Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention. Seeing is believing. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate. Get your ticket for the greatest show on earth which is about to begin. Never before seen by the general public. Be one of the firsts. The lucky few to view. All for the price of one thin dime. The line forms here. No pushing or butting in line, there’s room for everyone in the tent.

The most incredible stained glass window in Notre Dame, Paris, 2017…

I have a follower. Not in a scary-stalking way. My one and only blog fan. I know, I’m as surprised as you. There’s one soul out there somewhere who patiently waits, then reads my posts. And comments on every post. When he’s able. My blogging app tends to be a sensitive wench. Occasionally won’t allow me to add pictures before I hit publish or allow my adoring masses to comment. I mean my one guy. He’s not on Facebook and I can’t convince him to join, if but for the single reason to read my blog on it. I’ve told him several times, he’s seriously missing out on the best part of my blog. The comments on Facebook after I post a story. But the neat comments have not been enough to entice him. I guess he routinely goes to Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town to see when and if I’ve posted a new installment.

Starting in back, Shirlee, Char, Pam with me in front. Notice how crazy I’m holding my left hand, so John’s class ring is visible. Ha-ha…

I believe my one fan deserves a name don’t you? His name is Paul. He’s read every one of my stories. Twice. I’m not kidding. (Dude is a glutton for punishment). This is my 190th post. (Hard to believe. Never thought I would write this much or this long. Some of you are now pleading, please stop for everything that’s sacred. Sorry, no can do yet). Paul then started all over and read them again. Twice-as in 2 times. I’ve gotten to know him as a friend through his comments which are kind and insightful. Posting comments on a blog post (not on Facebook) is nothing short of miraculous. I know because I always try and answer Paul’s comments. Sometimes I’ve answered him and hit publish, the whole comment just disappears into thin air. This has happened to Paul so often, I wonder why he even bothers anymore. Very frustrating. It’s so much harder than commenting on Facebook, yet he persists. (Thanks Paul)

I LOVE this picture. My Dad, snoozing after supper. I stuck one of my dolls in his arm, 1960…

But it was one of Paul’s casual comments a month ago which caused me pause. He’s muddled his way through my blog (for the second time) from June, 2014 to the end of 2017. Approximately 180’s worth of boring, angry, mundane, sad-sack, misspelled words, bad punctuation, piss-poor sentence structure posts, with just enough lightheartedness to stop him from chewing off his own arm out of sheer, tear worthy boredom.

Shannon on tippy toes giving my dad a kiss, 1973. She loved my mom and dad so much…

It all started with that dang Facebook challenge to post a black and white photo once a day for a week. Pictures without people or nary a word of explanation about my life. Just about killed me. (Thanks again for that Anne. But this time I really mean it). First I couldn’t come up with a decent picture worthy of no explanation, however after day 3, I was dreading day 7 because I was not near done with pictures about my life. Since Paul is not on Facebook he never knew how crazy this simple challenge made me. Here’s his comment about my story, My life-1 Snapshot at a Time. From Paul: “enjoyed the picture show even though I had already viewed at least 75% of them.” (Ouch) He knows and remembers.

Josh was a dedicated biker, with or without clothes, 1977…

Depending on my story, if I’m recounting something that happened when Shannon was 10, I start searching for an accompanying picture. As soon as I spot an appropriate picture, that’s the one I use, instead of looking for another 15 minutes. I’m not very orderly with my scads of pictures. I have boo-koo albums, all titled. The boys, Early days, The Falls, Jovi, and so on, but still it seems like I’m searching forever for a certain picture that’s already in my head. If it’s not in the right spot, it means I’ve got to go through all 4,000.

Great picture of the Hubs in 1978, Spencer, Iowa…

Thus I’m doing another story about my life in pictures. To be sure I’ve never used any of these pictures before, I should carefully go through each story, documenting each photo so there’s absolutely no chance of any repeats. Now that’s really a challenge. Not gonna happen Paul. I’m lazy, and if I start reading my stories from the beginning again, well that’s just not time I have right now. Besides over half my stories still make me cry, no matter how many times I’ve read them. Makes me an emotional mess. Not always a sad cry, just a strong memory inducing moment. Don’t know if I’ll ever get over that part of writing. How powerful what I’ve written still makes me feel. Not the power of writing, but the emotion of the memory. Yawn, sorry.

Dad, surrounded by a mountain of empty beer cans. Sure he used this shot in his prison ministry…

Since my first story about snapshots of my life, I thought maybe for the next installment, a theme would make better subject matter. Perhaps places I’ve been for one, early days, my children, grands etc. But the pics I’ve picked here are just a mish-mash because I’m trying to use never before seen pictures to please my whole fan base. Of one. If this weren’t so pitiful, it would be funny.

One of my favorites. Peyton’s first pair of pointe shoes a couple years ago…

Now I’m gonna backtrack and insert some goofy pictures with short captions to make this somewhat tolerable. And thanks Paul from the bottom of my heart for giving this old gal the time of day. You are unique and I really appreciate your faithfulness…

Good grief, it’s Freddy Krueger. Alas, it’s only me after nose repair (Hubs broke unintentionally showing me a wrestling move) 1967…

I’m not very good keeping up with the times. My list of likes (horribly old-fashioned) and dislikes (pet peeves) are long. I’m somewhat distrustful, don’t use debit cards, won’t utilize online banking, (yes I’m the freak in line still writing an actual check for my groceries at Meijer). I’ve gotten to the point with my cell phone I’ve blocked more telephone numbers than the total number of people I have known in my entire life.

Mom reading the Dubuque newspaper in New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

I’m a novel reader. I have enough reality in my life so I’m not drawn to non-fiction. I prefer books for escapism. (Calgon, take me away). Exciting suspense, psychological thrillers, cops after serial killers, lawyers and courtroom genre. Get this, I still like holding an actual book while I read it. Quaint but Neanderthal right? There’s something so invitingly personal about having a real book nearby. I’m much more likely to flip my book open and read a few pages waiting for my clothes to dry for 10 minutes before hanging everything up than I am about opening one of my iBooks. Not gonna lug my iPad downstairs. Why is that? Same reading material. My iPad gets updates all the time. Am I so old school that I just refuse to ever update me? Afraid so on many fronts.

Summer in Davenport Iowa, 1985. I read outside, not weed…

I have some serious doubts about the longevity of newspapers. Pretty sure they will be obsolete in another decade-or less. Realistically I understand. All the news is at least hours, if not days old by the time the ink dries. Big stories, true or false are on the Internet instantly. Why would anyone still subscribe to a newspaper in this day and age? Me-me. Notice, I raised my hand. Yup, I still get one, though it’s changed so much during the last few years, I don’t even know why I bother. Biggest reason are the store ads. How can Meijer’s biggest and most ardent fan make one of my famous lists without pouring over their weekly bargains? Oh sure, Meijer offers the weekly ad right inside their door, but I need more time to peruse than that. These shopping trips cannot be rushed all helter-skelter.

Now our paper is about a third the size it was not many years ago. It’s unheard of to have any local feature writers. Used to look forward to a couple of writers on the west side of the Michigan. Tracy Lorenz is a sarcastic, genius humorist. And there was a gal about my age who wrote once a week about motherhood, marriage, being a grandma etc. Loved her column, but cannot for the life of me remember her name. She had 2 sons, one lived in Viet Nam, one in Maryland. Huh, that’s just frustrating as hell.

Guess I’m stuck on newspapers because Mom was an avid reader. (And like a book, I love the feel and rustling sound of a literal newspaper in my hands). For quite a few years, Mom got daily papers from The Des Moines Register, The Sioux City Journal, and The Sioux Falls Argus Leader. Plus weekly editions from The Doon Press (don’t ask) and of course our hometown paper, The Rock Valley Bee. Mom loved keeping up with the best sports writers and editorial pundits. Me, I’m in it for the comics and obituaries. No shame, no guilt.

Dad in the mid-60’s…

About 5 years ago, my then daily paper, The Muskegon Chronicle published a full page ad, listing all the reasons for the changes that were imminent. This next step in newspaper publishing actually included 7 large newspapers in Michigan. Regular subscribers would be offered some options. Receiving ‘real’ papers on T-Th-S, Th & S or just Sunday every week. The rest of the days the news would be available online, or you could buy hard copies on newsstands, grocery stores or big gas stations. Since newspaper popularity has dropped seriously and subscriptions were at an all time low, this was accepted by most everyone under 50. At the time I was Parish Visitor for our congregation whose average age topped well over 80. Gospel truth. Guess what? Many of them had no internet service or desire to read the newspaper on a phone as big as the palm of their hand. Most still used landline phones. (No, we stopped that madness 8 or 10years ago. See, I can be hip).

My idea of reading the business section is Dave Ramsey’s Sunday column which features practical answers to questions about managing money, budgets and becoming (and staying) debt free. Why a business article at least 8 or 10 years ago (and not Ramsey’s) has stuck with me since is still worthy of head scratching. The article was on how big box stores track customers and our buying habits. Well, I’m a shopper, maybe that’s why I started reading. The big box store example they targeted was Target.

