air conditioned. Duh, it’s 120 outdoors…

Never crazy when Landon has to play at 8 am. High school boys in hotels results in little or no sleep. They look like hell in the morning. Haven’t eaten, or just had junk food, plus haven’t slept. But 8 am in Vegas is 11 am in Michigan, and they didn’t look too bad. Besides they’re very aware there’s only 8 teams left, and they’re one of them. They came out with golden arms. Won by 10, and our favorite hoopster had 24, including six layups and three, 3 pointers. A four hour break, another high school, another win in the semifinals.

The oddest thing occurred during this game. The gym wasn’t packed but there were probably 3 or 4 hundred watching, including some west coast coaches. All of a sudden at least 200 cell phones go off at the same time. With the same chirp. I immediately thought it had to be an Amber alert. Not so fast. It was a flash flood warning. No, I’m not kidding. Guess the 3 times a year they get rain, they don’t have anywhere to put it. And don’t know how to drive in it. Seems it doesn’t easily soak into the desert. By this time we were staying at this big Catholic high school because One Nation was headed for the finals in an hour. So we watched the wind whip the palm trees around, angry raindrops splat on the ground for 15 minutes and that was it. Major letdown from a midwestern gal, but they do things different in Vegas.

My wrist bands from Landon’s tournament called Fab 48…

Championship game was a good one. Lead changes several times. Landon was high scorer with 17, but we lost by 3 at the buzzer. So glad I went, so glad they kept winning. Whole weekend was really great, except for that relentless heat. I highly recommend staying at The Venetian. Reminded us both of Italy. Lots of marble, statues, even an outdoor gondola. Which was in danger of sinking since the water temperature was near boiling.

Team pic after winning semis. Actually happier than after they lost the championship, Landon # 23…

Restaurants were very good and we had lots of choices without leaving our mammoth structure. Very fancy shops, but we opted for a couple of high end outlet malls instead. Had a great time, good views of mountains from our room in the distance. Monday morning found us checking out, heading for the airport when we realized 2 things. We hadn’t gone to any shows and neither of us had dropped even a mere quarter in the slot machines. Like mother, like daughter…

I tend to view different ideas, changes of any kind, even introductions to new foods with some reluctance. Who am I trying to kid? I wrote a story not long ago about the first time Hubs took me to a Chinese restaurant. Had to be 35 years ago when we lived in Davenport. As he forcibly moved my feet towards the fancy entrance, I started to cry. Honest. Such a wuss. All because I didn’t want to experience a new food. Maybe reluctance is not quite the right word. Let’s go with-unwilling, hesitant, opposed, unenthusiastic, reserved or disinclined.

My sister-in-law Mary Jane, with her signature mega watt smile…

This whole fiasco is my sister-in-law’s fault. Oh, I’m gonna call her out on it too. Right here in bold type. (Sorry, I don’t know how to type bold). Rest assured, I’m pounding the keys much harder than necessary. MARY JANE VAN BERKUM. I do however, know how to ‘capitalize’ in a situation. Ha!

It was mid-February, 2017, our first trip to Yuma. Hubs and I were unwittingly mere pawns in her scheme of things. We were trying to accomplish 2 objectives in one big swoop. Get away for a short respite during Michigan’s worst weather during our 8 month season called winter. But not stay away too long so I wouldn’t miss very many basketball games of Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) sophomore season. Part of her mission was to see we were kept occupied with sight seeing, eating out, and learning about an area we knew absolutely nothing about. The desert. Our other objective was a health issue. I had a tooth that needed major repair, plus the rest of my mouth was in need of remodeling. It was ok. Mary Jane knew a guy.

This is the dentist dude Mary Jane recommended. He was terrific…

It was her job to cram as many new things into our boring existence. And do this in about 2 weeks. So besides working around some dental appointments in Los Algodones, Mexico, Mary Jane was unfettered in her planning. We were just along for the ride.

One of the places we toured that I haven’t mentioned in my 3 blogs about Yuma, (“The 3:10 to Yuma”, “To Kofa with Les”, and “It’s all about the Name”) was actually near Winterhaven, California. (Hard to find, hard to get there and so bumpy I was fearful of knocking out the new hardware in my mouth). But fascinating. Established when World War ll army guys were training in the desert. They started writing their names, made out of small rocks against the white sands of the desert. They called it, Graffiti Mesa, and the tradition has continued. And grown. This rather odd attraction now covers 1,200 acres. And the rocks have to be hauled in to boot.

The Valley of Names in the desert…

Not to be sidetracked and get all warm and fuzzy about our dedicated tour guides, so back to Mary Jane. Part of each day usually included setting for a spell at their winter-haven-home-away-from-home. A glass of wine, or her expertly concocted margaritas, a little down time to reconnect and just shoot the shit for a spell. And she added a bit of stealthy maneuvering before we went out to eat somewhere. New eats. Neese-don’t-do-new-eats. First let me be clear.

Such an odd sight in the middle of the desert, near Winterhaven Ca…

1. I’ve never really been a “cracker” girl. Hubs can eat crackers with different sliced cheeses and a hard as a brick salami he sends for via internet, every few days. He’ll make a good sized attractive plate with sliced chunk cheeses, a row of salami slices and oodles of crackers arranged neatly. Walk up to me like an offering plate, and I’ll politely take one or 2 crackers, one slice of cheese and one slice of meat. Done.

I prefer, “let’s eat cake…”

2. If offered a dessert tray with a dozen choices, anything with cream cheese-will be my last choice. I just prefer a slice of fruit or cream pie, cake, brownie, or torte to a piece of cheesecake.

Happy Birthday MJ…

3. I’m not into spicy foods. Don’t like ‘hot stuff’ though I like my food very hot. I know I’m odd. Doritos are about as spicy hot as I like to go.

Imagine my dismay when Mary Jane hauls out a gorgeous small platter consisting of an entire brick of cream cheese. Looking rather smushed, sadly resembling Iowa snow drifts during a blizzard. But wait! It gets worse. (Sorry Jane) On top of this white mountain is a startling sight. Bright green globs (I must say though, it did have great eye appeal). What, pray tell might this be? Jalapeño Jelly. You’ve got to be kidding me. Oh for cripes sake, just kill me now.

Gulp….

Now go back to the end of my first paragraph. There I was, reluctant, unwilling, hesitant, opposed, unenthusiastic, reserved and disinclined to even try it. Who in the world would eat Jalapeño Jelly? Valiantly trying not to be rude, I picked up my knife and a club cracker and wheedled a speck of cream cheese the size of celery seed and generously smeared it all over the cracker. Taking a deep breath, my knife shakily returns to the massive glob of greenery. I can do this. I am woman. Hear me roar. Or whimper. A tear or 2 might have fallen from my face which was now frozen in a grimace/smile (imagine Jack Nicholson’s face in the Shining or Heath Ledger as the Joker in The Dark Knight). I sniff, trying to stop my nose from running. Oddly, the odor smells remarkably tasty. WTH. Not so easily fooled, I manage to snag an iota of jalapeño jelly and forcibly will my hand to try and smother the cream cheese. Now I’m not really sure I can go through with this. Meanwhile, Mary Jane is clicking off a dozen sight seeing adventures that have been added to tomorrow’s agenda and seems not to notice my rendition of, I’m really, truly suffering here at the wailing wall.

Club cracker, cream cheese and jalapeño jelly. Absurd…

Biting off a minutely small crumb, my mouth explodes with tingly sweet spicy-ness. While the Jalapeño jelly is quite sweet, the cream cheese off centers it from tasting too sweet. The cracker part adds a bit of salty crunch. Goodness, I’ve discovered God’s favorite appetizers now served in heaven. Greedily, I glop on a silver dollar size of cream cheese which is now dwarfed by the Oreo Double Stuff sized placing of jalapeño jelly. No one seems to take notice that half of the platter is now missing, they’re busy deciding what time we need to meet up in the morning. I will not be among the tourists however. I am not leaving this table until there is not another smidge of jalapeño jelly left in this house.

And just that quick.

