I have strong feelings concerning Mother’s Day. My mother thought it was the most important holiday of the year. Mom’s yearly gauge of validating her life’s work surrounding motherhood. I always bought her something nice, including a box of Fanny May milk chocolate butter creams or Marsh Bars chocked full of pecans. But nothing was as important as getting Mom the right Mother’s Day card. The card had to be perfect. 

This little piggy went to market…

I like Mother’s Day, just not quite at the same level where Mom had it stashed. Does that make me somewhat lackadaisical about the joys of motherhood? I don’t think so and hope not. But as I age (slow down there little doggie) I find myself going to extremes about Mother’s Day-but not my own. Same thing goes about Christmas. I know not why.

I can’t remember trying to document these 2 holidays when my kids were very little. Making some kind of lasting memento to signify their age and size at that very second. But I find myself doing exactly that with the babies at daycare. 

Ho-Ho-Ho…

The past two Christmas’s I’ve taken on the same art project for the babies without really discussing it my coworkers. Any art project in the infant room should be made into a documentary. Or comedy. With a bit of tragedy spun in. It’s a hoot. The kind that makes you want to pull out your hair. Every hair. The thing is, babies aren’t generally very cooperative. Part of it is instinctual when doing anything concerning their hands. They tend to close their fist tight just as you need it open. They pull, push, tug, squeeze, squish, swat, smack, fling, spit, drool, while you’re valiantly trying to get them to just hold their tiny hand still for 3 seconds. That’s not 30 seconds which is a lifetime to them, merely 3. Usually cannot be done. Unless they are asleep. Which I’ve resorted to on several occasions. Sigh. I’m simply trying to get one of their handprint impressions on a slab of soft salt dough. 

I won’t even start this yearly project until December 1st. Oh, I’m itching to get going on it by mid-November since we have between 12 and 16 babies in our room. (A few are part time and come on different days). But for some odd reason I have to be able to say, in my own odd way, this is your baby’s handprint this Christmas. Only time in his life his little hand will be this size. When I type it, it does seem crazy. What’s wrong with me? 

Oh baby…

This is what happened last Christmas. I started our project promptly in early December. Made a big batch of salt dough, brought parchment paper, a straw, rolling pin and some old cookie sheets. Started by writing all their names on a sheet of paper and checking them off as (or if) I got a decent impression of one of their hands. Took the straw and made a hole on top where the ribbon would go to hang the ornament. Wrote their name below each little hand until it was baked. Then I could spray a coat of white on the back, jot their name with a permanent marker, and rest assured parents would get the hand that belonged to their baby. 

Such precious toes…

Even doing hand impressions takes a few days because some babies come on different days. I’d do as many as time allowed or stop in on my day off for an hour. That way there wasn’t as much guilt when one of them started crying. I just kept working on the task at hand. (Ha-ha, my lame impression of a hand joke). A few days into December I had all the little hands at home, baked, spray painted white, labeled and ready to morph into charming Santas. Some of the babies had been in our room most of the year and I worried when they were hung, if the tree would topple over from the weight. Others so tiny, they looked like it couldn’t be from a real hand.

The babies helped with rhyming…

While I was painting (and painting, what a lot of kanooey) I wrote a little poem about tiny hands to copy in their Christmas cards. I was completely done, everyone of them wrapped with a week to spare before they needed to be handed out. I’m kind of proud, they looked really cute. That same week a new exquisite baby girl started in our room. Every time I held her, walked past her or even looked at her, all I could think of was her tiny hand. THAT WAS NOT DOCUMENTED FOR MOM AND DAD ON HER FIRST CHRISTMAS. So much guilt for something so tiny. And I think that was part of the draw. Her hand. So little. Perfect in every way. There simply was not enough time to get it done before our short Christmas break. Or I didn’t make or take the time. But I did manage to get her hand impression. And it was still in the month of December. I brought it home, baked it, took it downstairs to spray paint it white. And there it sat. On top of our water heater. Four long months. More guilt. Just lay it on me baby. 

No one can create a mess quite like me, yeah it’s a gift…

Suddenly Mother’s Day was sneaking up on me. I found a clever art project idea and found enough cheap canvases at a ridiculously low price. I love salt dough, but it’s very time consuming trying to get whatever little baby parts (feet or hands) when one is trying to wrestle with a 20 pound adorable, writhing, snake-baby. The idea is to get a couple prints of their baby toes somewhere in the region of the lower third part of the canvas. The first baby I glopped way too much paint on her foot, blurring one set of toes. Michelle suggested using a foam brush to apply the paint to her toes and part of the pad of her foot. Better, except it must tickle thus there’s some major wiggling, writhing and giggles. Some of the bigger tootsies find 2 spots on the canvas, tiny toes I can plop 3 sets on. At least I can jot their name on the back of the canvas as I do each foot. I lug them all home and devise a plan of exactly how much work I wanna put into this project. 

The idea from a mom on Facebook…

The picture I’m using as a pattern has been done haphazardly. I think I can do better. I wonder where I get this confidence when I’m truthfully the least artsy-fartsy person on staff? In Michigan. Or the Midwest. But it’s my sheer will and determination to design a keepsake that makes me clumsily continue with the project. The idea is their toes will be flower buds, thus I must draw/paint the rest of the flower around their tiny toes. I envision wispy grass on the ground, soft clouds in the sky. Maybe a bird or 2, delightful lettering extolling how much they love their mommy. Oh please. The first couple stems are ramrod straight and resemble a straw. Now I put a slight curve in the stem, and grab a couple different bottles of green to add some shading, which is hilarious to even type because I know not how to shade. As I’m adding different shades of grass so I can let them all dry, I decide to add some leaves to the skinny flowers stems. Oh just stop. Now. All the while my heart is racing just thinking of writing, “Happy Mother’s Day” on each top. The first 2 are disastrous! My letters aren’t spaced well, there’s a definite slant and they look awful. Too late to start over. Apologies to those 2 mommies. 

So ashamed, pitiful. Sorry mommies…

A small lightbulb goes off. Why not just embrace the sorry fact that a perfectly written “Happy Mother’s Day” is not going to become a reality here? So I practice writing (pretty darn close to the way I actually write) letters backwards, not on a straight line and using no capitals. It looks better than the ones I really tried my best on. Sold. John wasn’t, but it was my decision, and the rest (a dozen) were sloppily written with a paint pen, which is a great idea the Hubs suggested. As I’m clicking off canvas after canvas my mind jets downstairs to the petite salt dough ornament waiting for Santa to find his way to her little hand. Perfect timing, the kitchen is a freaking mess. Halloween clearance tablecloth for art projects, Mother’s Day canvases litter the counters, and one more darling little Santa magically appears…

It is what it is…

I was surprised by the lump in my throat. It started forming the closer to Fort Wayne we got. I knew there were going to be lumps this coming year, just didn’t expect it last weekend. Nothing really special about the time or place, yet there it sat. The lump. All weekend.

It’s pretty electric watching him on the court. Landon, 2017…

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has been on a travel basketball league half of his life. He’s always played a click above where he was supposed to. First only age wise. When he was 10, he was on a team of 11 year olds. That’s just always the way he played. It didn’t take watching him very long, although he was younger, he was already better than most. So playing above him made him a better player. He was shooting hoops when he was 2 and Tracey was a coach. He knew how to run the floor when he was 5. And could outshoot much older kids on free throws by the time he was 7. 

Look at how little our favorite hoopster is strutting his stuff, 2007…

But the real basketball competition started when he was in junior high. Not so much playing with the school team, but these travel teams/leagues started in earnest during 7th grade. And there have been some awesome players we’ve watched through the last few years. Landon included. Duh.

Landon showing one of his many trophies, 2011…

We first went to Fort Wayne, Indiana 5 years ago. Not a quick or easy trip when we were living in North Muskegon. Maybe 5 hours of driving. To watch our 11 year old grandson tear up the court. Spiece Fieldhouse sits right off interstate 69. A funky, massive structure honoring basketball in general and Indiana hoops in particular. (That whole state of Indiana is wacko for basketball, think the movie, Hoosiers). Glass framed-used-sweaty-worn-out-uniforms (but famous like Larry Bird) adorn the walls. Men’s basketball shoes from sizes 10 to 20 fill glass display cases in the halls. Lots of quotes and autographs hanging around. Part health-club, part sports arena but we notice very little of that when we show up, along with hundreds of other parents, friends and grands shelling out big bucks to watch teenage boys sweat, jump and score.

New team and number this summer. Same great shooter….

My only complaint. The cost. I know it’s expensive to host one of these tournaments. Eight courts, games from 8 a.m. until 9 or 10 at night. Just think of the number of refs needed for 3 days of hoops. Scorekeepers, supervisors, maintenance, gals who run the concessions, complaint department, T-shirt/sports paraphernalia shop. I get it. Still. We see one game on Friday night. Ten bucks a piece. Saturday it’s 15 bucks each for the day, which is usually worthwhile because Landon’s team is good. They’re scheduled for 2 games, but because they win them both have to play another 2. My butt is sore from the bleachers but I get my money’s worth. Sunday is another 10 dollars each but as long as they win, they keep playing. Landon’s team wins the first one, then loses in the semifinals. They’re done this weekend.

What I’d like to see is a senior special for 20 bucks. I almost went up to the main desk to complain. (The ticket gals are sick of seeing me walk up and give them my spiel for 5 years in a row now). But then Landon introduced me to the owner. I wanted a T-shirt like Landon wears for warmups, but didn’t see one at the kiosk or pro shop. The owner (about the age of Joshua, our middle kid) said they were out of long sleeves but thought he might have some short sleeved ones in the office. (Might have helped that Landon now plays for the Indy Heat Gym Rats from Spiece Field House, so he’s on the owner’s home team). Yeah, there’s that. Owner didn’t ask our names, where he could find us later, or if he would even recognize this retired couple 2 minutes later. He knew exactly where we’d be. Watching Landon’s next game. He saunters up right before the game starts, hands John 8 Nike, Indy Heat Gym Rats T-shirts in various sizes and colors. Smiles and says, “here ‘ya go, enjoy them.” Are you kidding me? Damn. He just had to be so stinking nice.