A 16 year old girl, alone and scared out of her mind was shopping at a Minneapolis Target. She bought a couple items, zoomed through the checkout and left. A couple weeks later, her 40 something dad is going through the mail and noticed an envelope from Target. Opens it to find a letter and some coupons. The letter was upbeat and congratulatory. Something like, “at Target we know how excited you are about your upcoming bundle of joy! We want to help! Here’s some coupons for 20% off to start your layette. Congratulations from all of us at Target!” Awkward. Miss-16-year-old-daughter had not yet found the right words to tell her parents about her pregnancy.

I don’t know why I felt so bad for the girl and her dad. Bad timing. But it should not have been Target spilling the beans. I was surprised at my anger and disgust for all things Target after that. Oh, I know this happens at all the big box stores, but somehow this teen pregnancy, and the way her parents learned the news hit me hard. Wonder what happened to that pregnant teen? If she chose abortion, adoption or decided to keep the baby. But from that day forward I chose to no longer shop at Target. Petty I know. But petty I am.

And I’ve stuck to my guns all these years except twice. About 5 years ago, Shannon sent me a Christmas wish list for Peyton. (Landon was easy, expensive sports socks, no list needed). Peyton wanted this big Barbie head to do makeup and style Barbie’s hair. On sale that week, wait for it-at Target. Ugh. I breezed in, bought the Barbie head and checked out, leaving with my one item. Learned a couple months later, my credit card had been compromised. Where? Target. Oh, for the love of pete.

Another happy generation of readers. Jovi, 1…

Haven’t been back to Target until this week. For Christmas, one of our daycare moms gave each one of us a gift card, which was very thoughtful. The gift card was from Target. Hmmm. Now I could have given it to someone as a gift, but I didn’t. Decided recently since I was running errands, I’d stop in and find something to buy with that card. Walked aimlessly around until I found the book section. One of my favorite authors, John Sandford had a new Virgil Flowers novel out, finally in paperback. OK, there’s 9 bucks gone. I buy each baby at daycare a book for their first birthday. Usually a Dr. Seuss rhyme-sing-songy-thing that’s fun for their parents to read. Meijer sometimes have them on sale for about 5 bucks. Wouldn’t you freaking know. Target had a whole end-cap display, literally filled with thick-cardboard-coated-Dr.-Seuss-books. Priced $3.50 each. Really? You’re testing me here, right God? Needless to say, I bought my daycare birthday babies a year’s supply. No, wait it gets worse. I’ve been practicing with my 1 year old great granddaughter Jovi-where’s your nose? Where’s your ear? Bought her every appendage Dr. Seuss book they have. What can I say? Wretched Target store. Having an awesome sale. And one-weak-shopper-who-loves-books. In my defense, I spent cash so they can’t track me. And I was wearing my tinfoil cap…

Jovi’s own little library at our house. Thanks a lot Target…

Hard to believe I’ve been changing diapers for 2 years already. I mean besides my kids and grandkids. Changing diapers at work though make up such a small percentage of what I do, I’ve got to tell you, I was totally unprepared how I feel about this job. Not only the job I really enjoy, but more how I feel about the babies.

Can’t show any babies from work so here’s one of Shannon with my Dad in 1971..

Some of the first babies I took care of will be turning 3 soon. I had no idea the huge impact they would make on my life. Watching as they start holding up their heads during tummy time, cooing, smiling-drool included. Always. Rolling over, first baby foods, transferring toys from one hand to the other, sitting up, sippy cups, the list is endless. Then comes the scariest 2 months. Usually after they’ve mastered crawling. They start pulling themselves up on anything nearby, your moving leg, the gate to the kitchen, another-wobbly-almost-walker. Quickly changing from hanging on for dear life, to just letting go, whether it’s appropriate or not. Yikes. A few spills, bumps and bruises. This scary time is kind of hard to be around, but it’s a big part of their development, and we can’t impede it, but I sure set them down a lot. Only to have them get right back up. As it should be.

Joshua and Daddy in 1976…

I was surprised by the strong feelings these babies invoke in me. Part nurturer-protector-advocate. I’m all in where they’re concerned. Oh they can be frustrating at times, like any parent knows. Teething, runny nose, earache, maybe awake several times during the night so their day is prone to be more fussy-filled. We all have those days, but babies can only convey their displeasure, pain, frustration or lack of sleep one way. Crying. Loudly. To. Get. Your. Attention. Now.

The legs-the bottle-the rubber pants! Adam, 1980…

When I started in the infant room at the Daycare/Preschool/Montessori, we had 6 babies. It wouldn’t be long before we had our full quota of 12 babies (and a long waiting list. Yes, we’re that good) in the room most days. One of the first new babies after I started working was a little brown eyed boy I’ll just call ‘EM.’ I’m sorry I can’t show you how cute he is but you understand the importance of confidentiality. Trust me, he’s adorable. EM was in our room for about a year, so went through all the exciting, exhilarating, scary, cute “firsts” most babies experience.

EM was brought in everyday with an older sibling tagging along who would then jet down the hall to one of the preschool rooms. He was maybe 3-1/2 at the time. Our staff lunch room is right next to the double doors which lead outside to the playground. Each class is suppose to line up quietly by the door, waiting for a teacher or aid to open the floodgates, I mean door. One day I was on my break when EM’s brother was horsing around, eager to run off some pent up enegy. As he’s goofing off, his eye caught mine, sitting at the table. His eyes got big as saucers, a frown appeared and he said accusingly, “what are you doing here? Who’s taking care of my brother? You can’t be in this room. Go back to EM!” The protective older brother. I hastily explained EM was just fine, the other gals were taking good care of him.

The exquisite Ari, 1994…

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, as workers, we don’t have favorites. Some babies care not which one of us holds, feeds, diapers, cuddles, rocks, or plays with them. They soak up the attention from whomever is taking the time to fill their needs at the moment. But. There are other babies who gravitate more towards one worker. Don’t know why. Maybe we remind them of someone in their short lives already. All my co-workers have experienced this several times. EM was my first. He chose me. He liked everybody, but for some reason I was that special person to him.

The Handsome Hoopster, Landon and me in 2000…

The babies invented a quirky way to let you know “you’re IT,” for them. We have this plastic covered, foam turtle which is about 4 feet in diameter. One of the babies will seek help from a couple of their cohorts. All slyly get in the turtle whose side is about 6 inches high. One casually starts snapping their chubby fingers while they belt out that old Grease tune, “You’re the one that I want-woo-woo-woo, you’re the one that I want.” The babies have applied for patent rights, but the idea has been stolen and renamed flash mob. I’m here to tell you, it was our babies in the infant room where it all started. Truth.

My talented singer-dancer, Peyton 2004…

When I think of those extra special moments since I started working, one that stands out was with EM. He was 8 or 9 months old and I was giving him a bottle and rocking him to sleep. He was laying in my arms, drinking contentedly and getting very sleepy. I was quietly caterwauling one of my-off tune-songs when I felt EM’s little arm, which was behind him on my back-patting me. Pat-pat-pat went his little hand. Makes me cry to think about it. (Although reflecting back, EM very well might have been trying to cover my mouth, but it was out of his arm’s reach. Poor baby).

Darling towhead (like his daddy was) Graham in 2010…

And then there’s the head butts. EM was the first to give me one, but he hasn’t been the last. This is explained somewhat like butterflies who just know how to migrate 6,000 miles in the right direction. Weirdest thing. I’m always busy tending to the needs of another baby. EM would just crawl up to me while I’m in a rocker or standing and gently head butt my lower leg. I glance down, “I know you’re busy, but um, don’t forget about me,” he’d seem to say with a small smile. How is it that at least a half dozen babies since EM have done this to me daily after they’re about 9 months old? Some kind of kinky secret baby code?

But as time goes on, we notice the older babies are getting bored with our toys and room. They’re really ready to move on to the next room, The Wonderful Ones. Engaging toys, stairs to practice on, (yikes) tiny grocery carts to push around, more complicated gadgets for slimmed down fingers. We start slow, letting them go over for a couple hours at a time. We have an adjoining door with a small window, so we can see how they’re doing. We dare not go in because they usually start crying when they see one of us until they’ve been there a few weeks. Then suddenly it’s the other way around. They don’t want to be in our room anymore-boring. Circle of their young lives already.

Great granddaughter Jovi on her first birthday checkup…

I don’t venture out in the halls much. I’m in our room, when it’s time for my break, I walk to the employee lunchroom, heat up my food, eat, brush my teeth, use the restroom and it’s back to the baby room. Period. Once the babies have left our room, I don’t see them often. After they move, maybe a couple months later, I can walk into the One’s and nearly get knocked over by squealing toddlers, giving hugs. Which feels absolutely worth it’s weight in gold. This feeling lasts the entire day.