I. Am. Addicted.

It’s all Mary Jane’s fault.

After we return to Michigan and the reality of work and winter, my nights are filled with dreams of Jalapeño Jelly. I searched every grocery store, even bought a jar I spotted, but it didn’t taste the same at all. I have to go back to Yuma for some green stuff. Right now. Heck with my teeth, warm weather and relatives. Mary Jane buys it from a gal when she goes to a flea market in Yuma every winter. How can I afford a ton, plus shipping it to my house? Hubs calmly gives my shoulders a little shake. “Get a grip. Look up the freaking recipe and learn how to can it yourself. Duh. It’s what you do with everything else. You’ve got to get out from under this jelly’s spell. You cannot pine for an entire year about jelly.” Reality returned.

Yes it’s very possibly the best appetizer. Ever…

The recipe was foreboding. You have to use a food processor (I don’t own one) and as far as jellies and jams go, it’s made completely the opposite of any jelly I’ve ever made. I borrowed Shannon’s food processor, bought 2 dozen jalapeños, cider vinegar, liquid pectin (I prefer powdered, but this crazy recipe was adamant) sugar and green food coloring. That’s it.

The expression I wear before trying something new…

The nightmares have stopped. Had the Hubs buy a small locking safe, hidden somewhere safe and secure. My 2 dozen jar stash have calmed my fears and I’ve returned to my former somewhat normal existence. For now. God help me if I can’t one day find that little basket of fresh jalapeños in Meijer produce department. All bets are off…

Who knew what a powerful impact that super-blond kid with a lisp would continue to have on my life? I have not heard his lisp in almost 60 years. Yet six decades later, I relive, reminisce, grieve, smile and wonder what kind of life Larry would have had if he had been given the chance to grow up. How different all of our lives would have been but for that tragic Saturday morning in October. 

Larry, 4 in 1950…

Early on, we were best buds. I’m sure we must have fought at times, but for the life of me I cannot remember one time in our short life together when he was mean to me. I was his pain in the ass little sister, trying valiantly to keep up with him. He was four and a half years older than me and had the run of the small town by the time he was 10. Pigeon hunting, shooting rats at the dump with his B-B gun, swimming at the pit, playing marbles, baseball (he was a lefty), riding his Schwinn bike everywhere. I could do none of these things because I was too little. But he always found time to play with me. We played together a lot before we moved to the epicenter of our little town in 1955. He was younger then, there weren’t nearly as many boys his age and the neighborhood was sparse. 

Little Neese in my playhouse in 1954. Before Mom cut my pigtails off…

No, we weren’t the all American family. I don’t think we had much money, and our parents were not very close. There’s always been conflicting perspectives about our family life before (and after) we lost Larry. My sister has a whole different slant on our upbringing than I remember. Although I never remember Mom and Dad being very romantic around each other, Mona claims both mom and dad were mean to her. They were not mean to me. I remember us being a rather happy family, she does not. 

Larry, about 7…

Larry had the best personality in our family. He got the whole enchilada. I managed to snag about half a tacos worth. He was easy going, good natured and well liked. I was a spoiled brat and Mona had issues. But Larry turned out just right. He was close to both Mom and Dad during his short tenure on earth. There’s just not much in the negative department when talking about my big brother. I adored him. 

1951, Larry, me and Mona…

So how is it that after nearly 60 years, I still think about him everyday? I was not quite 8 when the world we knew turned sour. Hard for an already fragile family to hold it together when delivered such a devastating blow. Larry was hit by a car while riding to our grandparents on my bike, which he had borrowed (but promised to give me a dime for using it because it had the basket he needed). Larry was 12. He was killed instantly. Nothing can take away that pain. It’s eased up but has never gone away. I guess I don’t want it to at this juncture in my life. 

Larry, what a total doll, 1950…

Larry was born 72 years ago today. That doesn’t seem possible. Seems like yesterday, we were living on the west side of Rock Valley. Life was good, we enjoyed endless summer days in the play house dad had just finished building. What I wouldn’t give to just have a couple of those days back. Two days. Heck, I’d be happy with 2 hours. 

About a year before he died. Mona 14, Larry, 11, me 6…

Each passing day brings a family reunion closer. While I’m anxious to see him, I’m content with looking to the future til we meet again. There’s grandchildren in my life who I need to love/watch/enjoy/grow up. 

Larry 4-1/2 watching his newborn little sister, me, 1951…

Happy Birthday Larry. Love you to the moon and back…

Larry’s last school picture…

Sigh. I’m having some issues and thought maybe if I wrote about it, I’d be able to process it better. To be clear, I love working, get along well with my coworkers, and absolutely adore the babies. But there’s been a storm a-brewing. Change. Grrr. I hate it. But here are some reasons why I’m opposed to this particular change.

Only inappropriate 0 to 30 picture I could find. Just ignore the guns, must be from a video game. Don’t get me started…

First, I believe anyone can find a research study, thesis paper from some grad student, doctor or therapist. A new pilot program, or helpful book to solidify what you’re trying to push to achieve your agenda about almost anything. At first glance when I saw the topic heading, zero to 30, a name popped into my head. As I read the 3 page article I was convinced the face belonging to the name was the reason the article showed up in our infant room in the first place.

I am low man on the totem pole at work. No, probably even lower than that. I’m ok with that. When there are discussions about changes in procedures or policy, my opinions are not sought out or included. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, I do and they’re often strong. (Which could well be the reason I’m never there when this kind of shit comes up).

Shannon, age 30 months in 1973. See how big they are…

I’m a worker bee/drone, content with my job. My opinions don’t matter in dealing with how the daycare/school is run. I’m part time, which usually includes a day off during the week. Thus the 25 hours I spend there each week is of no importance. (Except to my babies). I believe they (the higher ups, not the babies) appreciate my work ethic (I’ve never called in sick, never been late, though I do take time off) and most can clearly see how devoted I am to the babies I care for. But as for policy and procedures or any changes that might occur, I am invisible. But not mute. Or unable to type out her frustrations.

So this research paper/study thingy strongly suggests an alternative to the way our daycare is run. The study believes once a baby is acclimated in our room, they should remain there until puberty. I jest. It’s just my sarcasm rearing it’s ugly head at my frustration. The study believes the baby should remain with the same set of caregivers for 30 months. Two and a half years. Very long years. So the kids are not traumatized by moving to another room with different caregivers. Oh please. I got some red flags here.

Joshua at 2-1/2. How adorable, but not what I signed up for at work…

1. No one is ever going to get rich working at a daycare. (People working at Dairy Queen make more than I do. Scooping ice cream. While I care, nurture and entertain our most important commodity/asset/gift from God on the planet. Think about that for a minute). Working here is either a stepping stone while you get a degree, a second vocation after you’ve retired from teaching, or a retired grandma like me who has hours to fill doing something worthwhile, like helping care for and raise incredible babies. Very few women aged 25 to 50 have sought to work here as their career. At least those I’ve seen in two and a half years. But I don’t get out much.

2. We have quite a turnover rate. Since our staff picture was taken in April probably 10 people have moved on. Our staff boasts maybe 30 plus. (Our infant room has been one of the exceptions however. Four of us have been together almost 2 years (me, the no-opinion-sought-after-worker-bee the longest) with one new lead teacher starting a few weeks ago).

Adam in 1981. Look at that gorgeous blond hair…

3. Our room is not conducive to adding/keeping toddlers. Toddlers sleep on cots, (Why, I do not know. My kids each stayed in their cribs until they were dry through the night, which was about 2-1/2. State licensing for daycare requires those under 3 to have their own crib OR cot. Love reading those rules, yes I do) we have 12 cribs. Toddlers eat at low tables, we have 4 low high chairs. Our kitchen area needs to be cordoned off because we have exposed cupboards. Scissors, glue, office supplies, changing station, waste paper, diaper pail, dishes, snacks are too easily accessible with only elephant print cloth and spring loaded curtain rods keeping curious crawlers, walkers at bay.