The Spiece Fieldhouse owner with the cool shirt giveaways…

Last summer I blogged about a weekend in Fort Wayne at Spiece Fieldhouse. Landon wasn’t even supposed to be there. His travel league team had committed to a tourney in Florida, so Shannon and Tracey decided to make it a family vacation. Rented a house for the week. At the last minute, Landon’s lame-ass coach at the time nixed flying to Florida and said they were going to drive to Fort Wayne instead. The Lowder’s, minus Landon went on the vacation and we got to tag along with Landon for the weekend. It turned out to be one of our most memorable weekends and Landon’s best basketball ever. (I seriously thought it was a conspiracy. Something about an easy going weekend with the grandparents, no high expectations. And he did it all. Just sayin). He had a superb tournament, scoring 29 points in the first half of a game, winning the 3 point shootout in his age division. Then his team went on to win the whole tourney. 

It’s going to be strange not going to tournaments here…

This season is different for Landon. New team, several different players, new coach (thank heavens). Which in turn means learning all new plays, signals, teammate’s personalities etc. Since he’s the new kid on the block he’s been playing catch-up for a month. This Fort Wayne Run N Slam tourney certainly wasn’t the best he’s ever played, but he did have his moments. During the first game Sunday morning against a tough Chicago team, the score was tied with 4 minutes left. Landon zipped off 9 quick points to ensure the win, putting them in the quarterfinals. Can’t keep a great player (even if he’s new to the team) down for long.

So this lump I carried around all weekend. Why? Probably the last time Landon will play at Spiece. I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I’m comfortable at Spiece. I like watching him play there. I know my way around town. Sort of. I don’t want this part of Landon’s basketball to be over yet. 

Winning the 3 point contest last July. And he gave me the trophy…

There’s a couple more tournaments in May, then AAU takes off the month of June for individual high school things. July, they’re back on the court, hot and heavy. Flitting all over the country, Virginia, Nevada, too far for us. 

There will be no more AAU basketball for Landon after July because his  junior year is the last time he can play. This winter will be his last for Pioneer high school basketball, and time for serious decision making on which college basketball scholarship to accept. (We’re hoping for several more than the 5 he has now). Seems like I just started watching him play. How can this part be almost over? I’m not ready. I mean, I’m really not ready. I’m gonna be a mess during basketball season this winter. More lumps to get used to. Sweet and precious but a little painful too…

My new favorite team shirt, thanks to the owner…

Most of them have been on the fringe. My fringe. Almost out of my peripheral vision, but still there. Definitely, still there. People I know, but not real well, or haven’t been very close to. Sometimes, barely an acquaintance, friend or family member of a friend. Now someone from my outer edge-not often thought about-fringe friends just sprang back to the forefront. Which flooded my head with another fringe friend from way back. Here’s the story on 2 of my peripheral vision friends.

One of my besties, Jeanne from Davenport, mid-80’s, at a state bowling tourney…

I always tended to be skeptical when a young couple joined our church. Terrible to even think like that or admit it, but I did. Often. Our congregation was ancient when we started attending in 2004, and we were considered fairly young members. I was in my early 50’s. But this stunning couple. Wow. Her name was Brittany. She was a beautiful blonde. His name was Brandon. He was tall, shy and fair-haired. They were engaged to be married at Central. Thus the skepticism. I believe if you wanted to get married at Central but were not members, the cost for having your wedding there was astronomical. A mere pittance if you belonged. A few times a year, a young couple would join our church right before they uttered their vows, never to be seen at Central again. My former church, built around 1930 has a breathtaking sanctuary. Young traditional couples sought to start their married life saying their vows at Central. Memorable.

You can easily see why wedding vow pictures would be awesome at Central…

But Brittany and Brandon proved me wrong. I’m surprised I ever crossed paths with them really. My job as Parish Visitor was tending to the needs of the elderly from our congregation. Mostly those who could no longer make it to weekly services. Their hunger for news from the church and conversations (about almost anything) was palpable whenever I knocked on their door, or walked into the care facility where they now lived. And that’s how our paths crossed. Brittany was studying to become an RN, and worked at a local nursing home while going to school. A couple of our congregation members now lived there so I visited every couple weeks. I’d run into Brittany every once in a while. After she and Brandon were married they continued to make Central their house of worship. A while later they had a baby girl followed by a boy (both with unusual names) a couple years later. Brittany got her RN degree and changed jobs.

If you’ve kept up with my blog, this is the approximate time I became disillusioned with organized religion in general and everything surrounding the Methodist Church. It wasn’t pretty. Still working on that little issue. Getting right with God. (Thanks for your patience God). Now, on with the story. It’s safe to say, I have not given Brittany, Brandon or their kids much thought since I retired from Parish Visiting in 2013.

Impressive house of worship…

Until recently. We moved 160 miles southeast of Muskegon in 2015. Our local newspaper is part of a conglomerate which allows me to keep tabs on Muskegon’s news, which I do a couple times a week. Scanning the Muskegon Chronicle, I started reading a story about a young couple. Oh, oh, don’t like where this is heading. Brittany had filed for divorce from Brandon earlier this year. She was out with a male hospital coworker on a Friday night when she was confronted by Brandon in a parking lot in downtown Muskegon. Brandon started shooting, killing Brittany instantly, then shooting the guy Brittany was with. Brandon drove off to a secluded spot near where he and Brittney lived and killed himself. A couple days later the other young man, Tommy died. Brittany was 28, Brandon, 34. Leaving 2 kids under 10 without parents. Although I have trouble bringing up many conversations with Brandon, this has not been the issue with Brittany. She has haunted my thoughts for 2 weeks. I feel so bad about her tragic death and for her kids. My hope is because she wasn’t even 30, Brittany’s mom is young enough to raise her kids. And I’m stunned, just stunned that I knew another fringe friend who was killed by another person. Never in my life did I imagine I would know people who were intentionally killed by someone else. Who would think of such a thing? Blows me away.

The other fringe friend happened while I was living in Davenport over 30 years ago. Remember while we lived there, 2 people were brutally murdered (separate and different cases) that I knew. It was my story called, Murder she Wrote. But this peripheral friend was not murdered. I honestly can’t remember her real name, which is beyond pitiful. But everyone called her Beanie.

I was on 3 bowling leagues at the time. Two were morning leagues, more to hone your bowling skills. There was no prize money. We only paid for our bowling, so the cost was minimal. But that third league was a serious group of women bowlers. This bowling alley was fantastic. It had 64 lanes-filled to the brim-every night. Our league started about 6, and there was no dinking around because the place had another 3 or 4 leagues starting around 8:30. I vaguely remember our league had about 12 teams with 5 gals on each team. Man were they competitive. I was a pretty good bowler, though certainly not the top bowler on my team, let alone the whole league. I was probably carrying an average in the low 160’s, but there were SEVERAL gals on our league who would be devastated if they ever bowled a game in that minuscule 160 range.

One of our yearly state bowling tourneys, Pat, Jeanne, Marilyn, me and Dee…

Beanie was on a team in our league. And to be truthful, I coveted absolutely everything about her. I was in my mid-30’s at the time and I think she was a little younger. Let me just put out there a few things about Beanie that I still think about. She was adorable. Petite with curly medium brown hair, I felt like an Amazon thug (or slug) next to her. I was insanely jealous of her team, which makes no sense. (I loved my team. Some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Mary Lou, Pat, Mary Ellen, Jeanne and me). But Beanie bowled with her mom. The relationship between my Mom and I was tenuous at best and it was almost painful to watch how easily and happy Beanie and her mom were bowling together every week. I think there might have been another sister on their team too. Geez. Beanie was an extraordinary bowler. That tiny gal could zip that dang 15 pound bowling ball down the lane with such precision. (Why couldn’t I throw a nice hook like that? No, my stinking straight ball looked like I belonged in a junior league). I was totally smitten, yet intimidated by everything-Beanie.

Beanie was married and had 2 kids, one of each, maybe 8 and 5. One spring day I opened the Quad City Times and there’s a picture of Beanie. First picture was when she was little and won the best Easter bonnet in the Easter parade at her elementary school. Twenty some years later, Beanie’s daughter won the same contest at the same school. So cute. Still, kinda envious. I remember being at Beanie’s house once. She had a Tupperware party for me. Her house was cute, kids were adorable, her pumpkin dessert, delicious. There was nothing in which Beanie didn’t excel.

It might have taken me a few Tuesday’s at bowling to realize Beanie was missing from her team. Their team had a sub every week. Soon, her mom wasn’t showing up either. News trickled our way that Beanie was sick. Very sick. I think it was leukemia. Within a matter of months, Beanie was gone. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought she had EVERYTHING. Where was I during this fog which lasted a few years? Being a normal, HEALTHY wife/mom/bowler/friend. Busy coveting what I thought I didn’t have. No wonder God personally wrote, ‘Denise, thou shalt not covet’ to clue me in. Finally. I had envied everything about Beanie.