The Hubs, John in 1948…

EM has been gone from our room a year now. He recently turned 2 and graduated again to the Toddler room down the hall a bit further. I haven’t seen him in 3 or 4 months. I occasionally ask his teacher how he or one of the other toddlers who were my babies are doing? Last week I was heating up leftover spaghetti for my lunch. EM’s teacher walked in the kitchen to get something from the freezer. Glenda had 2 kids with her (not EM though), one who was in our room. He gives me a shy smile, nothing more. I offer to carry the snack back to her room while my food is still in the microwave. As we walk through the classroom door, she takes the food and I scan the room. There’s EM, valiantly trying to let someone squeeze into a 2 toddler seat when there’s 3 of them. He looks up and spots me. His face breaks into an ear to ear smile and he runs full force into my arms. Not a second of hesitation. (Oh, I know her, she loves me. And I still love her!) The best. Thee. Absolute. Best. After being gone from my care for over a year.

Mom, me 8 months, and Mona in 1951…

We got a new baby not long ago. A stunning baby girl. So tiny. Her mom comes to visit and was talking while she fed her baby. “What is that song you sing about Sixpence,” she asked? “I never heard of it before. I love the simple tune, it’s very comforting.” (She was very kind not to mention how horrible I sound since I can’t carry a tune, and I’m deaf). I explained about my antique toy, Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie and how the song was sung to me when I was little, then I sang it to my kids. Now I sing it to our babies. Mom then said, “Denise, I want you to know I hope you’ll sing these songs to my baby.” I assured her I will indeed sing all my songs. Another ‘aha’ moment. New mom will never realize the significance (to me) of her nonchalant request to sing to her precious baby. Doesn’t get any better than that (besides the back patting, head butting, or leaping into my arms-a year later)

My antique (1953) Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie…

The ‘crew’ in our room often talk about the importance of our job. Though the babies will not remember us after a while, we realize the impact they have on us while they’re in our care. I did not however, realize I might actually have a somewhat lasting impact on any of the babies. Over a year later. Adding another layer to the meaning of my life. Yes, that was huge. Thanks EM…

Mom was meticulous about most things. Everything from our spic & span house, her sharp matching outfits, her snow white work uniforms, which were always ironed with perfect creases, to the high polished sheen of our oak dining room floor. Washed the windows, inside and out-constantly. Dusted the floors on hands and knees daily after shaking out all the rugs.

Mom’s beautiful dining room. You could eat off her floor, it was that clean…

She kept an old ace bandage box, separated by tiny dividers with an envelope in every section. When she and Dad got paid and cashed their checks, much of the money went into one of the sections of that old-falling-apart-box. IPS, De Boer’s station for Mom’s gas, fuel oil, Ver Berg’s station for Dad’s car gas (don’t ask), tithing for First Reformed, grocery money, phone bill. She wrote some checks but the majority of their bills were paid in cash. And always early.

Mom and me in 1957…

Still, I was dumbfounded when I started cleaning out their house after she passed away in 2004. She was a bit of a hoarder, but obsessively neat. A terrific saver, stashing money in the strangest places. She once hid a couple hundred dollars in the clothes dryer, promptly forgetting about it. A few days later while doing laundry suddenly remembered the money. Raced to the dryer to find only damp clothes, then screamed at Dad to run outside. Sure enough, 20 dollar bills were flying all over our back yard. She often hid money in pockets of clothes, coats and in books, so we carefully screened everything before deciding what to do with something after we lost her. And yes, we found several hundred dollars.

A Christmas gift of my outlined hand, a potholder perhaps…

Mom was an avid reader, always eager to learn more and studied our set of World Book Encyclopedias religiously from cover to cover. Yes, every volume. Think: the first google, everything you needed to know-after your fingers did the walking. Soaking that knowledge up, when she usually had to force me to look something up for a school report.

Awww…

I did find many things that surprised me, but couldn’t find a couple things that surprised me even more. Mom loved to write. She wrote entire conversations she had with my kids when they were small. I can still picture some of them. When I’d go to Rock Valley to pick up whatever kid had been there for a couple days (she always wanted the grandkids to visit separately, so they could be the big cheese and have their grandparent’s undivided attention). She’d have a couple new hand written notebook sheets, (in her beautiful, cursive penmanship) titled, Conversations with Shannon (later Joshua or Adam).

Mother’s Day card made in school…

Starting when they were about 18 months and were rapidly expanding their vocabulary. My kids were very bright. Honest. I should have been doing the same, but never did. You know those hilarious things your little rugrats come up with. Then Hubs would come home from work, and I was busy making supper, doing dishes and laundry, packing lunches, baths, stories and bedtime. That once in a lifetime priceless conversation just disappears from your head. We should all be allowed a few do-overs for that kind of stuff.

Outside of the card…

I couldn’t find any of Mom’s and the kids conversations they had together. Still disappointed and wonder what happened to them, because SHE KEPT EVERYTHING. But I did find lots of things I shake my head about and wonder, why on earth would you save that all these years Mom?

The day my long hair became everlasting pigtails…

Let me give you a few examples. She kept an article from the Rock Valley Bee. There is no date but it has to be 1957 because I’m in first grade. She might have been tickled to see my name in the newspaper. Part of the charm of small town living I guess. As I grew up, she probably prayed every night that my name wouldn’t make the paper again.

Snippets of a young girl’s life in 1957…

Little hand written poems from elementary school which earned me a few ribbons. A sheet of black construction paper that I must have plopped a few drops of paint on helter-skelter, then folded in half and pressed together. Ta-da, a butterfly appeared which also got an award. Yeah, I worked hard for that design. Silly little art projects. Most of which she had Dad make frames and hung them all over the house.

Corny, but Char’s still very special…

Mother’s Day day cards with mimeographed poems for every kid in the class to take home. (I still draw my houses the exact same way). And often still spell my own name wrong. Dennse. Yes, many people think so. Ironic? Doubtful. Prophetic is more like it. A green piece of felt with the outline of a very small ‘Neese’ hand, trimmed with red ribbon for Christmas present to Mom.

There are no words, just check out my name…

Report cards and awards for perfect attendance seem like reasonable mementos to save from my youth. While Mom kept many souvenirs from vacations, the postcards from the Beumer’s vacation and my duplicate activity ticket seem rather odd. But there they were for me to find, which gave me pause several times during the couple weeks while going through every nook & cranny of their old house. Maybe that was her intention. She’s been gone almost 14 years and here I am. Writing about the odd items saved for decades after her innocent little girl had long since moved on.

The gang who lived across the street. The picture side is 2 poodles and it’s got a squeaker inside…

But I really appreciate her thoroughness in saving so many different things of mine (many are actually worthless, but conjure all kinds of emotions when I spot them sitting around my house now). I wish I could say the same thing about saving things for my kids when they were little. I had some good intentions.

A budding artist-not….

I had nice baby books for all three kids, and I wrote a goodly amount in each one. All the usual stuff, rolling over, scooting, cooing, first words, snippets of their first haircut, how incredibly bright and beautiful each one was. One year I bought 3 huge Tupperware containers. Started putting awards, little shoes, special outfits, sports memorabilia in the tub for each one of them.

See, I did love school…

Pales in comparison though to Mom’s willingness to-go-over-the-top. She had my hair cut pretty short before I started kindergarten. She saved both pigtails. Took one of my rather adorable baby pictures and plopped the pigtails inside the frame 60 years ago. Dad made the frame, which was falling apart, and Mom used rubber bands on the ends of each pigtail. Which literally disintegrated after half a century. So the klutzy one took it upon myself to ‘fix’ my pigtail picture. Got a new frame and decided ribbon tied into tiny bows would last longer. In the process, I lost about a third of my pigtail hair though. It seems after all these years and and stark realization of uselessness of most items, I too am hesitant to toss any of it. I will leave those decisions to my kids after I’m gone. I can picture them going through tubs in the basement, shaking their heads and wondering why on earth would mom ever keep this stuff all these years…

Mom’s idea, but I now think it’s pretty neat…

This story began in 1962 when I was 11. I woke up one morning with a fat lip and aching face. Since I wasn’t really ‘sick’ (fever/vomiting/sore throat) Mom made me comfortable for the day with instructions to walk to Doc Hegg’s office at 9 to find out what was going on. Then she headed for work.

Soon I would have my first false tooth…

Doc Hegg’s office was just a couple blocks away, but the walk seemed longer than when I turned left at Main Street to buy some candy or a Bismarck at the Bakery. Doc’s office was north on Main, close to churches and residential neighborhoods, almost out of the business district. I opened his office door to the 3 sided/u-shaped booth seating waiting room and found a spot. There were several folks in front of me which always made it worse. Waiting. Pretty much with the realization that a penicillin shot was the first order of business after Doc opened the door and said, “next.” If everyone looked at me, then they had come in after me. My turn. Gulp. Although I loved Doc Hegg, he was kind of gruff, plus I didn’t like shots. But I hated being sick worse.