4. We already have the room divided into 2 sections because our tiny ones can’t be in the same area as our movers and shakers group. One group is too rambunctious, other group too fragile. And we’re still trying to remedy the discrepancy in the section for our non-mobile unit. It’s just too small for 5 babies, toys, rocker, plus a couple bouncy seats.

Ariana almost 2. My, my love those thighs, but not to carry around much these days…

5. If we keep kids past, say 15 months, we need a plethora of different sensory, climb on, ride on, chew on, push toys. We’re already crowded.

6. Potty training. The Ones room have their own kid sized bathroom. Aww. Each toddler is taken to the bathroom (getting used to the concept of sitting on the potty) everyday. We would have to go outside our room and use the school hallway bathroom which has regular sized fixtures. Or put in a new bathroom in our room. Ha.

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) at 2. My favorite hoopster…

7. If an individual is traumatized after they move to a different room-it’s usually THE PARENTS. We move our children slowly. A few hours a week for several weeks. Now the parents-they get used to seeing/chatting with the same gals. I truly believe it’s harder for them to get used to a new set of caregivers than the child we just moved. I recently ran into a mom and her little boy, almost 2, who moved to the Ones in January when he was 14 months. (None of us wanted him to move-a fabulous little guy. For the most part, we’re reluctant to give up any our babies to another room. We truly love them. But. We watch them grow increasingly bored with our toys and limits on what our room is able to offer. We are the infant room, geared towards INFANTS. The 15 month olds are toddlers and need a different set of stimulating toys/activities than we have). Anyway as we were talking, mom gushed how much he’s enjoying the “Ones” room, but how hard it was for her to get used to new gals and the move. Then again we are that good in infants.

8. Jovi. My own great granddaughter was in my room for a year. Was it traumatic when she made the move? Not very. The hardest part is in the morning when they’re dropped off. Especially for little ones who come in a bit later. I think there’s a definite advantage to the babies/kids who come early. Before it’s gets hectic. We read stories, sing, each one gets held as they adjust to the busy room. Same goes for the Ones room. With only 2 or 3 kids when Jovi arrives, she gets a lot of attention adjusting before the room has a dozen toddlers.

My pretty ballerina, Peyton at 2….

9. I don’t think there was enough time or discussion given to determine this change (even though I was not included) and the huge impact it might cause. I assumed it was food for thought and it would be 6 months in the making at least. Suddenly, bang a done deal. Now this part is touchy. The “Ones” got a baby. And the worker who came back from maternity leave. (Going back to the face that popped in my head as I was reading the research paper). Now part of their room is partitioned off because those busy, active, noisy toddlers can’t be with the tiny one. One baby. Who should be in our room. WTH.

Asinine. Our system of yearly classrooms, under ones, one year to two, two to three’s works fine. We’re the infant room. We have babies. We already have one room for infants, newborn to 12 or 15 months. When the ‘baby’ starts walking and acting like a toddler (just being honest here. If you’re a parent of a well adjusted toddler you know by now they start talking, running, climbing and helping. But they can also bite, pull hair, throw tantrums and scream bloody murder). Part of their learning process of independence, pushing boundaries, who the leaders and followers are. If this mom and baby are the major reason for the change in our daycare, why not just say, “hey, we’re making an exception in the room for a worker mom and her baby?” I’m ok with that. But don’t change everything just to accomodate one individual.

The youngest paleontologist, Graham in 2011 about 2…

Surprisingly, besides feeling we’re in over our heads sometimes and a bit overwhelmed when some of the bigger kids start fighting and screaming about a toy that will be dropped and forgotten in 30 seconds flat, if that, there have been some awesome moments. This week one of our darling 14 months old boy was standing near the kitchen, seeking asylum. Actually he was hinting about breakfast. I said, “are you hungry? What do we do before breakfast? We have to wash our hands, right? It just takes a minute.” He came in, walked right past the high chairs, stopped next to the sink, turned towards me and lifted up his arms for me to pick him up, and plop him on the counter to wash his hands. WHAT? I was flabbergasted. Guess I never worded it that way to him before. He understood and was following my directions. Wow. Incredible. To see if had been a fluke or not (he’s very bright, but all of our babies are) I repeated the same thing to the next 2 kids from The Breakfast Club. Both of them walked right up to the sink. The last of our group is not walking yet, but she clearly understood what I was saying.

I thought when I started working in the infant room, (which I had requested because of my hearing loss), I’m gonna love the littlest ones the most. The younger the better. But that hasn’t been the case. I’ve been more drawn to the 7-14 months old. Pretty much once they can sit up. The goofier I am (wearing hats, or a clean wash cloth on my head is somehow mesmerizing. Marching around the room, singing songs about the banners on the wall, or singing old commercial jingles while they eat, you’d think they’d lose their appetite, but none have. Every week they fall for the same, lame veiled threat I impose. “It’s dental hygiene week, we all have to brush our teeth this morning for 90 seconds. The clock is ticking.” No one has ever said, “hey, you said the same thing last week.” They appreciate my singing and are much too polite to inform me I’m unable to carry a tune. God bless them.

Jovi 18 months, just because. Our room could keep her another year…

I just don’t know if I’m up for the task. Or if I want to be. I was hired for the infant room. I’m deaf and see all kinds of issues trying to navigate through toddlers first soft words. I rarely understand any of the older sibs who tag along when bringing in their baby brother or sister in our room. Two year olds weigh a lot more than an infant. Especially a 2 year old in the throes of a meltdown. I’m old. I have Meniere’s Disease which affects the fluid in my inner ear, thus my balance. I’ve been through enough temper tantrums to fully appreciate not hearing, witnessing, or dealing with them very often anymore. Now let me put this on the back burner to simmer for a bit while I ponder. Thanks for letting me vent…

A few years after we moved to Michigan, I was given a gift from my good friend and neighbor. Diane has exquisite taste, and has always been someone who truly tries to find the ‘perfect’ gift for people in her life. No simple gift card and Happy Birthday wish in an email or posted on Facebook from her. She takes her time picking out the right card. Puts so much effort in all she does. From landscaping, to sewing, to decorating her house, there’s always a little extra pizazz with her.

My corn candy Longaberger basket. A gift from Diane…

The gift? A small, darling basket shaped like a Brach’s piece of corn candy. (By then she knew me well enough to know I was addicted to corn candy). The cloth lining of basket was patterned corn candy. So I’ve had this basket over 20 years. Normally I’d say, each fall when the stores put out stuff for Halloween, but stores no longer run a ‘real’ calendar year anymore. Swimsuits are out in January, gruesome winter coats will be hanging on circular racks while the temperatures are still hovering in the 90’s. (Yes, the world has gone mad). Rest assured, Brach’s (it must be Brach’s for corn candy and circus peanuts. I have high standards with the empty calories in my life) corn candy will be out with the back-to-school-specials in July.

Napkin Longaberger basket and basket of notepads of vital importance…

And just like that, I was hooked on Longaberger Baskets. Diane’s house was chuck full of carefully placed, crafty, seasonal Longaberger baskets. But all looking super casual, warm and inviting. How come I could never pull this off? She just has a knack for this kind of shit. I fill my corn candy basket with-duh-corn candy and slap it on an old ecru doily. Diane takes a 3 foot Longaberger wrought iron Santa, fills it with a baskets of assorted pine cones, another with Christmas decorations and the third graduated sized opening with handmade bows of every Christmas color and pattern ribbon known to mankind. Makes me tired to walk into her house. I can slap my Christmas tree up in a couple hours and call it good. It takes Diane a week to decorate her house. And boy does it show. But enough on my inadequacies and her super hero decorating abilities. Suffice it to say, Diane got me hooked on Annalee’s (hard to describe, they are wool felt animals and people who look very strange), Longaberger Baskets, Lennox, and canning in general. It’s her recipe I use for Bread & Butter Pickles.