Brittany and Brandon got married right here a few years ago…

For over 30 years, I still reminisce about the five year period when Beanie’s and my life intertwined. Sporadically and mostly from afar. Maybe, “coveted everything about her” might have been a tad over the top. Beanie’s young life, snuffed out just when her light was shining so bright you needed to wear shades in her presence. What is it about some people? That special ‘thing’ they possess? How can some people have such an enormous affect on someone they barely know? Thirty years after the fact. I don’t have a clue. But I’m glad Beanie and Brittany were in my life, at least for a little while. Fringe friends. So close to the edge peripherally, but still there. Hanging on. Forever in my mind. And heart…

I’ve had a pretty isolated life, having lived in only 2 of our 50 great states so far-Iowa and Michigan. It’s not as though we didn’t have chances for change during our decades of married life, though it seems we were never very willing to take a big risk either. We wanted to live South Dakota or Minnesota early on, but timing, job opportunities, or commitments were never quite right.

Joshua obviously loved winter a lot more than me, 1980…

I can’t ever remember liking winter, even as a kid. I didn’t like ice skating, wearing skirts to school when it was 30 below (actual temperature, not wind chill) or hiking to Benson’s Hill to sled. Why did I not suggest, insist or beg early in our marriage that we move on some place with a kinder climate than the Midwest? We always seriously looked right in our own neighborhood, or backyard, never thinking or daring to escape the evil clutches of winter.

Could have a lot to do with my parents. Ties that bind and all that. Seems like I tried to escape their sometimes suffocating grip on my life, only to remain relatively close for decades. Guilt? Perhaps. Queen of guilt, my title-worn proudly.

Iowa knows how to do snow! Dad on the plow, 1962….

And when we finally made a fairly big move, 750 miles east to Michigan, we thought it would be for 3 to 5 years. And what did we have planned after that? We assumed we’d move right back to Iowa. Maybe this mentality had more to do with my small closed mind than actually staying close to my folks. Don’t know.

What I do know is that after 67 years of life, I’m typing on my little iPad on a Sunday in my favorite chair. It’s late April and the furnace is running. My fingers are cold and my feet are freezing. Ugh.

We all know when March 20 came and went a month ago, there was a lack of noticeable change in the weather. Who’s the dipstick in charge of stating spring starts on 3-20-18? Clearly we were in for at least another month of winter’s nasty grasp? It’s not like this year is unusual. This is the way the Midwest’s weather works. I think I have a better understanding of when seasons change. Or really should.

Oh the incredible smell of these little flowers…

Let’s just start with spring. I think we all want the same thing with spring. Days with temperatures in the 60’s. Lots of sunshine with the promise of blooming flowers. Gentle rains, longer days, less darkness. (BTW, since I’m now in charge, that whole daylight savings crap is out the window. No one walks to school anymore. Kiddos are on the school bus or in mom’s BMW, waiting to be dropped off. Farmer’s don’t need that extra hour during our endless winter. I go to work in the dark, so should you).

So when exactly do we get this fabulous season called Spring? With a stretch it might be the month of May. Let me just call it. Spring will last the entire month of May, and have some near perfect weather.

How about our favorite season? Summer. When is summer-really? The months included (not nearly long enough, but I am trying to realistic) are June, July and August. No room for debate. It is what it is. We kindly and respectfully ask for low humidity (Mother Nature always gets a chuckle out of my yearly request) temps in the 70’s and 80’s, never reaching higher than 90-ever. Thanks. If you must, this temperature range can be encouraged to stay in use the entire month of September without complaints from anyone on earth. Promise.

Graham and Adam enjoying summer a couple years ago…

Fall. Autumn sounds better though, don’t you think? Spectacular colors through the season. But fall is in a definite spiral downward. Temperatures cool off, we get some wind so the leaves start tumbling down from trees and flying through the air. I like fall, though I’m not crazy when all the trees are bare and brown. I’m giving the months of September, October and November to the season called Fall.

Fall colors in all their splendor, but winter’s looming ever closer…

So far I’ve got one measly month for Spring, but a month of fantastic weather. Lots of blooming flowers, including 2 of my favorites, Lily’s of the Valley and Lilacs. Three gorgeous months of Summer with abundant sunshine, and just the right amount of rain during the cool of the night, maybe with some rolling thunder included. The perfect weather for the mighty Midwest to grow enough crops to feed the world. But free of tornadoes, floods, and drought. Fall, our cool down season to dry the crops and harvest them from the fields.

Breathtaking beauty of an Iowa field…

But that leaves 5 months unaccounted for. 5. Really. Five. I’m not unreasonable. OK we may need a bit of winter. But. December, January, February, March and April. How can 5 months possibly last this long every year? (Oh I would love, absolutely love to give the month of April to Spring. This might be a deal breaker). But back to the dead zone. Winter. Winter is a time for cleansing. Done with floaty stuff flying through the air for everyone with allergy issues. Let’s give folks a break with all their allergy medications. A time for plants, trees and animals to go dormant for a spell. (I’ve never thought of it before, but maybe I need a dormant time every year too). Not only is winter way too long, the severity it needs to thrive and be happy is just horrendous. Is it really necessary for the temperature to dip below zero? Ever? I should say, certainty not. We do need our quota of snow. I can do a little snow now and then. How about a couple inches, maybe let it hang around for a day or 2, but then the temps should spike up into the 40’s for a week with some sunshine to give everyone a renewed outlook on life again. Isn’t that why God made Canada and regions further north? They get the bulk of the snow, then during spring thaw it flows down to soak the ground, and fill our rivers for the rest of us. Sounds about right doesn’t it?

So how did I get so smart where our weather’s concerned? Well, my yearly life is divided up in segments which make my seasons. It’s Hubs fault really. He’s told me for half a century my internal thermostat is broken. My temperature gauge is faulty. Not nearly as off kilter as it used to be when we first got hitched. A dedicated Tareyton smoker, my fingernails were often tinged blue and my feet were just crunchy little icicles, begging for a thaw. He once told me in all seriousness, “if my feet get cold when I’m hunting, I just think about warming my toes up. The blood starts flowing and in a couple minutes, I can feel the difference. Nice and warm. How come you can’t do that?” Oh pleassssseeeee.

Yes, I’ve been covered in flannel most of my life, this one in 1979…

Through the years, I’ve grown adept with what my body lacks in natural heat resources. I learned to compensate for my shortcomings. At least this very small, insignificant, but terribly uncomfortable one. Two f-words. Get your mind out of the gutter. Nothing that bad. Flannel and fleece. See? There are about 45 days a year (last half of July, most of August) where you might not see me wearing an old flannel shirt. I literally live in them, because my arms are always cold. Always. Rotating my stockpile, mostly made up of ghastly plaids. But they get better, softer, more comfortable with every washing. After a couple years, the cuffs start fraying, and the elbows get transparent. If I ever live anywhere but the desert I can safely say, I’ll always be in a flannel shirt. Worn right on top of another shirt.

A lightweight fleece. Can’t be very cold or there’s a need for more layers…

Then there’s my several levels of fleece. I guess they’re really called throws. You ‘throw’ them on whatever’s chilly. For many years my ‘throws’ were hand knit afghans from Mom. Assorted patterns from granny squares to complicated patterns of cables in various colors. I’ve had ‘throws’ in wool, acrylic and cotton, even felt. Some were so thick, heavy and dense they resembled weighted blankets. Couldn’t move your toes at all when you plopped one on. And suddenly fleece was invented. Lightweight and fairly warm. Good for 3 seasons. But not 4. Not nearly warm enough for the dreaded 5 months of winter. Unless you had several. Trying to stay warm without the bulk and weight. The struggle is real. So the seasons of my life are determined by what throw I’m under on any given day.

I even have a fleece for summer. But it’s flannel. Rarely can I sit and watch TV or work on my blog when my bare limbs are exposed. I start shivering after a few minutes. Even if it’s quite hot. My solution was to make (who am I kidding, I mean had one sewn for me) a longish throw, made of flannel to use during the summer. The throw looks terribly out of place during the hot months because the flannel material has little snowmen all over it. It works for me.

Ha-ha, my summer weight flannel throw with snowmen all over it…

Getting back to the endless season of number 4. Shannon found the answer to my problem (and hers). It’s a fleece throw, but it’s really an electric blanket. I want to say the best gift she’s ever given me, but that girl has fabulous taste in gifts for me from Waterford, Llardo, and Baccarat. Still, the heated throw has been one of the best, most practical gifts she’s ever given me. You plug it in and it has a range from simmer to holy hot flash. Amazing. What’s not so great about this fabulous little throw is the fact I’m still using it every night. And it’s late April. Ugh. But inching ever closer to that magical date of May first. Spring. I’m so ready. My one and only month of Spring better be pretty close to stinking perfect….

My electric fleece. Perfect for Michigan (or Iowa) winter nights…

“I’ve been working on the railroad-all the live long day. I’ve been working in the railroad, just to pass the time away. Can’t you?” Wait, sorry bout that. That’s a song I sing to the babies. I’ve been working at Felician Children’s Center for 2 years now. It’s very fulfilling in a hectic, arm-filled, noisy, drool-dripping, fast-paced, soothing, rocking chair way.

Can’t you hear the whistle blowing?

I don’t really know how this came to be, but the staff (meaning the higher ups at work, though probably not as high as the Pope, but then again, maybe) are required to hold 2 hours of instructional staff meetings a month. Since we are open 11-1/2 hours a day, you can guess when this has to occur. On a precious weekend (heaven forbid), during the middle of the night, or right after the last kid leaves the building at 6 pm.

Most often these 2 hour monthly requirements are held on Tuesday nights from 6 to 8, (which can be tricky during Landon’s high school basketball season. I abhor missing any of his games). Though I try not to miss staff meetings either for several reasons. 1. I get paid when I show up. 2. Not surprising, I often learn something. 3. Since several people are just getting off work, there’s usually food involved, which I’m always up for. 4. Biggest incentive though is if you DON’T show up. Within a couple of days after you miss a staff meeting, you’ll be handed a piece of paper with your name in it. Listed on the sheet will be a choice of several online mini classes from some obscure college somewhere. You’re expected to take one of the classes, pass a test to prove you were paying attention, print out the certificate of authenticity (formally notarized-OK a slight exaggeration) and hand it in to Tracy, my boss within a week. Plus, I do not get paid for the time the class took me. Holy moly. I’d rather have a root canal. Thus I haven’t missed many staff meetings.