Doc Hegg’s office. Home of the penicillin shot…

Doc (smoking. Yes, really) looked and felt around my mouth, (wearing no gloves), mumbled something incoherent, got out the dreaded syringe. Gave me the penicillin shot (I figured) and told me to go Doc Schroeder’s office (a couple doors south) right now. Doc Schroeder was Rock Valley’s dentist. I went to him at least once a year when our entire elementary marched 4 blocks from school to have him check everyone’s teeth. But I didn’t know him like I knew Doc Hegg because my tonsils kept me well acquainted with Hegg until they were taken out around the same time as this fat lip.

Doc Hegg around 1965…

Folks going to Doc Schroeder usually had an appointment whereas Doc Hegg was more like today’s urgent care office. Doc Schroeder heard me creak up his waiting room steps. After a couple minutes, his inner door opened and he stuck his head out, raising his eyebrows in question. “Doc Hegg told me to come over after he gave me a shot. My mouth hurts and is swollen, but it’s not my tonsils this time,” I stammered. “It’s going to be a little while,” he said as he closed the door. More waiting.

When Doc Schroeder finally had time to squeeze me in, he inspected my teeth and mouth thoroughly, wearing no gloves. He had the neatest dental cabinet he kept rifling through. Rows of tiny drawers, some only a couple inches in height. One of them obviously holding just the right tool needed to fix me up and send me on my way. I wanted to go home, lay down and watch soap operas. But Doc looked concerned and said finally, “Denise, I need to speak with your mother. Please tell her call me as soon as she can.”

Doc Schroeder, the good dentist…

After Doc talked to Mom, she told me I had an abscess on my tooth. I would have to have my tooth pulled and a false one put in its place. Gross. And it was gonna cost a lot of money and take time. First he drilled a hole in the back of my bothersome tooth to relieve the pressure. Didn’t hurt but tasted terrible. There was no lab to send out my impression, Doc did all the work himself. Bridged the false tooth to the tooth next to it. All surrounded by solid 10 carat gold. Wow. (Mom would make payments for several months to pay for all this gold in my mouth. And I’m not sure why a root canal was never discussed as far as I knew. Either Doc didn’t do them or Mom vetoed going to a specialist. Root canals were discovered/invented already by the early 60’s right?) Doc was honest with Mom, telling her this was just the beginning issues in my mouth. My teeth were not good and I would most likely have dentures at a very young age. From that moment I made a vow to myself that I would do whatever possible to keep my hopeless, soft, abscess prone teeth as long as I could. Half a century later, I’m still trying to make good on that promise.

For many years there just wasn’t enough money to spend on my teeth. Thus by the time I made an appointment because the pain was unbearable, it was too late to save that particular tooth. But eventually there were some root canals, and a couple of bridges. Enough to keep me chewing steak. But the problems continued. About 10 years ago I was eating a piece of pie (sounds innocent enough, right?) at my dear friend Pat’s house when one of my fragile teeth collided with a stray cherry pit, up close and personal. Immediately I felt a couple of strange somethings floating around my mouth. The pit and a tooth. Well shit. My heart sunk. By now I knew this was gonna cost me a couple grand. Sure enough, a root canal and a crown, $ 2200.

My dear, late friend Pat (pie baker) with her daughter Lisa…

Since Doc Schroeder, I’ve had my share of dentists as we moved around. Some were excellent, some hopeless. One guy from Spencer hummed as he worked (he thought he was cool too). I can remember him working on a troublesome root canal and humming Blue Bayou with Linda Ronstadt. (Why in heaven’s name do I remember that?) One of my favorite dentists, Doug Castleberry from Davenport was killed by his bat shit crazy wife about 5 years after our family of 5 became his patients. I wrote a blog about it called “Murder she Wrote” in October of 2015. We lived in North Muskegon for 22 years. I had 3 different dentists, and a couple of specialists. One of the 3 had his license taken away after we stopped going to him I think. Doing unnecessary work, maybe insurance fraud. Ugh, a neighbor had recommended him. The reason my front tooth has bugged me ever since. The filling he put in was about as far from a close match as ebony & ivory. The other 2 dentists were good but expensive.

Right before we moved to Jackson, the cherry pit root canal tooth broke off at my gum line, so it lasted about 8 years for my 2,200 bucks. I found a dentist in Jackson who wanted $4,600. to pull the remainder of the tooth and insert an implant. Over the years that would be 6 grand for one tooth. I just couldn’t. My sister-in-law Mary Jane came to my rescue and suggested I use her dentist. She winters in Yuma, Arizona and uses a dentist in Los Algodones, Mexico which is about 20 minutes from Yuma.

This is hard to describe. The parking lot before you cross over into Mexico is in California. As soon you head down the cement ramp (a block before the border) there’s almost a carnival type atmosphere. There are vendors everywhere hawking their wares. I’m not talking sombreros, t-shirts or trinkets. The majority are representing either prescription eyeglasses, pharmaceutical medications or DENTISTS. “Need a crown, root canal, implant? We’re 20 dollars cheaper.” Most of them are wearing casual, hospital type uniforms and handing out business cards. It’s just odd. Not marketing or advertising like we’re used to. They’re all very polite, but you just have to keep walking and saying, “no thank you.”

Mary Jane’s dentist is about 3 blocks further in town. To get there you must traverse the gauntlet through a plethora of vendors. No easy task, (think American Ninja Warriors tv program). Not quite in the middle of the street, but close to it. They’re everywhere. Jewelry, carved wooden animals, clothing, throws, watches, purses, leather goods, luggage, glassware, you name it. Someone’s trying to make a living by convincing me to buy something. And Les knows most of them by name and they all recognize him. He makes the best deals. But not this time. He and Jane know once I get in the office (without an appointment BTW) it’s gonna be awhile, so no shopping yet.

Dr. Ramos dental office. Marco works upstairs by the sign…

My dentist’s name is Marco. He’s in his early 40’s I think, speaks pretty good English, is very patient when trying to explain how he thinks we should proceed. I tell him about my hearing loss and that I had my broken tooth pulled a month earlier. He suggests a bridge and some crowns on my bottom teeth. I ask how much? Six crowns, 1 bridge, umm $1610. Yup, let’s do it. I end up in the chair over 3 hours. Temporaries are in place, permanent stuff will be back from the lab in a week. Numb, Hubs leads me outside where we all head to have some nachos and a margarita (which dribbles down my numb chin). No shopping for me, they’re all tired of waiting for me to get done. Thus, I hardly ever get to shop, cause they’re all shopped out while I’m being drilled to death.

When the permanent teeth are cemented in, Doc Marco takes some pictures. I assume it’s because he’s proud of his work and wants to use the pics as one of his success stories. But Marco starts clucking his tongue as he clicks. He doesn’t want to use these photos to toot his own horn. He shows me the pictures. Yikes! Yup, he just might be hawking his wares here too. He has the neatest way of saying, “Misss-sezz,” when he’s trying to make a point. (The “sezzz” is about an octave lower, almost condescending, but endearing). “Your bottom looks great, (he’s taking teeth here) but you have some decay under the bridges on top. See? You should come back next year. Think about it Misss-sezzz. Little bit more expensive.” Oh criminy.

Marco on the right…

From that day forward, I knew I’d be back to have my top redone (I’m talking teeth here). One little nagging problem. The new bridge he already put in. Probably should have had my tooth removed 2 months before I traveled to Yuma. My gum has receded some more where the tooth was, leaving a gap under the false tooth. My fault, and it bugs me.

This year I knew the work would be even more extensive and expensive so I called ahead and made an appointment. Marco smiled when he saw I came back, put his gloved hand on my forearm and said, “Misss-sezzz.” Took some x-rays, came back with his proposal (again-top teeth). Clean out the decay and replace 2 antiquated bridges, crowns on my two fronts (from the color ebony & ivory). He was ready to start drilling his way through the bridges when he noticed the gap on last years bottom bridge. “Umm, I don’t like-a-this. It’s not-a-your fault, it’s not-a-my fault. Does it bother you,” he asked? “It drives me insane! I can get half a steak caught under there,” I said. “Then I replace, no charge, ok,” he answered, matter of fact.

I spent a lot of time in this chair…

The work did not go as smoothly as last year. Old bridge work makes things difficult it seems. Instead of 2 trips to Mexico it took 4 before the permanents were acceptable for Marco and me. He said the biggest problem/challenge was the spot from my first false tooth all those years ago. When it was all said and done, Marco pointed out his little personal touches. “What you think of the color? See how well it matches your bottom teeth. You said you didn’t want everything perfect because your teeth weren’t real straight and you had a small gap between your front teeth. There’s a very slight twist on the edge of that tooth. So what you think Misss-sezzz?”…

The office girls. Show me the money…

Another year has passed. And here we are, back in Arizona for 2 glorious,
warm, sunny weeks. Les and Mary Jane (obviously both gluttons for punishment) issued another invite to us this winter. As an added bonus, John’s oldest brother Jim (and Dee) are spending a couple months here too. Can’t pass up an opportunity like that. None of us are getting any younger and all of our extended warranties are getting closer to their expiration date. Yikes. Gotta bond (which basically means an afternoon margarita or glass of wine, talking and eating, not always in that order) while there’s still time.