This is an Annalee. Quirky, I have many for holidays. Family hates them…

Back to those stinking baskets. They were pricey things and I couldn’t buy one very often, but buy them I did. A picnic basket (I’ve never, ever used it as such), a covered basket that holds 2 pies because you just never know when I need to bring 2 pies somewhere. A recipe box (my favorite and crammed full), tiny baskets to hold ink pens, flat baskets to hold magazines. It just ever ends. I’d say I have at least 20. Sitting around on the floor, counter or on antiques. Some holding absolutely nothing and of no good use whatsoever.

Relegated to the basement. Each holds absolutely nothing…

During the height of my frenzied collecting, Shannon bought into the whole Longaberger pyramid scheme right along with me. By this time we were living in North Muskegon. Lo and behold, there were Longaberger dealers all over town. Oh for cripe’s sake. My dealer was Mary, a friendly, outgoing super saleswoman. A couple times a year Mary would host an open house with soups, dips, chips, recipes, retired baskets that you couldn’t get anywhere on the black market. Oh for the love of pete. Now the Longaberger family was no longer content with just baskets either. They saw dollar signs and fleshed out their business. Cha-Ching. Next on their agenda was a line of pottery dishes, linens, packaged foods and dips which just required a couple of additional ingredients. This was an enormous-growing-thriving-making-money-hand-over fist-business. And I was just doing my share. I am here to help capitalism. Sigh. It would take me a long time to finally stop the majority of gathering more shit that I had a place to put it. I’m much more conscious of the choices I make when buying something that I really don’t need now. Also a lot older and realize I don’t need more ‘stuff’ in my life, nor do I have the room. Or money, frankly.

Even worse, down with my canning equipment. Lacking counter space-seriously…

Must be about 15 years ago because Landon was on the scene but Peyton was not. I’m going to blame Shannon for this huge snafu in our lives since I’m doing the writing. I think we both regularly received Longaberger sale flyers and tidbit updates on the entire Longaberger family. One of these brochures offered a bus trip to Dresden, Ohio. Why might you wonder? To be enlightened by all things Longaberger. For an entire weekend. Be still my heart. Shannon asked if I’d be interested in going on the trip with her? It sounded like fun. Giddy we were, I tell you. Breakfast was served on the bus-in our own Longaberger basket. To keep forever. Two cozy nights in a nice hotel, a jaunt into the nearby town where all businesses were out to make money off the Longaberger name. None of the local businesses were allowed to sell baskets, but they all had knock-off liners, trims etc.

Three highlights of the weekend were LUNCH WITH TAMI. Yes, the real Tami (flesh and blood daughter of Dave) Longaberger. For an extra 25 bucks per plate, we could dine with Tami, utilizing all of the grandest Longaberger pottery dinnerware. Heck, who could say no to that? (Lambs to the slaughter). Another highlight was a Saturday night auction where if we had enough money, we could bid on certain baskets available NO WHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD. Lordy. The third was a trip to the actual factory. For a mere 25 bucks, we could pick out one of several basket patterns, make one ourselves (with help from a worker earning overtime for working on Saturday) and put our own spin on the color stain we chose, liner and trim package. It was more time consuming deciding these options than the time I spent picking out my new Jeep.

My favorite and often used recipe basket…

We filled out the pertinent information application, sent in our checks-and just like that we became part of a cult. (Similar to Jim Jones and his Kool-aid family). First our bus-mates. Deranged lot. For some of them, this was their 8th, 9th or 10th year in a ROW trucking down to Dresden for the weekend. Doing the same shit every time. Huh? Shannon and I were bored, befuddled, confused, and a little scared before we hit Ohio. We did so many eye rolls to each other during that miserable weekend, for the following two weeks only the whites of our eyes were visible.

Probably the scariest or spookiest moment of the weekend came as we were hopping off the bus at the factory to make our own basket. First a word about the factory. The building was designed in the likeness of the medium Market Basket. I. Kid. You. Not. Seven stories tall, 180,000 square feet building that looked exactly like a basket.

No I’m not kidding. This is the Longaberger factory…

Anyway we’re all shuffling along in a long line (I think there were 2 freaking bus loads of folks from West Michigan that weekend-and most chose to make their own personal basket to bring home-us included). We’re pretty far back in the line to the front door when suddenly the line just stops. This resembled a comedy sketch. One of the tour guides stopped the line, so every person got rear ended. Why? Because there were a set of shoe prints in the cement that required our undivided attention. These had been the feet (in the shoes) of Dave Longaberger. The founder of Longaberger Baskets. Bowed heads, a quick biography of the dude who started it all and a moment of silence. I believe I snickered. Shannon poked me, then she chuckled. We both bit our lips hard enough to draw blood. Between the 2 of us we were about one cackle from being hauled to jail. Blasphemy.

We tried. We really did. But neither of us ever bought into the sacredness of the whole Longaberger holiness thing. They’re just baskets. Yes, very nice, but pricey and not practical. We tried not to offend anyone who was ga-ga about what they were experiencing (Dave’s shoe prints in cement!) for the weekend, whether it was their first or 15th trip. But neither Shannon nor I were about to drink from that odd shaped basket pitcher of Kool aid that weekend or ever after. Out of the 100 or so in our group (we were not the only group tour that weekend either. There were several more groups which is probably why I never got to personally talk with Tami at my cozy lunch with her, which numbered about 250 people that day). An odd weekend to say the least, but something Shannon and I still talk and laugh about on occasion. Then we quickly look over our shoulders to make sure no one’s overhead us. It left an impression for sure. Most of the cult worshippers were just so serious. We noticed we were being scrutinized and judged on our lack of sincerity. By the time the bus was leaving for home on Sunday, we were virtually outcasts. Shunned. On the outside looking in. But not too close-cause most of them were some kind of crazy basket cases…

Yeah, I put my phone in this basket when I’m in the bedroom….

In all probability this will not resonate with any other human on earth because I am a strange duck. But I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern of my life for the last 20 years. I take that back. This tale really began in 1990. I’ve written about it before but never actually put two and two together until my most recent relapse. Sigh. Here goes.

A familiar warning sign I always fail to heed…

If you’ve not read my story titled, “May 5, 1990,” here’s a quick refresher. After a life long smoking addiction, Hubs and I stopped smoking. Cold turkey. Something we’d failed to accomplish several times before. But May 5, 1990 was the day we really did it. Suddenly everything smelled and tasted much better. There were some nasty side effects, insomnia, and the inability to be civil to one another for about 4 months. They both eventually faded and we were finally non-smokers. But once the cigarettes were gone, great tasting food pushed its way to the forefront of our lives. We lived to eat. Period. After a couple years of adding 40 pounds to my already sloppy frame, we moved across the state. I knew no one, Adam was in high school, so I got a job at McDonald’s. I worked hard, I really did. Who knew for all that hard work, I could not eat Mickey D’s everyday and maintain my already portly frame? Well shit.

Breakfast this weekend. One of my favorites. OK, I have too many faves…

There are women with large frames who look fantastic. But I don’t have a large frame and I don’t wear extra weight well. There’s just no other way to explain it. I’ve got a skinny neck (all chickeny skin now), not very much in the chest department and pretty good calves and ankles. But it’s the part above the knees and below the boobs where all my tubbiness is carried. Trust me, it’s very unattractive. I don’t feel good when I’m fat. I look even worse. And I really hate buying super size clothing. Detest it. But there I was wearing XX large tops with size 20 pants. Disgusting. Tipping the scales around 220. Hard to even write.

Yup, that’s me on “I’m gonna start my diet on Monday.”

A health issue in 1998 scared us into making some serious changes (I was 47) to our eating habits. Over the course of 8 months I lost about 75 pounds. Within 20 pounds of my high school weight and was halfway toned because I was doing some serious walking everyday. I felt fantastic. Energy level was in the stratosphere. There’s a strange phenomenon which occurs once you start a diet. While no one besides John noticed a difference in my appearance until I lost over 40 pounds, I could see and feel it. That’s when your willpower magically appears and grows substantially. I was losing about 2 pounds a week which is about the recommended amount to lose. But with every pound lost, my will power surged. Still, anyone who says going on a diet is the hardest/worst thing ever is a freaking nutcase. Dieting becomes easier with every ounce you lose as you’re doing it. But maintaining that weight loss is nigh onto impossible. Don’t let any fool tell you different. They lie. All big, fat liars. OK maybe not fat liars, but they lie. Like a rug.