Usually we have guest speaker, raising our awareness on an issue or teaching different subjects ranging from being an advocate for any of our children, to report any kind of suspected abuse, to CPR, First Aid or what to do during recess with your class when the weather’s bad outside. It’s all good. But. There’s always a but involved. I would venture about 75% of our instructors and subject matter doesn’t really involve much about our babies in the infant room. Take the last class. Please. (Kidding) The focus was teaching young children to recall things they did during their school day or yesterday, and learning how to follow directions when more than one task is required. Our babies aren’t working on either of these just yet. The infant room is really a very small part of our daycare and school (though the best part, for sure), so I realize hiring a speaker for the night should involve as many kids in as many different rooms as possible.

During this class, it was 95 degrees with no air, and a baby had just spit up on me…

When I got an email from Tracy with the weekly schedule about a month ago, it included some upcoming events, it’s safe to say I wasn’t the only worker bee grumbling and crying in my beer (some alcohol humor, I’ve not had a beer since I was a teen-blech) about the mandatory staff meeting on a Saturday morning. Sacrilege. That’s my time. One of the best perks of this job. No nights, no weekends, no holidays. It didn’t help when I saw the subject matter, The Raging Child. Doesn’t sound much like being very helpful in the baby room does it? When our babies start having temper tantrums, they’re usually about to the move to the next room. Head ‘em up, move ‘em out. They normally transition to The Wonderful Ones between 13-17 months.

I had several issues with a weekend staff meeting. It’s also Landon’s first AAU tourney which happened to be about the closest one, mileage wise, this whole season. But Peyton’s spring dance recital is fast approaching, so she cannot miss any of her classes. Simple solution was to have Peyton stay with us, allowing me to attend the (mandatory) staff and have grandpa run Peyton to her class, letting Shannon travel with Tracey (son-in-law) and Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) for Friday night’s game. The rest of us would arrive in time for his mid-afternoon game on Saturday. Sigh. Just not in the cards. By the time I got back to the house around noon Saturday, Shannon was texting me. Grand Rapids (about 85 miles northwest) was having an ice storm and terrible wind gusts, while we continued to get rain, and more rain.

Peyton doing her thing…

We decided to just stay home. Damn. I did get a lot accomplished though. One word: blackberries. Meijer had them on super sale this week and my stash of seedless blackberry jelly is getting precariously low. I stopped at Meijer on the other side of town to buy some, only to find they were completely out. I could get a rain check, but the cashier informed me for 12 measley boxes. What? That’s like one batch of jelly. Geez, I’d be running through the checkout lane several times to get enough rain checks to make it worth my while. Instead, I stomped out of the store to mull over my next move. I know Meijer gets their produce truck about the time I get up, so I stopped at my east side Meijer at 5:15 a.m. the next morning before heading to work. They had just unloaded their truck with a fraction of the amount of berries they’d been expecting. The supplier was having trouble filling Meijer’s full order everyday, but the produce dude wholeheartedly approved my taking what I wanted while they were still on the pallet (less work for him). I grabbed my 50 boxes, smiling all the way to the Jeep.

Number 3 Landon, but we all know he’s really # 1…

In many ways, I hate making seedless anything. It’s the amount of fruit I waste. Still, seedless Blackberry is my second favorite (next to Apricot jam-where I use everything but the pit, so maybe it evens out). After washing and smashing the berries, I simmer them for a few minutes to vigorously encourage them to give up all their dang juice. Then dump this through double cheesecloth (it splashes everywhere, magenta polka dots decorate my kitchen walls) into a colander. And wait. My plan was to keep the juice in the fridge until after work Monday because we’d be out of town. Since I was stuck here anyway, might as well make the jelly. So 30 jars later, the jelly and canning equipment is ready to be hauled back downstairs. Now why was I even telling you this non-essential, boring information? I really wanted to tell you about Dr. Phil.

Yum, Seedless Blackberry Jelly…

I kid you not, his name is Phil. But not the TV Phil. He’s a children’s therapist from Grand Rapids, a few years older than me, semi-retired, who has a theory. Or several. He started his practice in the mid 70’s, then went to work at Headstart 25 years later. During that quarter century he noticed a marked difference in the issues he was treating of these troubled children and their behavior. Instead of children needing therapy because of a divorce, traumatic event or death of a parent or grandparent, Dr. Phil’s theory on this young generation of raging children stems from their lack of attachment. According to him, some parents and their young babies aren’t connecting with that deep bond of affection, trust and love right away. Which is bad for babies, especially as they grow.

Now I don’t agree with Dr. Phil on all of his notions but he was quite compelling, and I thoroughly enjoyed his shortened seminar. (He packed his 6 hour talk into 2-1/2 hours, so we missed some juicy stuff like the terrible 2’s temper tantrums. Dr. Phil apparently loves them, yet we know not why). He was folksy, humorous and kept us pretty much entertained with his stories. Worth every penny and I wish we could have heard more. On a different day. With heat. Our school’s gym furnace automatically turns down the heat after 5 and on weekends, so pretty much anytime we might be having a staff meeting there. I’m always froze by the time I walk out of there.

At our staff retreat last week. Brrr…

I should have bought Dr. Phil’s book that he brought along. (The ever hopeful author) But my PhD clinical psychologist daughter Shannon’s an expert on childhood behaviors, often testifying in court on their behalf or offering a diagnosis and treatment plan. Although Dr. P believes this attachment or lack of it is deeply rooted already by 3 months of age, as far as I can see, all our babies seem well adjusted, loved and cared for at home with mom and dad and in our care. Phil did however validate many things I do as a caregiver that I had never given any thought to before. Holding babies, looking into their eyes while I rock or give them a bottle. Touching their fingers, toes, heads, cheeks. Saying their name often, but not in a condescending way. I love singing that old 60’s song, The Name Game to them. Anyone remember it? “Shirley-Shirley-bo-burley, banana-fana-fo-furley. Fe-fi-mo-murley-Shirley.” The babies love it when I do a bunch of their names while pointing to each one of them. Or simply smiling at them, which makes them smile back, even from across the room, which is priceless. Talking to them while I’m lugging them around. While they know not what I’m saying, they do realize that I’m talking to THEM. Who knew I was doing a couple things right?

But there’s always room for improvement. Always. So until May’s staff meeting (hope it’s warmer in the gym, plus it should still be light out when we’re released on good behavior), I will ponder the theories of the lesser famous Dr. Phil, while striving to become a better caregiver. Making a positive difference in our babies lives. Each day I’m there. All I can hope and pray for…

Hubs was on his way out of our seldom used front door for the mail when he quipped, “want anything special?” Because it was a Saturday, I was instantly transported back to: pick a year, any year between 1970-1985. And it had to be early spring. Those were the days. Let me explain. From the beginning.

John’s senior prom, 1966. Three more years, we’d be married…

It all started the year we got hitched, 1969. John had bills up the wazoo and I wasn’t much better off. I brought to the marriage table a humongous car payment-80 bucks and change. Hubs had a car payment too, but get this, he couldn’t even drive because he had so many speeding/drag racing tickets, plus he couldn’t afford to carry the insurance. And he’d just taken a trip through Canada with his buddy Rod and racked up 300 plus dollars on his credit card. Probably equivalent to 4 or 5 thousand dollars in credit card debt today. On top of that he had a brand new color TV which was not paid for. Today I would venture these bill amounts totaling around 10-15. Thousand. Dollars. We were in a world of hurt. But in love, and happy eating tuna salad or casserole every night. When we weren’t worrying on how to pay all those outstanding bills.

The family of 3, 1973…

Think Hubs was taking home about 100 bucks a week, me a lot less than that working full time in a nursing home. The list of bills got longer and longer. And we got behinder and behinder. Robbing Peter to pay Paul was the name of the game. Whatever was on the verge of being repossessed, turned off, evicted from, got paid first. That month. Couldn’t worry about the future, we were literally living week to week. Or day to day.

As 1969 closed and 1970 was ushered in there would be new and exciting challenges for Johnny Wayne and Neese. Parenthood was the biggie at the end of 1970, but this mini-miracle/nightmare occurred in early spring. We were filing our first federal tax forms as husband and wife. If I remember right, back then we could write off any and all interest paid from our big stack of bills. Interest on car payments to the credit card. For us, this added up to a small fortune. Since we made squat, when H & R Block figured out our taxes, we would be getting a sizable refund from the government. They explained this was really our money. We let the government use our money throughout the year because we had too much taken out of our weekly pay checks. “Change your deductions, don’t let them use your money all year.” Blah, blah blah. Who could listen to such nonsense, we were gonna be rich. In 8 to 12 weeks. Which always turned out to take longer than all 3 of my pregnancies. Combined.

Adding Joshua, now about a year old in 1976 on the farm…

We’d fastidiously mark the calendar, counting down the days and the weeks, praying the refund (it’s our money, send it back please) would be sitting in the mailbox at the end of 8 weeks. As if. There was no turbo tax, no direct deposit, no e-filing, no swarmy businesses offering to give your refund early in exchange for grabbing your refund check when it arrived. Everything involving the IRS moved at the speed of sloth. All of the forms were written out by hand, and moved through snail mail. You could call an 800 toll free number after 8 weeks to see if your taxes were in the process of being completed. But not before that magical 8 week mark. All of our friends got their refunds in a reasonable amount of time. Why, oh why did it take a lifetime to get ours? We were good people, where’s our money? Remember, it’s really our money. We were politely asking the government to send our refund back to us. In a timely manner. Without grief.