Hey Yuma, get that strange little white cloud out of my perfect forecast…

I touched on this story last year after I visited Yuma’s famous, ancient, antiquated Territorial Prison. You all certainly remember my vivid interpretation of that great story, right? Hmm, just as I thought, you missed my cleverly named, 3:10 to Yuma in February, 2017. Let me refresh. The Prison was built (by its own prisoners) in 1876 and used over 30 years. It was a horrible, hot, dangerous hellhole, but at the time, it was the best there was, (the prison boasted electric fans and a couple of showers-almost unheard of back then) considering Arizona was not yet a state. Fast forward to the early 1900’s and there’s an announcement that a new prison is being built in Florence, so Yuma’s Territorial Prison was closing.

Yuma’s Territorial Prison, housing 6 in this small cubicle…

Yuma, (population now about 85,000 without the Snowbirds which double the size for a few months every winter) was still a small town. In dire need of educating their youth. So they opened a high school downtown (3 rooms and 4 teachers) which would celebrate a dozen graduating seniors that first year. All good, except for the raging fire which took out the new school after 1 year. What to do, what to do?

Yeah, I’ll meet you in Algebra…

Yuma decided to use the old, closed down Territorial Prison to hold classes while they discussed financing and location to build another school. High school classes were held in the cell blocks and assemblies held in the prison hospital. I. Kid. You. Not. Gospel. Truth.

Ha-ha, this just tickles me…

Thus, for a few years Yuma’s Territorial Prison was actually Yuma Union High School. Guess what? The city then informed the high school they needed the Territorial Prison back. To use for a jail. Poor high school kids were getting the boot from the old Prison. Low. Seriously low. Not to worry. A new school was already in the works, and is still in the same location where it was built about 100 years ago.

The Welcome Mat…

A couple years later, the Yuma High School football team is playing for the state championship. The game is against their nemesis, the Phoenix Union High Coyotes. When Yuma’s team surges ahead, the Coyote fans/student section start howling, “Criminals, Criminals!” Well heck, them’s fightin words. Or not. Maybe at first Yuma was insulted, but not for long. Instead, soon the little Yuma High School embraced the brash nickname. And it stuck. The Criminals name was officially adopted by the school board in 1917 (same year my Dad was born). Most often affectionately shortened to just the “Crims.”

This is indeed, the longest yard…

Hubs and I drove to Yuma High School this week. I had become so infatuated with the story behind the Criminals, I decided some ‘Crims wear’ was needed before we head back to Snowsville. We found a parking spot by the front door with a huge lit sign sporting Yuma High School—Proud Home of the Criminals. Wandered around, finding nothing close to an office or administration. Just classrooms filled with students-er-Criminals. As far as we could tell there was a severe lack of security-had we been up to no good.

The championship that introduced a new mascot…

Out one building, into another, still no one checking on us. Then again, 2 old folks slowly wandering around, carrying nothing but a good looking Michael Kors bag hardly look very sinister. And we are in the midst of 1,200 hardened Criminals. Finally an adult spots us. I explain we are here to visit ‘The Cell Block.’ He hesitates, then says, “I don’t think the store is open right now, but I can show you where the office is located. Maybe they can help.” He points to the administration door and gives us a wave.

Middle of the basketball court…

After waiting for a couple students to get tardy passes, it’s our turn. The attendance gal hems & haws at our request, then sends us along to the main receptionist at the front desk named Gabby. (Only fitting as she answered numerous phone calls while dealing with this-strange-old-out-of-state-and-touch-couple). Gabby wore a slight frown as she listened to my sad lament, “Um, we just wanna buy a couple T-shirts for our grandkids.” “Well,” she began, “The Cell Block is only open during lunch, on Fridays, 11-12:30.” One of the office girls within hearing distance said, “but not this Friday, Gabby, there’s a conflict, remember?” The frown deepened on Gabby’s pretty face. “Oh that’s right, I forgot. I’m sorry,” she stated weakly. “I guess I could call our athletic director and see if she’s willing to open the store for a few minutes. Would that be ok?” “That would be just great,” I squealed, snapping pictures furiously, afraid we’d be ushered right out the front door.

The back of John’s t-shirt…

Not 2 minutes later we’re accompanied through the now unlocked ‘Cell Block’ door by a gal in khakis and a Crims navy shirt. Didn’t get her name, dang it. She was upbeat, polite, informative and ready to help us with our purchase. With stipulations. She had no way of making change, they didn’t accept credit cards, but would happily take my cash or a check. I nabbed (maybe not the best word choice) shirts for Peyton, Landon, Graham, Hubs and me. Plus a keychain. She went through an entire box of ‘Criminal’ onesies, looking for a size 24 months for Jovi, but 18 mo. was the largest size they carried in pink. Asked if we had looked for clothes at Walmart? Duh, our first stop, but I didn’t see one item with anything associated with the Crims. “Well, that’s actually good news for us. The Yuma High School ‘Criminals’ is the only high school in America whose mascot is copyrighted,” she continued, swelling with pride. “When Walmart sells “Criminal” gear, the high school doesn’t get one penny. It’s just not right,” she complained.

The high school & faculty at Yuma’s Territorial Prison, 1913…

Since 1917 the Criminals from Yuma High have had to defend their unusual nickname numerous times. Townsfolk, parents, political correctness, newcomers who think the name-Criminals and their tough-guy mascot face is totally inappropriate. But the school’s faculty, board and especially the students hold a tremendous amount of pride stemming from their quirky name and history. Never cave, never give in. Defending it above all to parents, and fans. The high school carries enormous pride in their heritage and background.

What an endearing little face…

Part of the football field’s entrance contain bars from the original Territorial Prison. Yuma’s oldest high school is not about to change their name or lamely try to re-write history. That certainly is not who they are. They are proud and bear their name, The Criminals with more pride than I’ve seen in a lot of schools. So now you know the rest of the story. Go Crims…

The place to buy the coolest clothes…

Sometimes I view things differently. Might be utterly insignificant-like appreciating the beauty in a gentle snowfall (umm-there is no beauty in falling snow-ever), how I feel about spacing children, religion, politics or anything in between. This might be one of those obscure subjects where you just scratch your head and think, I knew she was a freak. There’s a screw loose. Weirdo. Case closed.

Ugh, nothing to see here folks. Keep moving…

I do remember approximately when this chore/necessity became more of an enjoyable hobby, which might perplex some. Right around the time we moved to Michigan. Early 1987. It hurts me to date this. Why? Because our lives got so much better after we moved to Michigan, which was mostly great, but I never wanted to leave Iowa in the first place. Although I love Iowa with all my heart, life got easier after we moved east. More money, better weather (don’t even start with me. Michigan’s weather is much more mild than Iowa-all year round. Not as frigid, not as many blizzards, not as hot or humid).

We were nearing our 18th anniversary. That’s almost 2 decades of counting pennies at the grocery store. I’m sure not everyone reading this can relate, but there was only so much in the bank for groceries. We were living paycheck to paycheck, on one income with me the ‘stay at a home mom.’ If I was shopping and spotted Mac & Cheese on sale, 4 for a buck instead of 3, I’d splurge and spend a couple dollars buying extras for the kids who grazed from 9 am to 9 pm daily. But the grocery budget was tight and there couldn’t be many splurges. That constant penny pinching kind of ended in Michigan. Though the cost of living was a bit higher than Iowa, Hubs had a better paying job and got regular, sizable bonuses. Sweet.

The main reason (besides more money) was my growing fascination with a chain of stores called Meijer. Never heard of them before we moved east. About half of the store is made up of groceries. This was my first experience with a chain of stores where you could run most of your errands. With one stop. What? Get a haircut, drop off dry cleaning, bank branch-ATM, pay utilities, money orders, fresh produce, rent movies, carpet shampoo rentals, ice cream cones, dry ice, glass-cut to size for your broken window, storm doors, film developed, lumber, electronics, housewares, small appliances, bedding, seasonal (like holiday decorations) clothes, shoes, pharmacy, post office, trees, shrubs, hunting and fishing needs, garden vegetable plants, landscaping needs, bestselling books, cards, party favors. The freaking list was endless. (Although many departments have been eliminated in recent years with the influx of big box stores like Lowe’s). Can you imagine what my famous lists looked like back then with all those departments? Geez, it was the size of a short novel! I guess Meijer was similar to K-Marts 30-40 years ago, (or today’s Walmart, except for the shoppers who refuse to wear pants, underwear or bras) but with the addition of a humongous grocery store-doubling it’s size. They were open 24-7, closed on Christmas Day. I was simply mesmerized. I wanted to move in.

How can shopping here even be fun?

Soon I was a constant fixture at my new favorite shopping venue. There are other grocery store chains in town and I read their weekly ads in earnest. But it is rare when I shop elsewhere. Meat is the main reason I might stray. If stew meat, steak, shrimp, lean hamburger or roasts are on sale somewhere, I will venture from my normal Meijer stomping grounds. But this occurs every couple months-max. I spend a fortune on groceries because we seldom eat out. But we eat very well at home. You can tell by looking at us.