About my heaviest, can’t find the really disgusting picture. Dang…

The first real test is when you’re done losing and want to maintain that weight. You gotta add some calories or you’re gonna continue to lose. But how many? I lost about 10 pounds trying to figure out the right holding pattern. You also want to get back on the merry-go-round called life. That means allowing yourself an ‘occasional’ dessert or slice of birthday cake. You know how hard occasional is? But then a family party and a couple of special lunches out with friends finds you have gained 3 pounds in a few days. Not to worry because your smaller, cute clothes you’ve been wearing for almost 2 years still fit and look ok.

For several years I was too thin. Why can’t I just stay between thin and fat?

There’s a fine line with body image and weight I struggle with. One of them is something I read in a newspaper article on dieting 20 years ago. A simple sentence I’ve never forgotten. “Nothing tastes as good as being thin.” (Honestly, they’ve never had McDonald’s fries, just out of the fryer, doused in Heinz? Exactly what planet are they from?) On the other hand is the FB meme which says, “life is too short. Eat the cake, take the vacation, spend your hard earned money.” Ok, I’ll skip the vacation, do my best to save money and not splurge on foolish stuff. BUT I WANT TO EAT MY CAKE WITHOUT GAINING WEIGHT! Is that too much to ask? In my case, I guess it is. Well shit.

It happens so subtlety you barely notice. We’re out eating, but instead of eating half my Reuben, I scarf a couple extra bites off the second half I was planning on taking home. Instead of eating a dozen French fries, then pushing the rest away, I leave a measly 6 on my plate. Instead of eating half of my meal, then stopping for ONE minute to see if I now feel satisfied, I continue to eat until I’m uncomfortably full. When I fall into this weird eating frenzy, (this isn’t like a Great White feeding frenzy. Mine usually last for months. Or years), I am slow to decipher what’s going on. But deep down in my head I’ve recognized all the tell-tale signs).

Packing on the pounds-again, 2014…

And this happens to me over and over. About 2 years after dieting and maintaining, the slow, steady pound climb upwards begins. Again. Since losing 75 pounds in ‘98, I believe this is yo-yo weight gain number 5. It’s similar to the cicadas, staying underground for a number of years, suddenly they resurface. My least favorite fat pounds start making a comeback. Those extra pounds want comfort too. They come right back to their old familiar stomping ground. My belly, hips and upper legs. The small roll above the waist of my capris turns into the size of an inner tube worn by a child before they jump into the pool. (Mine does not help me float, or look remotely cute). Face it, saddlebags should only be worn by horses, and a muffin top is something we enjoy eating, not wearing around our middle.

About a year after dropping 75 unwanted fat. But it keeps following me back home…

I show signs of panic after a weight gain equaling that of a one year old has taken residence on my widening frame. I’ve never gotten close to my original fatness before the diet of ‘98. So far I’ve managed to just yo-yo the last 30 pounds over and over. Fifty pounds of my original weight loss have been kept at bay. So far. But still, it’s disheartening. What happens to slowly change my eating habits over and over every few years? I don’t really change what I eat as how much I eat. My portion size changes. And I forget when to stop. When I feel uncomfortable because I’ve eaten too much, what happens to the trigger that stopped me for the previous 2 years? Why can’t I continue to be trigger happy?

Before the ugly 9 made their appearance…

My last diet was 2 years ago. Do you see a pattern? Yup, it’s just started. I’m up 9 pounds in about as many months. Clothes still fit, but they’re getting snug. Ugh. I desperately want to stop this weight gain from going to the next level (which would include buying new clothes-a size bigger) from a hefty newborn to the size of a one year old. I don’t know if it’s because something’s not right in the life of Neese, or I just love food. And really like to eat. A lot. I want to look decent and feel good about myself. That won’t be the case of this spiral continues. Maybe I need to explore what’s eating Neese instead of what Neese is eating. If only I knew of a good therapist…

I’ll be the first to admit at times I feel sorry for myself. The last couple decades it’s been about my hearing. Or lack of it I guess. 99% of the time it’s because I assume. Too quickly. I misjudge what’s been said. (In my defense this is usually done by someone behind my back-literally! I didn’t catch what was said to me because it’s all mumble-jumble when the person is not facing me. And I always answer wrong or say something totally inappropriate, trying to guess what was aimed for my ears-and missed rather miserably). 

I do feel sorry for myself at times. Lame I know, trying to change my ways…

When this happens, the person frequently repeats their comment. Often times quite fast. If I still don’t understand or look at them with a huge blank stare (that’s where the ‘duh’ from Duh-Neese comes in) on my face, I can see their patience has run its course. They turn away with a ‘never mind’ and I’m excluded. Whether it was important or not. At first I feel a hot flash of anger, which quickly turns into unworthiness. For this particular conversation, joke, or comment, I’m simply not worth the effort. Holy shit, you can’t believe how bad this makes me feel. Thin skinned I guess. Like I can help my deafness. Think I asked for this? Not hardly. When I start feeling negative about myself, God always comes through for me. With a gentle slap to the side of my head. A wake up call. To give my life perspective. Again. 

I’ll just call her ‘Sue’. We met 20 years ago through a mutual acquaintance. A few years older than me, she sure didn’t look or act it. Slim, blond, athletic and smart as a whip. A college graduate with a money-business-stuff-degree. We saw each other socially occasionally, but Sue lived in another city, so our friendship was sporadic, but endured. 

I began to notice a slight difference when Sue moved closer and we spent more time together. She just didn’t seem as sharp. It was harder for her to find the right word when we were conversing. Or she asked me the same question within a short time frame. She was retired but still actively played sports, held volunteer positions of importance. But something just wasn’t right. She had a couple of silly fender benders and seemed to have an awful lot of doctor appointments. 

Then we moved to Jackson 2-1/2 years ago, and I was no longer in Sue’s circle. Caught up with fixing our new little crib, plus getting my fabulous part time job, I completely dropped the ball. Saw less of Sue’s posts on Facebook and she never emailed me anymore. Or responded to me when I wished her a happy birthday. Called her a few months ago when I was in the area, but the conversation was disjointed. Wasn’t surprised to hear she’d been in another car accident, had been hurt but doing ok. She had company staying with her, so we made no plans to get together. But in the back of my mind, I knew something was very wrong. And that feeling never went away. I’ve thought of Sue a lot and made the decision to stop and see how she was doing the next time I was in town-with or without a phone call first.

And then along comes God with that gentle slap along side my head, acutely minimizing my silly disability. Stupid hearing loss. Pffft. Nothing. At all. Not a blip on the radar screen. Inconsequential. I figure it’s been about 2 years since I’ve seen Sue-face-to-face. You could have knocked me over with a feather after I rapped on her door. Stooped over, shuffling slowly towards the door, my heart just sank. Tears formed and I swallowed several times. I hope to God I recovered quickly. Can’t say for sure she knew my name, but there was a flicker of recognition on her beautiful face. “Hi Sue, I hope you remember me, it’s Denise.” “Sure. Sure I do, come in.” 

Miscellaneous small piles of “stuff” were scattered throughout her lovely home. Pictures with and without frames, recent mail just waiting to be put somewhere else. She’d had some work done on the house since I’d last been there and I complimented her great choices on the decor. Her home looked fabulous. I asked her how she was doing, and she said simply, “I don’t even know where to start. It’s such a mess. I feel like I’m in a prison.” I grasped her hand, pulled her to me and gave her a hug, which felt kind of lame. This must be hell on earth. Sue’s own hell on earth. I can’t even imagine. Holy cripes.