Here’s Adam, age 5 in 1984…

For that first decade and a half of marriage, every single year it was something. Somehow our refund always got delayed instead of arriving early or on time. And there was no one on this earth who needed the money more than J & D. Gospel truth. One year we waited and waited for our refund to show. Again, it’s our money, not like we’re trying to commit a crime here. We’ve happily let you use the money all year, but it’s ours. “We’re broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted.” (a little IRS humor). So send it back. Pretty please. Zip after 8 weeks, nada after 10. We called the toll free number, waiting hours just to hear there was nothing for John and Denise coming our way. They had received no tax filing from us. So we called the tax man. I don’t know if it was H or R, but his last name was definitely Block. They’d look into it and find out what was going on.

After a sleepless week (multiple bill collectors were calling us daily). Some nights after supper I would not answer the phone. There was no such thing as caller ID, no answering machines. Just pissed off worker bees hired to harass people who owed their company money. Namely us. The pain was palpable and excruciating. It’s our freaking money, why have you got in it for us? We’re just a broke young family trying to pay off our stinking bills. Which we could do if you’d send us our own money back. Maybe we really should look at changing our deductions. But then there would never be this big boost to our economy every spring. To spare us from bankruptcy another year. Yes, it was a dilemma.

Newborn Joshua, New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

Houston, we have a problem. One of the tax workers (neither H or R would take responsibility) who had the mundane chore of filling out our paperwork by hand, inadvertently put a Z instead of a V at the beginning of our last name. (Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows our sorrow). John had to fill out an affidavit proving his name was Van Berkum instead of Zan Berkum. It had to be notarized, mailed with exceeding speed because the IRS really cared what happened to us (ha-ha, I jest). While we waited. And waited. Took about 6 months to get our refund. Yikes, it was almost time to file again. Holy cripes. The only thing not repossessed during this lengthy timeframe was Shannon. This may be a slight exaggeration.

Through it all, we’ve made it work, 1977…

Although I’ve never felt the rush drug addicts claim come from a snort of coke, the euphoria experienced when that refund check was sitting in our mailbox has not often been duplicated. Oh good heavens, we were rich. Beyond our wildest dreams. Or to the tune of a couple hundred bucks. Just enough to keep the jackals at bay. For now.

It didn’t take us very long before we figured out the IRS sent out massive refund mailings on certain days back in the 1970’s when we lived in Iowa. If you did not get your federal refund on a Saturday or Monday, you were screwed for the whole week. The refund checks arrived only on those 2 days. Now state refunds were another matter. But Iowa’s refund never amounted to much for us, so there wasn’t a lot of excitement surrounding its arrival. Ho-hum.

Daddy and his boys in 1979…

I think our bank was Toy National in Sioux City back then. Giddy, like we were high on something, we’d drive to the bank to cash that whopper of a check. If the check arrived too late on a Saturday, the bank was already closed, then we had to wait until Monday to cash it. A whole weekend filled with dreams and schemes of what could be done with that money under different circumstances. When we finally made it to the bank and cashed that check, there might have been a couple twenty’s but mostly five and ten dollar bills. John would fold the stack in half and stuff them in one of his back pockets of his pants. For the time being, he was about 3 inches taller in the car seat on one side. What a feeling! Sitting in our expensive Mustang (the lemon). We’d just drive around downtown for awhile acting like crazy people. Talk and argue how much we could afford (zilch) to squander before heading back to the bank to deposit the rest, which was never, ever enough. But it was more than enough to pay off that dang Canadian trip, if it was the only outstanding bill we had. Ha. One of 20. So divide and conquer. Pay a little to this bad guy, and a little to that one.

The most decrepit house in Worthington Iowa, 1976…

I’d like to say every penny of every refund went to pay our long overdue bills. But that would be a lie. We always spent a portion on ourselves. Yup, just blew through a portion of the money. One year it was a trip to Omaha. Umm, that was maybe 90 miles away. We had supper at a fancy steak house called Ross’ then we bought a deep fat fryer. What? Like we really needed that. So began our love affair with real French fries cut from fresh potatoes. Needed to buy something for Shannon, who was about 14 months old. We got her a red corduroy one piece outfit. It had an enormous zipper down the front, and snaps along the inside of her legs so I could easily change her diaper. Now why on earth would I remember something like that? Because the first time I put the outfit on Shannon, while I was zipping it up, she put her head down to look at her pretty new clothes, and I got her tender skin caught in the zipper by her neckline. She cried so hard, but not as hard as I did. That’s why I remember that outfit in great detail. Total wad blown was about 30 bucks, more than 10% of our precious refund. We were so young and dumb.

Right before we moved to Michigan, 1986…

This yearly high and low of tax refunds and the length of time endured while we waited lasted half way through the 80’s. Until we moved to Michigan and started making better than decent money in the auto industry. Suddenly, we weren’t cursing when every interest statement, every W-2 form hadn’t arrived by mid January, so we could get filed and start that painful waiting game. Meh, it’s mid-March, time to file again.

So when John said, “want anything special,” as he sprinted (more Hubs humor, he no longer sprints) out for the mail, I said right back, “Yes, I’ll take 2 handwritten letters from dear old friends and our huge federal refund we’ve been anxiously waiting for,” because my mind immediately zoomed back to those early spring weekends during the ‘70’s (as we were wringing our hands and gnashing our teeth). Waiting for the mailman, who walked our route. Praying the Good Lord had encouraged the IRS to be mindful of how hurting this young couple was. Up to week 10 and still counting the days. We continued waiting and waiting…

A better life-Hubs & me in our hot tub, 1992…

Hubs saw me coming out of the pantry a couple weeks ago. “Honestly Denise, if you’re going to give Ari your old cookbook, you’ve really got to stop using it. It’s falling apart. Literally. Use one of your other Betty Crocker’s. They all have the same recipes.” He’d learn soon enough those famous last words would come back to bite him in the butt.

Unfortunately, Betty cannot be duplicated or replaced…

Many of my favorite recipes have been in my head so long, I don’t need to look them up when I start cooking or baking. Still, most times I check the recipe for the little things, amounts of soda, baking powder, spices etc. Because I’m usually doubling the recipe.

Crusts and apple pie filling recipes from my best helper, Betty Crocker, 1972…

Sure enough, John was making a double batch of waffle batter, two for us, the rest, waffles for Jovi. Once we’re done eating, I start making Jovi’s. When each waffle is done cooking, I dab on a bit of butter, let it melt and sprinkle a tiny amount of sugar on top, then cut them in Jovi size bites with a scissors. Just like I did for my toddlers decades ago. Our waffle recipe only has a tablespoon of sugar in the batter which makes 3 waffles of 4 squares each. I’ve always found syrup to be messy with little ones, so I just sprinkle a little sugar on top. (Mommy doesn’t know, so Jovi and I just keep this our little secret). A teaspoon of sugar on 4 big squares is not going to hurt anyone. Besides, the waffle tastes so much better. I do the same thing for pancakes and French toast when I make them for Jovi.

On today’s menu, Jovi’s style French toast, cut up and froze in snack bags…

But it was before I made Jovi’s waffles when John frowned, “hmmm, they taste different.” “What? I don’t taste anything different. Did you leave out an ingredient,” I asked? “Don’t think so,” he answered, “I checked the recipe twice since I was doubling it for Jovi. I think the recipe might be a little different. I wish I hadn’t told you to put old Betty out to pasture. Did you give it to Ari already?” No, I hadn’t given the cookbook to Ari, simply put it in a drawer so I’d be forced to start using one of my ‘other’ Betty Crocker’s.

All Betty Crocker’s are NOT the same. Lame evil step-sisters…

The ‘other’ Betty Crocker’s aren’t really mine like mine is. In the last 20 years, every time I found an old, cheap Betty Crocker cookbook at an estate sale or in an (cringe) antique store I bought it. (How can I be old enough to use shit I now find in antique stores? Really, how is that even possible? Seriously?)

There should be pride because I used it so much. But yuck, I’m a slob…

Equally hard to believe is what kind of dire straights Hubs and I were in when I finally got my first Betty. One would think it might have been a shower gift or wedding present. We eloped, so had no shower. Gifts for the newlyweds were few and far between. Our folks (grudgingly, had to keep up appearances) had a small reception for us (cold as freaking ice, though it was only October-not weather related, just coolness in the room) so we did get some gifts. I think everyone knew I couldn’t boil water, why bother with cookbooks? No, Betty Crocker did not join our small family until 1972.

I know I should be ashamed using this decrepit cookbook. But we have history…

We were living in Sioux City. I was slowly learning how to cook, well, because we had to eat. Our stretched so very thin budget allowed eating out at McDonald’s every other Friday (payday for Hubs). Shannon and I would meet John at McDonald’s near Sunset Plaza after he directed the 6 o’clock newscast. It really was quite a treat. I think the 3 of us ate for about 5 bucks. At the time there was only one cookbook in our house. Appropriately named Family Favorites, (it’s got several pages of Dutch recipes, including Saucijzebroodjes, ‘pigs-in-the-blanket’ from Western Christian’s High School, circa 1964 edition. Which is my second favorite cookbook. I still use it religiously! A little delicious Godly humor). I had long coveted Betty Crocker’s cookbook when I saw it in stores. Better Homes and Gardens had a fancy Cookbook too, but it didn’t trip my trigger like Betty. But Betty was pricey and we were so broke. One could easily say we were nearly destitute.