But 30 years ago a big chunk of my shopping at Meijer meant one thing-kids clothes. I could literally listen to our boys growing during the night. What fit them one day would be an inch too short or a size too small the next. Bugle Boy was the popular brand when the boys were young (Shannon 16, was done growing-and way past Meijer’s various brand choices-more into Hudson’s-Jacobson’s type stores). But for the boys, I kept very close track of when they put winter clothes on clearance (right after Christmas and summer duds, right after 4th of July. Strange, just as the weather would heat up in July, all summer clothes were put on clearance and out came the winter coats).

Adam 7 & Joshua 11 in Jackson 1987…

Ever since funds became more readily available I’ve been a quantities shopper. One of my pet peeves is running out of something after I’ve started baking/cooking. Have to stop what I’m doing, run to the store to buy eggs. Really, eggs? Oh, I can’t even deal with crap like that.

So I’m just gonna come clean. Put it out there like every other taboo subject I’ve managed to touch upon since I started blogging. Ahem, I love grocery shopping. (Great, here come the haters). I actually look forward to my weekly trip, though the time frame has changed. I figured out that certain times are much busier than others. I never like to shop when there are scads of people. I learned Monday mornings at Meijer are a dead zone. I nearly had the place to myself. Only shoppers were little old ladies-and me. Umm, I wasn’t old then, but 30 years later, now I’m one of them!

One of the few times I was not in Meijer shopping, 1990…

I work most mornings until after lunch, so now I usually stop on my way home one day during the week to get the bulk of what I need. It is busier, but not like it gets when the rest of the world gets off work, starting around 4, which is a zoo. Too busy to linger, or leisurely walk from one end to the other, checking out all the clearance items. Lately I’ve been prone to hit Meijer about 5 am. (I can do this in the winter because dairy, meat or other cold foods will be fine in my car while I’m at work). Crazy I know. I’m a lousy sleeper, and if I have to be at work at 7, I have plenty of time to get my shopping done. Although Meijer is open 24 hours, from about midnight to 6 there’s not many shoppers. This is when the shelves are stocked and the floors meticulously scrubbed and waxed. The cleaning crew is nice and polite, but I know they are cursing me under their breath with, “good grief woman, stay home until it’s light out.” I say good morning with a smile and go about my business. Close the store if you don’t want customers at 5.

Another problem with early shopping is checkout availability. Sometimes just the self serve lanes are open because 99.9% of the shoppers have 1 or 2 items. But I have a cart full with a hundred bucks or more of groceries. When someone finally notices my impatient look, they’ll open a regular lane for me.

This mundane stuff gets me going-weird I admit it…

After seeing the front page of a recent Meijer ad I literally lost my breath. Blackberries-98 cents a box. Be still my heart. (It’s the little things in life peeps) Oh my, how many do I need? I’m out of seedless jelly, but how many jars of blackberry jam do I have? I run downstairs (right, there’s no running up and down stairs anymore, but my limp is gone so it’s much easier) and check my stash. A dozen jars of jam. That’s not going to get me very far in my ‘giving away’ department. I resist shopping early in the week because I’m not making jelly and jam after 6 or 7 hours of taking care of babies, so it’s going to get done on the weekend.

This canning obsession is seriously out of whack…

I stopped Wednesday, thinking I could wash, smash, cook the berries for jelly on Thursday. I decide I want about 48 boxes (4 cases, down considerably compared to 5-10 years ago when I would have easily bought 100 boxes) but there were only about 20 boxes on display. I’m a polite shopper and would never take all they have, so I head to the back produce area to ask if they have more? Nope, all of the blackberries are out. I order 4 cases which are coming by truck at 4 am (my kind of people) on Thursday. She takes my name and will have them set aside for me. I waltz in at 6. The whole cleaning crew gives a collective groan. I may not be able to hear them groan but I can see eye rolls. Whatever. Plop all my berries in my cart, and of course only the self check lanes are open. I groan and give my own version of an exaggerated eye roll. (Thanks for the lesson cleaning crew). There is a gal working these dozen lanes, so I ask for her help since you’re not supposed to have more than 20 items. She rings them up, I hand her 50 bucks. Not once since I saw the sale on blackberries did I ever think about buying pectin, sugar, lids or rings. I just ‘knew’ I had enough on hand. (That’s about 50 cups of sugar I’d be using). Haul the berries out to my freezing car, load them in the back, cover them up with a blanket and high tail it to work.

Look at the size of these blackberries. And who’s old hand is that???

I did the prep work for the seedless Friday afternoon, smashed the rest Saturday morning and started 3 batches of each in the afternoon. Next to apricot jam, seedless blackberry is my favorite, but it hurts when I watch the hot juice drip through the cheesecloth. All that beautiful fruit pulp, just wasted. You lose so much when you make seedless. I used 2 dozen boxes for each kind, but only got 18 jars of seedless jelly while making 30 jars of blackberry jam. Bummer.

My latest-seedless jelly and blackberry jam…

John bought me another shelving unit, so I spent a couple hours rearranging my canned goods, canning equipment and food staples I keep downstairs. I kinda keep what I want to use of my canned goods separate from what I plan on sharing. I rarely (I do mean hardly ever) give away spaghetti sauce, canned meat or cranberry sauce. The meat is too expensive and a lot of work, the cranberry sauce I just plain hoard. Hubs becomes belligerent when he sees jars of strawberry jam making their way into gift baskets. Dude, we got plenty.

Luscious, I couldn’t stop snitching blackberries…

Shannon is always on the lookout to make my life easier. A couple of months ago she sent me a link. A new service Meijer just started offering. A grocery shopping service. You fill out your list online and let them know when you want your groceries. Ta-da. Everything delivered right to your doorstep. She even included a coupon to save on my first order. As if. Sure, take away one of my favorite pastimes. No more shopping at Meijer? Are you nuts? Shot through the heart…

My throw away spoon rest. Who is this little dude-devil-mouse-boobs-on-the-outside

When I was growing up, the word ‘smart’ was used frequently. Most often used to define three things. If you were of high intelligence, people said you were smart. (Unfortunately, no one ever accused me of this). If you gave a snakebite (placing both hands on someone’s forearm and twisting hands in different directions), they might say, “holy moly, that smarts!” Or before sarcasm was universally appreciated as a highly desirable personality trait and coveted asset (yeah, I was way ahead of the curve on this one. Huh. Maybe I was smarter than everyone assumed) you were hailed as a ‘smart ass.’ Yes, I excelled in smart-ass-ism. Way before it was cool. Way.

16 and raring to start driving…

Though I never gave the word ‘smart’ much thought, it’s been cropping up more and more lately. Everything seems to require the word smart in the title or catch phrase defining the product. Over the years, I’ve owned 3 Cadillacs. A ‘92 De Ville, a ‘95 El Dorado (my favorite car ever, after our 1964 Vette) and a 2001 Seville (which I hated). My dislike of the Seville was because it tried so hard to be smart. You’re just a car-let it be. While I enjoyed the De Ville and El Dorado because they were nice cars (I swear the 2 doors of the El Dorado weighed a ton a piece) the Seville just pissed me off most of the time. It had features which were not only nigh onto impossible to disable, these features made me feel dumb, inadequate and old. So very old. I swear that car was invented for your average 90 year old. I didn’t show much intelligence in this decision because I bought the dumb/smart car. The feature that drove me bonkers were the stupid windshield wipers. When a raindrop fell within a 30 mile radius, my wipers would turn themselves on. I looked like a dork driving down the road. Which was completely dry. The wipers were not doing their job by wiping away the rain so I could see better. Because there was no rain! But the car, trying hard to be smart detected that errant rain drop 30 miles away. It somehow assumed I was not smart enough to turn my wipers on all by myself. Arggggg. Sold that p-o-s after a couple years.

Recently car companies have touted several varieties of the ‘smart car.’ The tiniest one looks efficient, although I would never take it out on the interstate. Too small with no protection. Might be nice to drive around town running errands, but where in the world would I put my $150. worth of groceries? They might fit, but then where would I sit?

Now they have cars that parallel park for you! Where was this neat little feature 50 years ago when this poor 16 year old teen, knees knocking, teeth chattering, nerves on fire had to drive Mom and Dad’s straight stick during the driving part of attaining my driver’s license? With an Iowa State Trooper no less! One requirement was parallel parking, using only my (half) wits. But I digress.

One word-hopeless…

Besides the smart car, you can buy smart TV’s. Ours tries to pick and record programs it decides we might enjoy. Has ‘free will’ totally been eradicated from everything? Please stop assuming you know me smart TV. Just sit there silent and dark and don’t try to get inside my head. You wouldn’t like it there anyway. I don’t even like it there sometimes.

Suddenly it wasn’t enough for every person in the world to carry a cell phone. We all needed smart phones. Mine however exceeds this requirement and has been renamed my Smart-ass phone. You’d think I’d really be happy with so many features, but again, it usually (on purpose, I swear) makes me feel inadequate and unworthy. Isn’t this the age of freak out fear, name calling and uncertainty? I need a phone that protects me, boosts my morale, doles out consolation trophies after I finally found the mute button last year. Instead it strongly suggests more and more Apps I need to make my life better, complete and truly meaningful. My iTunes app regularly chooses music it somehow knows I will love. You don’t know the first thing about me iTunes. No, you don’t. Just stop.