From our short visit, I believe Sue is on a huge precipice. She still fully realizes what’s going on with her mental and physical health and knows it’s down hill from here. Hell. She told me she has a guardian who takes care of all her finances. She no longer drives (which didn’t seem to bother her very much but really surprised me) and has several caregivers who attend to her needs and take her to her various appointments. (If I were still around I’d certainly bring her supper a couple times a week and take her for a ride). It gives me a lump every time I think of this savvy businesswoman reduced to this in the prime of her life. Hell.

I told Sue about a story I wrote, highlighting our mutual friend when I first started blogging. She asked me if I would read it to her? She no longer uses her computer. I found the post and read it to her. She nodded several times and smiled. Looked at the pictures and asked where I found them? After I was done reading, she asked if I could send her the story? I sent it to her via message. I was showing her how to find the story on her phone when I noticed she had 6,000 plus emails in her inbox. Over 6,000. Yikes. She’s never noticed. I suggested she ask one of her helpers to get rid of a few thousand of them for her. Don’t know if she’ll remember when they come back though. 

For me, our visit was gut wrenching. I wonder how Sue felt or if my visit bothered her? Sure hope not. She asked me to come back. I keep going over everything we talked about. I’m just sick about what’s happening to her. Hell. Sometimes it takes something significant in your life to serve as a wake up call. This was mine. How very fragile and fleeting good health is (along with piss-poor hearing, annoying at best). How lucky and blessed I really am. And I need to be more grateful, thankful and appreciate what God has given me. I’m gonna try to let those who choose to exclude me from a silly conversation after the fourth try sluice off me like water off a duck. Get thicker skin. Try and curb the negative feelings that accompany those minor details in my life. I have been blessed far more than I deserve. It’s been humbling but exhilarating to realize how very happy my life is. God is good. My blessings keep adding up. I’m still counting. Thanks God…

Words to hold dear…

I love rules! Doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow every one, but as a rule, I love them. Structure. Written documentation. In black & white. Waiting for my ever ready highlight marker. Helps me memorize the rules I deem important enough for instant recall. Where would we be without rules? 

These rules should be required in every little league park in the US. Just substitute your favorite professional team…

The babies. Right now we have 10 full time and 4 part time kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 months. Don’t let that small 12 month gap fool you. It’s HUGE during the first year of a baby’s life. HUGE. The part-timers come on different days, but overlap on 2 days, giving us 13 babies for two days. Well guess what? That’s against the rules. I won’t state all the licensing code numbers every time I mention a rule because I don’t have them memorized. Yet. When our baby numbers exceed the rules, someone’s gotta go to the next room (ages range from about 1-1/2 to 2-1/2) for the day. It’s usually the oldest child we have who’ll be moving there anyway. They might fuss and sputter a bit initially. Different caregivers, different toddler faces, but it’s not long and soon they don’t want to come back to our room and we’re forgotten. 

Neat little rule that strangely applies to me…

We have an odd age assortment right now, because there’s almost no in-between babies (only one). They’re either 5 months or younger, or 10 months and older. Doesn’t sound like much difference, but you can’t actually have the little ones with the bigger ones yet. One age group is too helpless, the other too curious (about the too helpless ones).

Rules I try to follow for writing…

Another one of the state’s too-numerous-to-count-rules strongly suggests fresh air for all children in daycare. Pretty much any day there’s not a downpour, blizzard, above 90 or a windchill below 20 above. Right. Trying to time this in between bottles, solid foods, diapers, and naps requires a degree in PHD-dom. Invariably, one or 2 children can’t go outdoors for some reason, antibiotics or allergies. At any given time during the day, one or 2 will be sleeping or need to be fed, which usually means about 8 at a time go outdoors leaving me with 4 in our room. 

Another set I’m working on…

One beautiful afternoon recently (a 13 count day, so one of ours was visiting the one year old classroom for the day) Michelle and Marty lugged in 2 dainty strollers. I swear one of our strollers is the size of a railroad car. Bright red and white with shoulder harnesses and hold 6 kids! The other one is just a 2-banger. As soon as the door opens and the babies spot the strollers, all the one year olds walk, crawl, amble, lumber or scoot as fast as their chubby legs will carry them, squealing with delight. (Most everyone wants to go bye-bye. Even on bad weather days when walking our hallways is the only option, the kids are excited. Heck, everyone who encounters a red and white striped stroller loaded with adorable little people goes ga-ga over our babies). My stay-in crew of 4 consisted of 2 four month olds and 2 one year olds. 

One tiny tot was sleeping, one needed to be fed and the 2 big kids were making the rounds, destroying the room (it’s ok really, it’s their job). The amount of time spent outside depends, on average about 20 minutes to a half hour. Not including, slathering them all with Sunscreen, making sure all diapers are changed, finding hats, pacifiers, jackets, shoes, plus getting them all harnessed in and out of the strollers. A time consuming challenge. Before and especially after. 

A good set to reflect on occasionally…

So I was at the halfway mark of going solo. The sleeping baby woke and was sitting near me, watching the one year olds cruising from one shelf to the next, freeing every toy from it. They’re actually experts in this department. The fourth baby was ready for her bottle when a dad of one of our babies walked in. I said hi, he’s outside right now. Wasn’t why he was here, just bringing his son some extra food. He left and a couple minutes later the recess crowd started coming back in. And they were not full of unbridled joy. Weirdest thing. Happy as a pig in mud one minute and deflated, defeated, hot, cranky, hungry, and angry the next. I didn’t realize how closely the babies keep track of our big board. Big board has everyone’s individual name, next diaper change and most importantly, next bottle or food time written on it. Glancing at it, then at the clock they start by screwing up their little faces, going into a scowl that’s almost cute. For about 2 seconds. “Hey there slacker worker, I’m now 20 minutes late for my snack/bottle/diaper. What gives? Don’t think you can just rock your way out of this one. I. Am. Ticked. Tired. Hungry. And you’re gonna hear about it.” 

I. Love. This. One. It’s so me…

I can only remember one other time during my 2-1/2 years in the infant room that rivaled the next 20 minutes. Chaos ensued. (Think: the riots of the late ‘60’s). It started as a lulling crescendo into a category 5 hurricane in less than 2 minutes. I was in the baby section with 4 little ones, feeding one of them. The other 3 were complaining. But holy man, in the play area of the big section of our room was a virtual unison chorus of 8 unhappy voices demanding their needs be met. Me first. Food, diapers, naps all needed immediately. Can’t remember that many of our babies crying at the same time. Suddenly the adjoining door opens and I think, thank you God, someone’s coming into help for 15 minutes. Au contraire. Instead a voice politely asks, “can you take back Owen?” (Are you kidding me?) “No, we still have 12.” “But we just saw one of your dads park his truck.” (You watch the parking lot? Really?) “He was just bringing in some bottles,” I said as pleasantly as I could muster. Click went the door to their room. Over the roar I glanced at Marty and Michelle with a ‘can you believe what just happened?’ I totally thought they were gonna take one or 2 of our kids for a few minutes, not ask us to take another one in this chaotic environment. Oh well. 

Wasn’t but 15 minutes later when soggy diapers had been changed, a couple of tiny ones were sound asleep in their cribs, 3 bigger kids were in high chairs, happily and hungrily munching on their snacks, drinking greedily from their sippy cups. Ah, peace was restored. (Peace might be a slight stretch, but there are times when our room is pretty quiet. And yes, those 23 second increments, once or twice a week are always well documented and looked back with much fondness-when time allows). For the most part though, there is a quite a price to pay when we take the babies out for recess. All for those pesky rules I love so much…

Our clean dish drying mat. Comes out of the dryer with 40 Velcro bibs attached. Often the way I feel when I’m done working for the day…

My spring objective was to visit Iowa during May. Before Iowa’s insufferable heat and humidity arrived for a couple months. Before I started canning anything. Best laid plans. Nuts. Just couldn’t follow through. I blame Hubs. It’s the easy way out. His fault. It’s not like a brand new health issue hit him. He’s been hurting pretty bad for a couple years. So much he actually saw an orthopedic specialist 6 months ago. To John’s surprise (and mine) his x-rays showed nice cartilage around his hip.