My other frequently used cookbook. Some recipes are in Dutch, yikes…

Funny how we change over the years. I wouldn’t be very excited or grateful receiving an appliance these days. But back when we were in the first years of marriage, I felt like I had won the lottery. When Shannon was about a year old, we were living in a small house in Hinton, Iowa. No furnace in the house, just an oil burner heater (often times we couldn’t afford to fill the fuel tank, leaving us out in the cold). No basement either, so the slab house was unbelievably frigid. We bought a couple of super cheap area rugs which were about as thick as tracing paper. As new parents we were concerned because Shannon was on the floor all the time. And I had no vacuum cleaner. Everyday I’d get down on my hands and knees to pick up all the ploujes (plue-shees, Dutch word for a fuzzy or piece of lint from clothes or socks on the floor or your clothes). If I didn’t, Shannon would offer to meticulously do it for me-afterwards though she’d quickly pop all the ploujes in her mouth. Ugh. Our dear neighbors, Clarence & Ida loaned me their expensive, super deluxe Kirby vacuum cleaner once a week, but that monster weighed as much as I did. Lugging it back and forth from their house to ours was a trip alright. Plus it had so much suction, it sucked up half those cheap rugs. When John bought me a $39.00 Eureka vacuum for Christmas, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

From Family Favorites, authentic Dutch Saucijzebroodjes-pigs-in-the-blankets…

I felt the same way after Hub’s made a trip to a Sioux City jewelry store downtown called Greenburg’s. Heavens no, not for a frivolous piece of jewelry we could ill afford. But a set of new pots and pans! They were having a huge sale. It was called Club Aluminum and came in several different colors. Harvest Gold, Avocado Green, Poppy Red, Chocolate Brown, even Turquoise. John chose Poppy Red and the set consisted of 1, 2, 3 quart sauce pans with lids, a 4 quart Dutch oven and a fry pan. Now if I only knew how to cook. Minor details. I was trying hard by then.

I am a lost cause. Still using Club Aluminum, now Avocado Green…

While the vacuum cleaner and set of pans were necessities, Betty Crocker was not. I was thrilled, absolutely thrilled when John and almost 2 year old Shannon went shopping at really neat department store called Bellas Hess in Morningside and spent a whopping 9 bucks to bring Betty home at last. I poured over that book, salivating over what recipes I thought I was capable of fixing. Not a lot of meals, mostly the baking sections. Cakes and frostings from scratch-always. Pies and crusts too. Almost every cookie Betty had in her repertoire. That cookbook has been a big part of my life for 45 years. I’m not so sure I’m ready to give her up just yet either. Her cousins aren’t made of the same mettle.

Betty, you got a great cream puff recipe, though I use Mom’s homemade vanilla pudding recipe…

There was a great bakery (name escapes me. Carolyn Baczwaski, do you remember this store?) close to a drug store called Scott’s. I think Scott’s was on 7th Street. At the time, Pampers were pretty new and cost about $1.30 per box of 30 diapers. Who could afford such things? Certainly not us. But when Scott’s ran a sale, Pampers were a dollar a box, we’d splurge. What a luxury. Disposable diapers you could just throw away, though we did not use them for everyday. Only camping trips or if we were going somewhere for the weekend. Oh, we still needed to use diapers pins, but no rubber pants, no rinsing out diapers in the toilet. Bliss, I tell you. Anyway, since we were shelling out big bucks on disposable diapers, we’d go to this bakery which was fairly close to Scott’s for a sweet treat. On top of the oak, glassed showcases housing donuts, longjohns and bismarcks galore, hanging on the wall behind the counter rested the cutest collection of ceramic cookie jars. Several different animals, some with salt & pepper shakers. Soon after becoming a mom, John and Shannon stopped at the bakery, chose the lion, who was wearing a crown and gave it to me for Mother’s Day. I used that cookie jar for years! One of the shakers broke during our many moves, but the cookie jar is still around, though packed away right now. I have about a foot of counter space in our little house.

My dusty little lion salt shaker gift-45 years ago…

After John questioned the waffle’s different taste, I dug out our dear family friend, my original Betty and checked out the waffle recipe. Sure enough, even though the edition patent date was just a few years different, some of the recipe’s ingredients had been changed. Silly changes too, if you ask me. They omitted baking soda from our original waffle recipe and boosted up the baking powder. Why? I have no idea. Kickbacks? Powerful lobbyists? I jotted down the waffle and pancake recipes from my old BC and added them to my groovy Longaberger recipe box this week. I guess as we discover minor changes in the dishes and desserts I’ve made for almost a half century, we’ll continue to write down the original way Betty intended her food to taste. Not to worry Betty, I’ve got your back. Those lame younger cousins of yours are off their Crocker if they think we wouldn’t notice…

Most of my favorites are stored in my basket recipe box, usually in my own scrawl…

Late fall 2017. Shannon emailed me a copy of Landon’s tentative Pioneer basketball schedule after she got it from Tracey. This was Landon’s third year on varsity, and we hoped there was one-2 week window where neither week had Tuesday night games. There was. Good news for us. Now Hubs and I could schedule our winter getaway, missing the bare minimum of Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) games.

Landon’s junior season at Pioneer, 2017-2018…

This time frame though would prove dicey for a couple of reasons. Didn’t want to be gone from the daycare the same time as Michelle, who’s getting her masters degree and has to spend time at college out east. Not that my part-time worker status of being gone is a big deal like full-time, detail oriented, organized, multi-talented Michelle. But more than one of us gone at the same time is a strain on our crew and a bit stressful for the babies. The babies quickly grow accustomed to seeing the same faces everyday. They may not be able to vocalize this (but they can voice their displeasure when seeing new faces in the room-loudly), but continuity is of upmost importance in their young lives. Nope, Michelle’s time off was just before the 2 weeks I wanted.

Our new minted 1 year old, Jovi, 2018…

The other reasons were just as important. Usually, we would fly somewhere (lots warmer than blustery Michigan) on Saturday after Landon’s Friday game, but the most magnificent baby in the world turned 1 a couple days before we were leaving. Who could miss Jovi’s fabulous first One-der-ful Birthday Party which was going to be on Saturday, the 13th? Not us. So I started looking at flights to Arizona for Sunday, January 14th. I don’t know why I just skipped over Sunday and booked our flights on the 15th. Monday’s in the flying world is considered a business travel day. When I booked our flights, I don’t think Peyton’s pageant date had been finalized. Certainly Shannon world have mentioned or sent details to me as soon as she got them. However, we were still home on that Sunday. Which would prove to be huge and exciting.

Peyton’s head shot for Jackson Crossroads Miss Outstanding Teen, 2018….

The Friday night game was a disaster. Landon sprained his ankle near halftime and would miss the next 5 games while it healed and he did physical therapy. Jovi however was a shining star at her party. Just getting the hang of walking, she crawled-walked her way through her adoring fans, looking too cute in all her glory.

Jovi’s Birthday Party, 2018…

But that busy weekend belonged to Peyton. She owned it. Hook, line and sinker. She had entered a beauty/talent pageant, Jackson Crossroads Miss Outstanding Teen (2 different age groups, 2 title winners). The only part Peyton struggled with was choosing what to showcase during her talent section of the pageant. It’s not that she doesn’t have talent. Peyton oozes talent from every pore of her being. Beautiful, smart, engaging, she sings and dances far beyond her young age of 13 (14 in a couple weeks). She wanted to accompany her dance routine by singing a song, which is nearly impossible. Dancing takes an enormous amount of energy (lots of breathing), leaving her (and the rest of us) breathless. So she went to a studio, recorded her own singing part, then helped choreograph her dance routine. Oh my, this young lady! Is there anything she can’t accomplish?

Peyton, stretching it out, wherever she is….

Suffice it to say, Peyton won. (Easily, hands down, but this is her grandma doing the writing here). The gown she chose was tangerine and stunning. Simply exquisite. Her platform? Gateway Drugs. This summer she’ll compete for Miss Michigan Teen, the winner goes to the Miss America Pageant.

She’s simply exquisite…

About a month ago Peyton attended a weekend orientation for the Miss Michigan Teen Pageant on the west side of the state. All of the state’s winning contestants were there, getting acquainted, supporting each other and listening to an inspirational speech from Miss America, Cara Munn. How many 13 year olds get to meet and greet Miss America?

Miss America Cara Munn and Peyton, February, 2018…

During Peyton’s tenure as reigning Jackson Crossroads Outstanding Teen, she will attend events, serving as a role model to other young girls. One of the community service projects she’s chosen is reading stories to classrooms of elementary students all over Jackson. (Of course, she’s an avid, voracious reader like her Mom).

Peyton getting crowned Miss Jackson Crossroad Outstanding Teen, January, 2018…

Peyton texted me a couple weeks ago and asked if she could read where I work at Felician Children’s Center? I thought it was a fantastic idea, so I gave her my boss’s email address. Peyton and Tracy talked and Peyton was given permission to read to our classrooms, starting with the babies.

I asked Peyton if she needed to stop and change clothes (you know, gown type duds) before I picked her up from school early? No, she answered. (I was a little bit bummed. I thought she’d be all decked out in queen like clothes, but guess she’d be in normal school clothes). I went to the school office (getting buzzed in, I appreciated the security) waited for her so I could sign her out. In walks this regal young woman. Wearing a light mauve dress, heels and her CROWN. (I looked liked I had worked at waste management for a week straight standing next to her). We zipped down to my school, snapped a couple pictures outside before going in. Peyton had several books picked out for different age groups that we talked about on the ride over.

Arriving at school for story time with Peyton, March, 2018…

We stop and talked to Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn, outlining where we were headed first. The infant room of course. Any jitters, they’re the easiest to please. Friday afternoon and it’s very quiet throughout the school. JPS had a half day, so they’re long gone. Peyton and I head to my stomping ground, which is pretty quiet. Peyton slips off her shoes, sits on the floor by 5 babies. Four of them are about 10 months old. What I wouldn’t give to have a little video of that reading. Let me set the stage. One of them is crying and immediately climbs on my lap. There, that’s better. But this is about 2 of the little guys. They’re sitting right next to each other, not 18 inches from Peyton. First thought that popped in my head is a Neil Diamond song, Desiree-revised a bit. The 2 boys are totally, I mean totally mesmerized with Peyton. As Neil would croon, “it wasn’t so much her words as such as-“WHO IS THAT? WHAT IS THAT SHINY THING ON HER HEAD? CAN YOU REACH IT? NO, I CAN’T MOVE A MUSCLE!” So stinking cute. Really.