Geez, this is even too busy for me…

When I glance at Joshua or Shannon’s phone, their home page is entirely filled with their most frequently used apps. I have a couple problems with this. I don’t use many apps, and a busy home page like theirs makes me twitchy. Just too much stuff to look at. My iPad homepage has 12 apps, plus my bottom-top 4 which I actually use. And I only use 8 of the 12 on top. I keep the other 4 just so I look normal and popular. Keeping up appearances. My second page is filled with small squares containing 9 apps, bunched together. Aptly named Rarely Used, Useless apps, Extra Apps, and Never Used, 1, 2, 3 & 4. Which I keep just in case Joshua is helping me with something and for reasons unknown needs one of my 40 brilliant apps that I’m not smart enough to use.

How come we need all this stuff with the word smart in the name? Am I dumber than I was 50 years ago? Well maybe, but still. Do I need to feel enlightened with everything I own? Here’s the icing on the cake. One of my Christmas gifts this year was a pair of socks. (Thanks Josh and Erica). A really neat pair of socks. Black socks with a pattern knit in them. Not just ordinary socks either. Cause they’re smart socks. Are you kidding me? I. Am. Not. I guess the socks are smart because of their fibers. They’re Smartwool socks. The finest wool, sheared from the world’s smartest sheep. All sheep donating fibers are required to have, at minimum, a masters degree. Now even the smart sheep over shadow my inadequacies. How did I miss that big rollout?

I do love my mini-iPad…

But guess what? They’re stinking (maybe not the best choice of words) amazing socks. I cut off the tags, tossed all pertinent information away and tugged the socks on a few days ago. My word, my tootsies have never been so toasty during the month of December in my entire life. They’re not itchy, and they don’t slouch. I’ve not got one bad thing to say about my smart socks. Except where have you been my whole life? I want some more. The search is on. If I’m smart enough (maybe they’re rubbing off) I should be able to figure out where to find different colors and patterned Smartwool socks.

Who doesn’t need smart socks on their tootsies?

My Mom knit wool socks for me when I was growing up. But they were too thick (these fibers obviously were not from the smartest sheep in the flock) and cut off circulation to my brain when I wore them. I felt kinda bad for Mom because she said they were hard to make. Knitting difficult heels for this ungrateful heel. Sorry Mom. Nowadays these smart sheep eat a lean diet so their fibers aren’t bulky like their ancestors (who were probably carbo-holics-like me).

I don’t know. The older I get, the faster time goes, the behinder I am. Which, in turn tends to makes me feel old. Conundrum. But I really don’t feel very bad about it. I think I should, but I don’t. I feel like I should keep up with newest apps, smartest products, the latest technology. But all these ‘things’ just seem too much and too fast. I don’t especially want to be that fast anymore. I’m ok with life at a slower pace. I’m not always comfortable when I’m totally out of the loop, but meh, for the most part I’m ok with a slower and semi-smart Neese…

So one of my hometown childhood friends challenged me on Facebook a couple weeks ago. Nothing as exciting as a duel with black powder guns at dawn. The challenge was to show a black and white picture from my life. One picture a day for a week. Pictures without any people in them. Yikes. But even worse than no people in the shots, no explanations allowed describing the pictures! Double yikes. I’m a wordy person, I need to try and explain everything. In bulk. Multiple times.

Neese, 3-1/2…

I thought about just ignoring the challenge. Seriously. But I must confess, my curiosity was piqued. So with a big sigh and a little muttering under my breath, I started going through my 4,000 pictures on my iPad to see if a certain picture stopped me in my tracks. And needed no explaining. As if.

This silly challenge had been all over Facebook. Each time I saw it on my newsfeed, I cringed thinking, if you are indeed one of my friends, don’t pick me, don’t pick me. Please. Most of the pictures I saw were taken the same day they were posted. Simple life moments like clean folded laundry, cooking a meal, the speedometer of their car. But no, that wasn’t what I was thinking. I was leaning towards pictures I already had about my life. It didn’t worry me much about having good material without people in them. All my favorite landscape pictures are people-less. Who wants to see a throng of folks at Niagara Falls? Not me. Just give me the Falls please. Wild waves or an oddly calm day on Lake Michigan-spectacular-just hold the people please. But I wanted to tell a story with each picture. It’s what I do. Now that was gonna be the impossible part. (Photo taken by Jeremy Church in his kayak).

Lighthouse at Muskegon on Lake Michigan…

After the first 2 days I was already stewing about the number of pictures I wouldn’t be able to use because my 7 measly days were up. Yeah, thanks for that Anne. Just put a very short leash on this piss-poor-writer-picture-taker-constant-explainer. I decided long before my 7 black and whites were history I needed to do a mostly picture blog, plus words. But this time on my terms. People allowed, maybe some color and certainly words. Can’t forget to try and ‘splain it all for you. Over and over. Just in case you didn’t get it the first 3 times.

Here goes. Don’t think I’ve ever made a big deal about my heritage, when actually I’m quite proud of being Dutch. The reason it was never a big deal growing up was because approximately 80% of my small town was Dutch too. Guess I assumed the whole world was of Dutch ancestry. But after I moved to different parts of the country, I realized there’s a whole lot of nationalities out there and I’m a very small part. (Just happens to be the best one). Huh, who knew? Sorry, this explanation was already way too long for one simple wooden shoe. Let me try again.

My great-grandma’s wooden shoe. Mom painted it in the ‘60’s. Sigh…

With another shoe picture. My Mom’s first pair of baby shoes which were bronzed. The way families made keepsakes in the late 1920’s. That’s better.

Mom’s bronzed baby shoes, 1928…

This one is similar to the heritage thingy. Can’t say I really, really loved Iowa until I left the great state. It was simply the only home I’d ever known. That was 30 years ago. Things I never gave a second thought about. Acres and acres of corn crops, the richest, blackest dirt-needed to feed the world, wide open spaces, the mighty Mississippi, abundant sunshine. The older I get, the longer I’m away, the more I love my native state of Iowa.

An Iowa field. Thanks God…

My beloved little hometown. Immense love, loyalty, gratitude. My childhood wasn’t pain free, but whenever I think about Rock Valley, I smile and thank God I grew up there. Kind of like Opie in Mayberry. Hokey, I know. Still, the truth.

Main Street of Rock Valley during the 1960’s…

Rock Valley Community School. I wasn’t a good student, wasn’t very popular, but had a very close circle of friends (partners in crime too). Basketball games on Tuesday’s and Friday’s, pep bus rides, dances, cheerleading, bowling alley pizzas, slumber parties, stealing cars, vandalizing buildings. Lots of warm fuzzies for that huge part of my life. Neese, the thug. Ah, the good life.

The new addition grade school in the late 1950’s…

My Dad, driving the Iowa State snow plow during one of our way too frequent blizzards. He was forever grateful for his job and benefits that it provided.

Dad driving the snowplow near Rock Valley…

I never saw this picture until after my Mom died and I cleaned out their house when Dad was moving to Michigan. Summer of 1950 Mom was pregnant with me. Aww, too cute. She was 23.

Pregnant with me in 1950, Larry is behind her on his trike…

Well, I’ve finally made my entrance. That’s me, about 6 weeks old on the kitchen table. Next to me is Larry, 4-1/2. Neither of us realized how much we would enjoy the few short years we would have together. Mutual admiration society. Wasn’t he just the cutest?

Me and my big bro, 1951…

I know, I know, thousands of folks eat them everyday. But as far as I know, only Northwest Iowa call them Taverns. Not maid-rites, not sloppy joes, simply Taverns. Why this one word is of vital importance to me, I’ve not a clue. But it remains so.

Taverns still served for hot lunch at all area schools by Rock Valley…

My home all through school. One of the oldest houses in Rock Valley. It had more additions Dad was not an architect, every add-on (Dutch word is haukee) was a different level by a couple of inches. I wrote a whole blog about Dad and his odd way of building. But it was my home and I loved it.

The house where I grew up…

A huge part of my upbringing, Rock Valley’s First Reformed Church. The youth groups were phenomenal, Sunday school, choirs, RCYF. (Being part of a group was very important to me).

Part of Mom’s legacy. She had more talent in her knitting needles and ability to read complicated patterns. I still have several of her wool, handmade sweaters she made for me. She was really proud of her work. Me too.

One of my favorite sweaters that Mom made for me in high school…

A frequent place to visit. Located about 70 miles from Rock Valley, it was a huge draw for teens. Lake Okoboji, one of the world’s bluest lakes, Arnold’s Park with gobs of crazy carnival rides, The Roof Garden, known for the hippest bands, concerts and dances. Thee Cat’s Meow, for sure. Fond memories.