Bridge overlooking Davenport and the ball diamond i used to frequent with Mary Ellen…

Huh? Then what’s causing all his pain? We now believe it started decades ago, about a year after we moved to North Muskegon. Joshua was finishing his freshman year of college, Adam was a sophomore in high school. First time living on a lake. Ah, the good life. Oh, please. John immediately bought a decent sized fishing boat, quickly followed by a bigger boat (few feet longer, so more area to cover when throwing our money away), plus a little fishing boat for the boys to use as long as they didn’t take it out on Lake Michigan, which was a couple miles away via boat. In case our new dock didn’t have enough shit now attached to both sides, Hubs bought 2 used Sea Do’s. (Just kill me now I thought as I watched them from the safety of my deck). The boys did some crazy stunts with those Sea Do’s. Trying to see how high they could make it ‘jump’ in the air when they hit a wave. Which John just had to try. Hubs, in his mid-40’s was pretty good at keeping up with the boys. But as he descended from his heaven bound water leap, he landed very wrong and his right hip has periodically given him pain ever since.

Not crowded yet, but the dock was soon packed with boy toys, ugh…

That was probably 1995. Doc thinks it’s arthritis and said if it got any worse, John could try a cortisone injection which should relieve much of the pain for months. And the pain has gotten steadily worse. Kitchen chairs, the car, bleachers bother him a lot, so he ends up standing much of the time. The more Iowa plans we (I) made, the louder the complaints. With about 10 days before we were scheduled to leave, I’d had about enough. He was not looking forward to sitting in the car for the better part of 2 days and it showed. “You know it’s not too late to postpone our trip,” I suggested. “Why not call the doctor and make an appointment to get the cortisone shot. See if that helps?” He agreed. So I let the relatives know and he cancelled our hotels, (not an easy task these days. I don’t remember them giving you such a hard time to cancel a reservation, but yikes they got kind of nasty about it) and made an appointment at the hospital to get the injection.

Hubs in the boat, brother Les doling out advice, 1996…

But I had already made plans to spend a couple days in Davenport. So while Hubs was resting his recently injected hip at home, I zipped across Michigan, a tiny bit of Indiana, all of Illinois to The mighty Mississippi for the weekend. In search of my favorite card game with some of my best friends.

Initially, I taught the group how to play well over 30 years ago. These gals have now made it their life mission that I not forget how to play double deck Euchre. There were 4 of us who were ADDICTED to that game for years. Two of us still play. My bestie, Mary Ellen passed away 5 years ago. I still get a lump when I think of her, we had such a great friendship. Our other constant card player has some serious health issues and hasn’t played for the last 2 or 3 years. That gives me a lump too. Mary Ellen’s cousin Betty was always one of our first phone calls when someone was gonna miss one of our marathon card parties, so she’s now slid into a starting position. Plus a new recruit/rookie (one of Betty’s Bridge playing friends, Connie has answered the call as our 4th since Pat can no longer play).

Our playing nights of 7 pm to 2 or 3 am have long passed us by. Now we start after lunch, play for awhile, stop and eat, play some more, graze again. We talk more, have more potty breaks, and constantly forget who’s turn it is to deal. And for the last couple years we’ve had a running argument. Betty doesn’t remember a couple of rules we instituted from the very beginning. But Jeanne and I both remember.

Double Deck Euchre

1. It’s always been a quarter a game, dime a bump, another dime if the loser is still in the hole when the game is over. 
2. If you go set on a hand, the team that set you gets credit for the tricks they pulled to set you. Example: I bid 6 Diamonds, but only take 5 tricks. My opposition gets credit for 3 tricks, plus I go down 6 points. 
3. If you’re ballsy enough to bid a 7-14 or 8-16 and make the bid, you’re  both paid a quarter on the spot by the other team. 

We’ve used these rules since 1985. I don’t care what Hoyle, the Internet or Wikipedia says, this is the way we’ve always played. Deal with it. Just deal-period, it’s your turn. I think. We always have a great time catching up with each other’s lives. Every time I hug them goodbye, I wonder if this will be the last time we’ll get together. You just never know what will happen in another year’s time. None of us is getting any younger, and I’ve always been the baby of the group. When Hubs is along, we stay in a hotel, ride past familiar landmarks, eat at our favorite spots if they still exist. Not the case since I’m alone, Jeanne invited me to stay with her. She had a bouquet of one of my favorite flowers, Lily’s of the Valley in my room when I arrived. They smelled so good. She’s a very thoughtful hostess.

Lily’s of the Valley to greet me in the guest room at Jeanne’s….

She hauled my sorry butt all over the Quad Cities, weaving our way back and forth across several bridges between Iowa and Illinois. Northpark Mall, a sports/fitness store called Athletic Endeavor because I was shopping for a new pair of Keens. And I could not be in the Quad Cities without a stop at Isabel Bloom. I spotted a new angel I really, really wanted, but could not fathom where she could call home in my house. There’s just not a spot for her. Most of my Isabel’s are larger statues and our house is no longer large. So I held onto my seldom used common sense for 5 minutes and bought a small butterfly. That was all.

New Isabel Bloom Butterfly…

Time spent went lickety-split, soon it was Sunday morning and I was ready to head back to Michigan. After I got home I thought of something Jeanne and I had talked about. How good a cup of tea tastes in the afternoon when it’s cold. I haven’t used a tea pot for years though. After my friend Rosemary passed away, she left me, I guess you would call it a hot water pot. An electric kettle. I had never heard of such a thing, yet I’ve used it constantly since I got it. It has a small coil in the bottom which heats up water fast and hot. During the winter when I get home from work John has already started the kettle for a cup of tea or my weird blend of Cinnamon-hot-chocolate-with-a-dash-of-instant-coffee.

My new Keens…

But that kettle gets used more often while I’m canning. It’s like having an extra burner on the stove. A constant source of boiling water to help keep my jars piping hot. Maybe Jeanne would like an electric kettle. A small way to thank her for the hospitality and driving me around for my mini-shopping spree. My goal was Bed, Bath & Beyond, but I only made it to Meijer, which had 4 different models to choose from. (Here I thought I knew every single product and where they’re located in that store, yet had never spotted electric kettles. Well color me embarrassed). I picked one, brought it home to wrap and take back to Meijer to mail. (I literally don’t know where the post office is in Jackson. And I hope I never have to learn. I buy stamps and mail all packages at the Meijer courtesy counter. Until a couple of days ago with the electric kettle under my arm).

The water kettle, coffee mug (which I just broke) and sugar bowl from Rosemary…

“Anything liquid, hazardous, glass, delicate,” he queried? “Nope, it’s just a kettle,” I said as he hauled it to the scale for weight and measurements. “Well, it’s just a tad too big for general delivery, so it has to go priority,” he continued, “that will be $10.18.” Using my awful hearing loss like a badge of honor now I said, “What? Are you freaking kidding me? That’s about half of what I paid for the thing. It weighs nothing. I need another price option.” “Sorry ma’am.” “Well, I’m not paying over ten dollars to mail this. I’ve changed my mind. This box has books, so I want it to go media mail.” “Umm, ma’am I can’t do that, you already said it was a kettle.” “Ok, fine,” I said as I grabbed the box and stomped out of my favorite store. Livid.

Set the box back in my Jeep and drove home. Plotting my next move. Next day I had to pick up Peyton at school on the other side of Jackson. After work I dinked around town for an hour, then headed to the other Meijer store closer to Peyton’s school. Walked up to the courtesy counter, kettle box under my arm. Plopped it on the counter, cautiously checking my surroundings like nervous Nelly. (I had thoughts of the courtesy counter dude from east side Meijer calling west side Meijer yesterday with my description. “Be on the lookout for an old lady trying to disguise a box with a water kettle as media mail. Call the FBI, CIA or the postal police immediately. She’s the very reason we lost 3 billion last quarter. Got to set an example, here and now. Get a warrant for her arrest.” “It’s books,” I fudged with a shaky voice. “My friend and I exchange paperbacks,“ I stammered. (Geez, that was lame. Forgot the cardinal rule when lying. KISS, which stands for Keep It Simple Stupid). “That will be $3.68,” she said with a smile. Handed her a 5 spot. Gulp. Done…

Until a few years ago, my fascination with movies (and celebrities) ran rampant. I just slowly lost interest for a variety of reasons. My hearing loss was a biggie. Many theaters offer headphones, which I’ve used for years. But even with the headphones, I struggle with dialogue. Anyone speaking with an accent, a soft or intimate conversation, or the most annoying, LOUD background music just drowns out and muddles all the voices for me.