Peyton on left vying for Little Miss Michigan, several years ago…

After 2 quick books, PJ and I move to the 1 year olds, who happen to be eating a snack. Pudding cups. Chocolate pudding. Everywhere. “Ah, is there at least one child semi-clean who can sit in the same vicinity as Peyton?” Nope, not at the moment. While they clean up kids, we walk down the hall when Sister Vicki mentions the 4 year olds will be gong outside soon, could we stop there and read to them before they go?

Peyton…

This turned out to be our best stop of the day. Those kids are a riot. Peyton sat in a low chair with a dozen kids crowding up to her, listening intently. After she read 2 stories, lead teacher Tonya pipes up, “anyone have any questions for Peyton?” Six or eight little arms fly up. The best question? “Can you say bad words when you’re wearing your crown?” Answer was an emphatic, “no, I don’t say bad words. With or without the crown.” Next best. “How long have you been dancing?” “Since I was 4.” I searched my phone and found the picture of Peyton at her first dance recital while the kids converged, “oohing and ahhing.” One little girl kept repeating, “I’m 4, I’m 4.” Like why haven’t I started dancing yet? They were polite, inquisitive, attentive and darling.

Peyton’s first dance recital, 2008…

We back tracked to the 3 year olds where one of my first babies from the infant room scooted as close to Peyton as she could. She was wearing hot pink rain boots, and had a couple of cute little smudges on her adorable face. These kids were inquisitive too, but quiet. Although their teacher Lindsay encouraged them, no one dared ask a question.

The 2 year olds room were just getting up from naps, ready for a snack, so Peyton sat at their long, low rectangular table with them. They were much more curious, getting up from the table to walk around by Peyton, touching her dress, or coming up to me as I sat by the window. You could certainly see the difference in their interest spans by their ages. Glenda and Robyn patiently sat most of them down several times, only to have them get right back up so they could walk around by Peyton again.

Dad, Peyton and mom after she won the crown, 2018…

Back to the One’s room, who were now in the process of getting bundled up in coats, mittens, hats, and boots for a stroller ride outside. It’s spring in Michigan after all. Guess we had gotten sidetracked too long with the older classes. But they were easily swayed (that crown seems to have some magical components) and approached Peyton eagerly, sans pudding. She read as they watched her intently. Just as soon as Peyton finished her last book, Autumn and Amanda quipped, “who’s ready to go outside”? A couple of fleeting glances towards Peyton as they marched into the hall, waiting their turn to be secured in the massive stroller. Story time was over, what’s next?

Peyton 2nd from left with incoming winner and outgoing from last year…

Peyton and I gathered our belongings, said thank you and goodbye to Sister Vicky, who insisted on getting pictures of us. (She’s a wonderful, patient Christian soul, but ruthless with her camera-always snapping pictures). I think Peyton was pleased with our afternoon at Felician’s Children’s Center. The babies through 4 year olds weren’t the only ones learning today. Peyton gained insight on the art of reading and storytelling when sharing books with others. It’s harder than it looks. You have all these words on pages, yet need to share the picture pages with the little folks sitting by you. Plus use expression and eye contact. And answer some quirky, sometimes inappropriate questions. Got to be fast on her feet. And smile, always smile.

While I was driving her home, we talked about some of these things because Peyton’s reading again next week at another elementary school. So the youngest group she will entertain is about the same age of the oldest group she worked with at my school. More complex books to practice during the week. Grandpa’s chaperoning her on that excursion.

2018 Jackson Crossroads winners, Peyton & Alexus…

As we walked into Peyton’s house, she thanked me several times for picking her up and going along with her. But of course, it was this gram who got the most out of our afternoon together. After her big win in January, I suggested she start journaling her year of wearing the crown. She might remember big moments, getting crowned, meeting Miss America. But the little moments will seep away after a few years, unless they’re written down. How she laughed when asked about saying bad words, the expressions on the babies faces as she read them stories. The coy fingers that darted and dared to touch her leg, arm or dress while she was reading. The 4 year olds fascination with Peyton when asked how long she’s been dancing. Hard to believe she’s been dancing her way through people’s hearts for a decade already. When you’re a grandma Peyton, you won’t remember the little stuff from way back. Write it down. Even the silly things. You’ll appreciate and enjoy it more than you realize when you’re older. Much older…

Recital cutouts of Peyton from past years in various costumes…

It started a few months after we moved back to Jackson, early 2016. Our good friends, Fred and Diane invited us to a Friday night fish fry. (A tradition during Lent in the Catholic Church). Jackson has a boatload of Catholic churches. According to Diane (born and raised Catholic her whole life) Our Lady of Fátima makes the best fish. Plus it wasn’t very far from our house. Sold. Let’s go. It was very good. And just packed with people.

Our Lady of Fátima, Michigan Center…

This amazing group of volunteers run their fish fry like a well oiled machine. The first time we went, the line was at least 75-100 people long. Hordes of folks hustled past us, going in the opposite direction. To the overflow dining area, meaning their enormous Parish Hall was already full. The line always kept moving. A catchy sign stating, “We don’t want to insult you. Don’t make us guess your age. If you’re over 65, please just say, senior and save yourself a buck.” When it’s finally our turn (didn’t take but a few minutes) the lady running the cash register had a stack of criss-cross dollar bills by her side. Because 90% of the customers are senior couples who pay with a 20 dollar bill. Thus she has 2 ones together lined up to give back. Which we turn over immediately to the next guy for 2 cans of pop. In between these 2 is the most important gal. She’s the lady with the golden tickets. OK, they’re not really gold but we are now entitled one dessert each from the large variety on the table at the very end of the Hall.

A table of religious information on activities as you wait to pay…

But first the food. One guy hands us each sturdy, divided paper plates, then we pick up napkins and silverware (plastic, a bummer but I understand). Our Lady of Fátima’s weekly Lenten tradition serves over 1,000 fish suppers per Friday night, between 4 & 7. Imagine the silverware and plates they would have to hurriedly push through the dishwasher throughout the night. Over and over again. Still, I love real silverware.

Fish-done-right…

First on our plate is an ice cream scoop of great cole slaw. Then there’s 3 kinds of fish to choose from, or some of each. Regular deep fried, spicy deep fried and baked. John says it’s ocean perch. I don’t know, but it’s good. Long, slender fillets, coated with just the right amount of stuff. I say no to the green beans (something about canned green beans sitting in quarter pan of hot water for several minutes, just not very appealing), no to the fries, but ask for a half baked potato.

Turn direction for the condiments. First dude is a royal pain in the butt, which is one of 3 downers besides plastic silverware and not serving real butter for my spud. He’s the man in charge of THE TARTAR SAUCE. He takes his job seriously and does not hand out tartar sauce willingly. Ever. I’m not a big fan of tartar sauce, but the Hubs loves it. Prit-near douses each bite of fish in it, if he gets any. The sauce comes in 2 ounce disposable containers which THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY has in a large box right in front of him. (Pretty sure it’s homemade). John politely asks for an extra container. THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY hems-haws, starts sweating, mutters something like, “I have to be so careful so we don’t run out. But, I suppose. Here.” Insanity. Hubs is embarrassed, holding up the line for a 2 ounce container. I swear the last night we eat there this year I’m gonna hand him a jar of Hellman’s for all the grief we caused him this Lenten season.

Jesus, praying for me…

Funny thing about tonight though. On the way to the church, John says, “I’m not asking for an extra tartar sauce tonight. Guy makes me feel bad. If you aren’t going to eat any could you take one anyway and give it to me?” Should have just said sure, but my finicky taste buds are just beginning to like the taste of tartar sauce. I just sort of hover my forkful of fish above my gigantic 2 ounce crater of tartar sauce and see if any of the flavor reaches my fish. “No problem, I’ll ask for extra tonight and let him embarrass me instead,” chimes the martyr wife. I will say, THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY is consistent. Gives me the same song and dance, trying to get me just to move along. I stand in front of him longer than it took giving birth to Adam, my breech baby, smiling sweetly, and wait. Finally the impact of that 2 ounce extra container weighs in on my plate. I offer him a heady, “thank you, thank you,” and move forward, holding up my hand as a stop sign to his equally big box of tiny sour cream containers. Yes to a dinner roll, no to cornbread, and no to all the free drinks offered if you didn’t spend that extra buck on pop.

Some of the stained glass windows, always 3 in group…

There are approximately 40 tables set up. A couple are rectangular, but the majority are round, each seat 8. We head towards the back of the room, most nights it’s just John and I so we have no trouble finding 2 seats together. Tonight there’s only one other couple at our table. We exchange pleasantries as we sit down. I hand over the extra large, certainly priceless tub, sure to make them run completely out of tartar sauce before the last 700 souls get some for their fish and say, “holy cow, did you hear that guy? I honestly didn’t think he was going to give me extra tartar!” The other guy at the table busted out laughing and says, “you must be talking about THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY! We were just laughing about him!” I thought I was being quiet and discreet, but hey, I’m deaf, so I probably talk louder than I thought. But enough jokes about the guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders over doling out just enough tartar sauce to feed 1,100 tonight. And Jesus thought it was tough with 4 fishes and a piddly crowd of 5,000.