The best day trip destination as a teen…

Not to worry, this is just the first installment of my life in pictures. A snippet of a small town girl growing up. I’ve got lots more of my life to show and share. Next year. Thanks for tagging along. Stay tuned…

I’m not very adventurous. I don’t like heights, boats, (hey, there’s no brakes) roller coasters, or even scary movies. Although this seems more pronounced as I age, I’ve pretty much been like this my whole life. That enticing scraggly bridge across a gorge, or zip lining through a jungle are not on my bucket list. About the most daring thing I’ve ever done was scuba diving in Cancun. And the instructor led me by the hand under 20 amazing feet of the Caribbean and did everything but breathe for me.

Me about the time we vacationed in California in 1961…

This somewhat irrational fear has even hampered my food choices. And I believe it all started while Mom, Dad and I were in California during the summer of 1961. We were visiting relatives on both sides of the family. We went to Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, a Dodgers game, Mexico, and had a chilly picnic on the Pacific Ocean beach. Fabulous time. The relatives made great plans to squeeze as much California lifestyle in our little hicky bodies as possible.

Disneyland with Mom & Dad in 1961…

So one night Mom’s uncle is taking us out for supper. Something new for the small Gerritson family. We went to a Chinese restaurant. I could tell by the scowl on Mom’s face, she was not pleased. She was less adventuresome than me and I was 10. I don’t know how much normal (I’ve never been normal) pre-teens are influenced by their parents, but that simple look on Mom’s face told me I would not be liking any Chinese food that night. I supped on tea and fortune cookies. This one evening’s destination exposing us to new and different cuisine was about the only part of the trip I remember which none of us enjoyed.

Hubs is a foodie. He likes all kinds of food, hot-spicy, and always enthusiastic about trying new dishes. I love food too, but only my usual food. Oh, I might add a few new recipes to my boring cooking routine each year, such as Shepherd’s Pie, or Chicken Corn Chowder, but rarely move out of that little comfort zone I’ve been in since my first decade of life has passed.

I’ll borrow a line from the opening of one of my favorite programs called The Goldberg’s. (Hilarious BTW, mirrors much of my own life as a Mom/with-kids/and married life). “It was July, 1980-something.” We were living in the Quad-Cities (Davenport-Bettendorf-Rock Island-Moline) and John and I were going out for supper together-without kids-a-rare occasion. The hot summer night was threatening with thundering black clouds, stifling humid air, and there was no doubt we would see a rain storm before getting back home. Shannon, in her mid teens was foreman over her 2 younger brothers. A job she hated but relished at the same time.

Davenport in 1985…

Hubs promised me Pizza Hut. Yup, it’s Top Shelf when we venture out by ourselves. No kids running around, spilling pop, arguing, or disinterested rolling eyes. Except John drove right past our Pizza Hut. “Hey, where we going, turn around, you missed it dipstick.” Calmly he answered, “no, we’re trying a new restaurant tonight. I think you’re really gonna like it. Kinda fancy and just opened. It’s called The Mandarin.” “Are you out of your ever loving mind? I’m not going to a Chinese restaurant. I repeat, I’m not eating Chinese food. Take me somewhere else or take me home,” I said in a huff. “No Denise, you’re gonna try Chinese food tonight. That California fiasco was 25 years ago. You’re all grown up now and I want you to try it again. I really think you’re gonna love the food.”

As God is my witness John parked the car, came around to my door (we had been married for about 17 years here, he never opened my door-nor did I expect him too) gently tugged on me until I was free from clutching the dashboard for dear life. Romantically hooked my arm in his so there was no escape and led me down the dark hole of hell. Oh wait, maybe it was the lovely restaurant entrance. Same thing. I was furious, livid and pissed off beyond words. Completely shut down. I walked woodenly as we were being seated. Beautiful decor, real tablecloths, Chinese paintings, pretty much red and white everything. Which I really didn’t see. Because I was crying, I was so mad.

Aunt Wilma, Dad, me with cousins Terry & Sherry behind Dad, 1961

Not to be deterred, John opens my menu and says, “order anything you want.” Tears streaming, I sob, “I want pizza. I want a cheeseburger and fries. I want a steak. What I don’t want is Chinese food. Let’s go.” He quietly closes my menu, smiles at me, then at the pretty waitress and says, “she’ll have Mongolian Beef, egg drop soup, an egg roll and hot tea. I’ll have blah-blah-blah.”

With my tears dripping in my egg drop, I hesitantly picked up the soup spoon. O-fricking-k, I’ll try one sip. Gag, gasp, hmmm. Not bad really. John moves a small dish of sweet sauce closer to my plate and says, “take a spoonful and dip your egg roll before you try a bite.” It looks like thick corn starch/water mixture tinted pink. I sniff and deem it non-poisonous, but I could be wrong. The tiny waitress moves in with a tray which quite possibly weighs more than she does. Sets down an oval plate in front of me. Small, white crispy noodles on the bottom, topped with rice. Covered with very thin slices of dark brown beef, vivid green 2 inch strips of onion, and a weird smelling gravy. Kind of sweet and gingery. Never smelled anything like it before. Well, I was only 35. First time my tongue had an orgasm.

Holy Hannah, I didn’t want to leave. More, I need more. I’d like to say I was mature and decided that very night I would try everything on their menu before the end of the year. Heck you know that just isn’t me. Now how long has it been since I started inhaling Chinese food? Little over 30 years. I’ve watched John order 50 various dishes when we eat Chinese. Wanna guess how many different dishes I’ve ordered? Well, it’s more than 1 but definitely less than 5. Although I love pineapple I would never order sweet & sour anything. I have tried one other soup besides egg drop called Sizzling rice. Made right at your table. (Hubs has ordered it several times). All my dishes contain beef. Beef & vegetables, Beef with Pea Pods, Beef & Broccoli, you get the drift. See, I can be daring and seek high adventure. And I want water chestnuts in everything. Love their crunch.

Marinating the steak…

Of course I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Why couldn’t I make Chinese food at home? Because there are some things I’m not suppose to try to replicate. Chinese food happens to be the third food item. Lasagna and Reuben’s are the other 2. Foods I adore but hate to make, and I don’t know why. I usually like to kanooey around and enjoy several different steps. It’s what I love about canning. But not about preparing any of these 3 dishes.

This makes the gravy…

The steps involved in a simple Chinese supper drive me to drink. I put this in the same category as prepping for a colonoscopy. The actual test is a breeze. They knock you out, a couple minutes later you’re awake and groggily shuffled out to the car, where someone drives you home to sleep it off. Butt (ha-ha some colonoscopy humor) it’s the prep work the day BEFORE the test that knocks your socks off. Do not work. Do not eat. Do not plan on leaving the bathroom for 24 hours. Drink a small portion of this gag worthy gallon of crap (yikes, more bathroom humor) every few minutes, and leave the cramping to me. The prep for the test is more miserable than the actual colonoscopy.

My last attempt at Chinese food started something like this. I had a tantalizing hunk of steak in the fridge. Just wanted steak, Texas toast, and a small salad. John was not enthusiastic. He doesn’t really care for steak as much as he used to and a sirloin is on the bottom of his list. Sirloin is my favorite next to prime rib. Alrighty then, I’ll use the steak for Chinese Beef and Vegetables. Off to the store for broccoli crowns, green onions, snow peas, fresh mushrooms, shredded carrots, bamboo shoots, and sliced water chestnuts. Holy cripes.

What’s with those tough stringy things that need to be peeled off?

Browning the steak…

First, throw the steak in the freezer for half an hour because it’s much easier to slice thin if it’s a bit solid. Make a marinade of soy, sugar and sherry for the beef. Then stir together a big bowl of what will be gravy. Beef stock, soy sauce, cooking sherry, ginger, cornstarch, hoisin sauce, minced garlic and sriachi sauce. Well there’s 30 minutes I’ll never get back. And I haven’t even started with those dang vegetables yet. Rinse, give the veggies a friendly pat down and start chopping all of the above except bamboo shoots and sliced water chestnuts. A big thank you for the 2 canned convenience foods. Yay. Take out the steak, slice it thin and plop in the marinade mixture. Start a pan of white rice cooking. Throw the dripping beef in a large nonstick fryer (no I don’t have a wok-I may never do this again) and brown the meat for 3 minutes. Remove meat to a bowl. Add a bit of water and oil to the pan, dump in the broccoli, mushrooms, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and carrots and cook for a couple minutes. Add the meat back to the pan cook another 2 minutes. Toss in the snow peas, green onion and heat through.

Just cook the veggies a couple minutes…

Although the cooking times are short in duration and I really like my Chinese food veggies crunchy, this is very time consuming. And the kitchen looks like a tornado struck. When you add up the steak, rice, fresh veggies and my time this meal cost is astronomical. An hour to prep and cook, measly 10 minutes to eat, and at least a half hour to clean up my disastrous kitchen. Pros, yes it was tasty, fresh and homemade. Cons, probably more expensive than eating it out. The final casting vote: Hubs and I are both hungry 5 minutes after I walked out of the kitchen…

Delicious but what a pain in the ass. My last colonoscopy joke, I swear…