Snuck out to a movie (horror flick) by myself. I’m still traumatized, 1962…

I’ve loved movies since I was a kid, but going to them was strongly discouraged. Ah, there’s part of the pull. Never been a fan of horror movies though. Got cured of that when I snuck into our local theater, The Orpheum when Dad was working overtime and I was 11. Didn’t realize what the movie was about (but strangely couldn’t make myself walk out either) and it haunts me to this day. When I got a little older and Mom and Dad couldn’t control my every move, much of my free time (and money) was spent going to movies.

There were some fabulous, fancy theaters in Sioux Falls and Sioux City in my heyday. Winding staircases about 12 feet wide (Hubs always preferred the balcony when we were on a date-no need for further explanation). But there was one more funky option for us when we wanted to go to the movies back in the day. The Drive In movie. What a concept! Probably not the best deterrent for an unwanted pregnancy however. Basically it just a cleared, fenced field of several acres, usually a few miles out of town. A gigantic white screen was the main focal point. Long rows of graveled, slightly elevated surface, evenly spaced with metal fence posts and a heavy alien like box hanging on each side of the post. You cozied your ginormous 1950’s-1970’s vehicle so this metal box was fairly close to the driver’s window. This was your modern day surround sound. Actually the sound was brutally shitty, but we loved it. Out in the middle of a field, pitch black, steamed up windows, what’s not to love if you’re a teen in lust, I mean love?

Might have been heading to The Wigwam after supper. John & I, 1965…

There was a small building in the middle of all these rows, with an office and space for running the film, restrooms, plus a good sized area selling concessions. Start times depended on the month. June and July it was still pretty light out until after 9 pm. The closest Drive In for kids living around Rock Valley was in Hawarden, about 30 miles away. It was called The Wigwam. I believe there was a midweek special (maybe Tuesday’s) where a carload of kids (or a whole family-but none of us were thinking about families just yet-at least not intentionally) could get in for a dollar. No, not a dollar a piece. A dollar a carload. I kid you not. What a cheap night of fun! We were young, carefree (and sometimes careless). This entertainment was a big part of my youth.

Hubs just told me about a night at The Wigwam (minus-me-his-long-standing-suffering-better-half). He had borrowed his brother Arlyn’s 1959 Thunderbird and had a couple of guys with him on the way to Hawarden. Another Rock Valley rabble rouser zipped past him doing about 100 mph. Gulp. And gave John and his buddies the finger. Instead of realizing they were telling him he was indeed number 1, Hubs took offense. Floored the T-bird and passed the dudes who had issued the errant finger. This was done on 2 lane hi-ways. There was some pushing and shoving when they all got parked, but it went no further. How did any of these yahoos survive their stupid youth decisions? Grace of God. Life wasn’t idyllic, but we had it pretty good.

A vivid memory from The Wigwam. John and I were on a double date. This was after he had worked for a farmer for about 10 hours that day, baling hay. Brutal work in Iowa’s 90 degree hot, humid summer days. His hands always fascinated me (and made me rather sick) after he was done working. From the tips of his fingers to almost his elbows were covered with slivers of hay. Some infected from his hard work. In the middle of the movie, John starts snoring. Instead of trying to get to second base, he was out like a light. I was mortified.

After Hubs got his whopper of a 90 cc Bridgestone motorcycle in 1965 (aww) we often rode it to the Wigwam. John would snap a blanket in back where I sat, and we’d park all the way in the back and lay on the blanket. As long as you were in the general vicinity of a noisy receptor, you could make out the dialogue. (I don’t remember complaining about the hard gravel surface either. Hmmm). By this time we were no longer really, truly interested in what was happening on the screen. One night another couple from Rock Valley begged us to change places with them. Their car for our blanket sprawled in the back 40. Nope.

So many changes were in store for us. Just a couple years later we were married. Yet the lowly Drive In movie would still play a part in our lives. The rules of entertainment would change however. Radically. No more spur of the moment, hop in the car, let’s eat out, and see a flick. We had no money. And now we were a family of 3. We made our own entertainment. If there was any discretionary money, we could buy a six pack (for the guys), make a dessert (for all of us), put on a pot of coffee and have another couple over for a rousing night of Pinochle. The kids were always included because none of us could afford a babysitter except for very special occasions.

Yup, Shannon was busy reviewing The Godfather with her friends, 1972…

We were living in Sioux City, the year was either fall of ‘72, or spring of ‘73. Our precocious daughter Shannon was about 2. Hubs and I were itching to see the latest movie catching all the Oscar buzz. We discussed it for days. Explaining in detail what was expected of our very bright little girl. We were going to a movie-together at the Gordon Twin Drive In. In our 1972 Chevy Vega, which was a hatchback. So we could lay down the back seat, spread blankets and pillows, bringing along enough stuffed animals we barely had room to squeeze in. But it was all for Shannon. So she could sleep comfortably while we watched a grownup movie. Shannon promised she would eat her snack and go right to sleep. She lied.

All was going pretty well, considering it was kind of loud in the car with the speaker hanging on the window. But it was very late, Shannon was quiet and we thought she was asleep. The movie we were watching? The Godfather. At one crucial point during the movie, the studio mogul had refused to give a small movie part to one of the mobster’s relatives. Movie boss’ decision was about to be swayed the other way as he woke up in bed screaming. When to our delight we hear this tiny voice from the backseat, “why is there a horsey in bed with that man?” Ok, we’re done here. Let’s go home.

When we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jackson still had a Drive In movie. It only stayed open a couple of years after that, but we took the kids several times. Still an inexpensive form of entertainment. I’d pop a couple of huge brown grocery bags full of popcorn at home. By the time we were ready to leave, there would be melted butter stains all over the bags. Yum. Take a cooler full of pop, and John would stop on his way home from work to pick up some candy. Now the movies at the Drive In were all about comfort. Off with the bra, on with the sweats and I was ready to go. The kids brought along sleeping bags, chairs and were in and out of the van a dozen times before they ever started showing the previews. Mind you, we were now in the eastern time zone, so the movie didn’t start until almost 10:30. Ugh. Any thoughts about smooching our way through the movie-not gonna happen with this brood.

Joshua & Adam ready to go to another movie, 1986…

After we moved to Muskegon in 1994, lo and behold, another Drive In movie complex. Four screens, all showing double features. Yikes, you didn’t get out until after 2 am. Not long after we moved there were some articles in the Chronicle saying the Getty Street Drive In was going to close and a sale was pending for the land. There was such an uproar from the people, the owner changed his mind. Twenty years later, it’s still open every summer. When the grands would visit during the summer, (each one always stayed separately), top of our ‘to do’ was a trip to the Drive In. (A day at Lake Michigan’s beach was right there too). It was the kid’s choice for the movies. Still made the popcorn and brought our own pop and treats too. And lost the bra before we left home. Good times.

I fell kind of bad for kids who don’t get to experience this simple form of entertainment. Family style. Snacks, pillows, mosquito spray, walking in their jammies and flip flops with a parent to go to the bathroom during intermission. No more obnoxious hanging box spewing forth tinny sound. Now when you pay admission, they hand you a small piece of paper. On it is 4 different FM radio stations, each corresponding with which your movie screen choice. I haven’t been to a Drive In movie since 2014. I think Peyton was the last grand visiting that year. I’m bummed. I can’t bear to think our great-granddaughter Jovi will not have fun watching a movie outside, at night. I believe we will have to head to Muskegon next summer and let her enjoy that experience too…

Jovi looks ready for her first Drive In movie experience…