The windows of Our Lady of Fátima…

Because it seems as though God has appointed the Catholic Church, my 2 amazing nuns at the daycare and Our Lady of Fátima in charge of saving my soul since we moved to Jackson. Since Lent starts about the same time as I started working at Felician’s Children’s Center 2 years ago, I’m not really sure if it was an accident or they’re in kahoots together. (God works in mysterious ways). If you’ve read my blog over the years consistently, you’re aware of my issues with organized religion for the last decade, but there’s no way you can convince me that Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn aren’t concerned about saving my soul and getting me to heaven. I frequently hear one or the other say, “you’re in my prayers Denise. Everyday.” A few days before Lent started, Sister Vicky. She’s in charge of religion and comes in every Monday to tell the babies a story about Jesus, including songs. Jonah and the whale last week, the whale burped him back out, ha-ha. This Lenten season she walked in my room and chimed, “I’ve got a book for you Denise.” Handed me a, 6 Minute Reflections on the Passion, according to Mark. Then added, “I’ll bring in the rest of your Lenten material, The Path to Peace, soon.” She did not forget either. Naturally, she had our names on the top of the booklets, which I failed to notice. Brought home Marty’s copy instead, then had to make sure Marty took my copy home or Sister Vicky would be crestfallen in my backsliding. Nobody else got a copy of 6 minute reflections but me, she knows I need help.

Our Lady of Fátima poster celebrating 100 years…

The second time Hubs and I went to the fish fry, we meandered through the round Sanctuary after eating. The building is relatively new, quite big but not overly pretentious. Beauitful oak, curved pews. As we were admiring the stained glass windows, a guy comes over and explains the 14 stations. Stained glass storytelling really, depicting events leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. Fascinating.

Covered statue until Easter Sunday…

Last year as we were leaving we ran into a nice guy near the sanctuary. He starts a conversation and mentions he’s from Detroit but is an organist at Our Lady of Fátima. He woos us in the Sanctuary to spotlight a beautiful organ off to the side of center stage. Sits down and just starts playing for us. Why? No idea. He was very talented and friendly. It must be something on my countenance. Crying for help. Talks about an upcoming weekend concert and personally invites us. But we truly have a conflict (think it was Hubs birthday and the kids were all coming home).

The covered crucifix on the altar…

Still, there’s just something about the people and this church. After the conversation in the car about THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY, I told John I was going to take some pictures of the church for my blog post. He was embarrassed and wouldn’t walk near me when my phone was out. As I walked in the Sanctuary to get pics of the stained glass windows, I noticed the first big statue was completely draped in gorgeous purple cloth. There was a lady standing nearby. I stammered, “Umm, I imagine this has some special significance?” “Yes,” she replied. “All of our statues are covered during Lent. Even the crucifix on the altar. To remind us something’s different, give us heightened awareness that something’s coming.” “I don’t remember any of them being covered the last time I walked through the Sanctuary though. It’s quite noticeable, think I would remember that,” I replied. “It’s only the last couple weeks of Lent. You probably walked through during early Lent last year,” she said. After I walked through the circular Sanctuary, snapping pictures we had a 20 minute conversation with her, though I didn’t get her name. (John joined me by then because I had put the camera away). She lived in Red Oak, Iowa for 3 years early in her marriage, and had just finished taking care of her grandchildren for a week while her daughter traveled on business. Grandma was pooped but exhilarated. Talked about how much more we worry about our grandchildren than we worried about our kids when they were little. She knew exactly what I was talking about. Strange. All in all, my experience with Our Lady of Fátima has been an incredible one. But I’m not ready to get any rosary beads just yet.

There’s a lot of stained glass in this circular Sanctuary…

Let’s do the math. To round things off, we’ll call it an even thousand suppers per week. Again we’ll say the average cost is 9 bucks. This year I believe that’s 7 Friday’s. (They don’t serve on Good Friday, but do have their last supper (no, it’s a different one, nada to any last supper humor attempt) the Friday after Easter. All help is volunteer. Let’s round it off $58,000 dollars. I’m not very good at costing food out, so I could be way off, but let’s say 4 grand (which I feel is generous) a week for the actual cost of the food. Leaving about $30,000 profit. For the love of all that’s holy, please, please spend an extra 30 bucks a week on Mayonnaise, mustard and pickle relish for THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY. Dude, you gotta lighten up. I fear for your sanity if you have to go through this ordeal for every other person another 7 Friday’s in your life. You’re not getting any younger…

First the disclaimer. No where on my resume as grandma does it state: “yeah, she sure knows what she’s doing in the statistics department.” Three years ago, as a freshman in a very large, urban high school, Landon made the varsity basketball team. You would have thought this delighted me, but I was less than thrilled. Skeptical even. I visualized Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) sitting the bench for the whole season as opposed to being a ‘star’ starting on junior varsity.

Landon’s junior basketball season, 2017-2018…

But I can be wrong occasionally. Yes, occasionally. Landon actually played quite a bit that season and had a pivotal impact on the team. (Really no surprise there. He’s had a basketball in his hands since he was 3. And made exceptional shots since then too).

Ball has always been at home in his hands. Landon, 2001…

I never just decided to keep track of how Landon was doing in every game. It simply morphed from loose scraps of paper in my purse during the first couple of games to this dorky little notebook that I dread seeing coming to an end. (I’m not ready for his high school career to end. How about a do-over)? Yet I dare not change one iota of my own quirky way of being Landon’s statistician through the rest of high school either now. Can’t risk jinxing anything.

Taking a shot during a high school halftime, 2007…

Landon’s junior season of basketball is over. I don’t know if he feels as anticlimactic or a bit dissatisfied about the year as I do. There were many changes, ups and downs. A new head coach (verdict is still out as far as I’m concerned, not really impressed) new players, some good, some not. Got to mention a player that really had an impact on the Pioneer team. He transferred from New Mexico I think. His name is Kasean, a junior like Landon this year. He and Landon clicked on and off the court. Kasean’s (Kay-son) good, tough underneath, has a nice jumper, and surprisingly accurate from the 3 point line in the corner. He’s tall, maybe 6’ 8” and slender. He’d look so much better (as would I) and play a little tougher if he’d take 20 pounds from me. But that’s never the way these things work. I look at cake and gain weight, Kasean eats the back of a pickup bed full of pizza, plays basketball for 20 minutes and is down 4 pounds. Just shoot me now. Like most beanpole guys, his strong suit is not dribbling down the court. Just too much space between his bounce and the floor. I think Pioneer might be a better team next year. The weirdest thing about Kasean is he reminds me of my Dad. It’s his thumbs when he runs. He holds his thumb exactly like my Dad always did (though Dad was not running of course).

Kasean, 2018 Pioneer basketball team…

I guess I really wasn’t ready for this season to end. Big surprise there. After missing a couple weeks in January while we were in Arizona, I was so anxious to get back in the basketball saddle, while Landon was in the middle of healing a bad ankle sprain. Good news, I missed nothing when we were gone. Bad news, he couldn’t play for another week after we got back. Long drought, though the Pioneers won 2 of the 5 while Landon was injured. When he did come back it was with limited minutes for another week.

A long 3 for Landon, 2018…

So getting back to my lacking stat abilities. I’ve been known not to mark Landon’s missed shots, turnovers or fouls (though he has very few, I really hate writing them on his sheet). I do a little better with assists, rebounds, and steals. But I never miss any of his point totals. Ever. Until I did just that. Had him down for 28 in a superb game (which we lost), when evidently he scored 31 points. What has happened to my world? I’ve been right as rain in his scoring when the paper’s been wrong about his point total more than once. Every year. But somehow I missed an amazing 3 pointer during that Skyline game. Damn. Need to get my mojo back before AAU starts in a few weeks (though none of those games goes in ‘the notebook’-that’s only for his high school games).

At the end of the regular season for his freshman and sophomore years, both ending with the Pioneers as Conference champs, tournament play, districts and regionals kept their season going for another couple weeks. This year with a record of 500, it was one-&-done once the tourney started. Not a good way to end the year. The good news is the team that beat us in Districts is still in the running (and we’ve had their number for the last couple years). Hope they go all the way. Landon has some good friends on their team.

My notebook full of Landon’s basketball career-so far…

I don’t know how to average his point total per game exactly. Oh, I should add up his points for the year, divided up by the number of games he played in. But that doesn’t seem fair or very accurate. With 32 minutes in each game, when Landon played 28 minutes or more, he averaged 22 points a game through 9 games. Pretty incredible right? In 4 lopsided games, playing 20-22 minutes he averaged 19 points. The reason behind these games is because we were so far ahead, there’s no reason to keep any starters in. And it’s the right thing to do. Let others on the team get some much needed playing time. Rest the work horses and save them for when they’re really needed later. Through 3 games he was on limited minutes or restricted by the Doc to go easy on that ankle. In those 3 games, playing less than half the time, he averaged 9 per game. Not bad. If I double the minutes, his point total would have probably been somewhere between the 19-22 range. Maybe it doesn’t make much difference. So taking his total points for the year, divided by 16 games, (he missed 5 games with the ankle) his average is 19 points. I believe that’s up about 5 points a game since his sophomore year. Nice. Dude.

I’m not the only one thinking he’s gonna to be great…

After a couple weeks rest, Landon will play AAU (Amateur Athletic Union-a travel basketball league with tournaments all over the US during the spring and summer) for some lucky team for the final time in the 17 & Under division. We only attend about 3 tournaments per season. The style of play is different, more showy, more dunks, not as many set plays. But it is a lot of fun to watch. They sometimes end up playing 3 or 4 games A DAY, so it’s exhausting. And I’m only watching and keeping track of L’s totals. But with all the hoopla (big time college coaches from all over attend, watching certain players they may need in the future). It all starts with a cunning guard, leading the way down court. Without turnovers, making amazing passes, assists, taking good shots when the time is right and feeding other players, making them better too. An amazing point guard named Landon…

The softer side of Uncle Drew with Jovi, 2017…