Some new traditions developed when we lived on the farm. The year was 1976, John and I were in year 7 of wedded bliss. Shannon was in kindergarten and Joshua had just turned 1. Of all the places we ever rented before buying a home, the 2 story farm house was one of the nicest. But also one of the most isolated. Hubs was working in Cedar Rapids which was about 40 miles away. This farm was several miles outside of Cascade, Iowa. In sticksville.

Shannon 7, Joshua 2 on the farm, 1977…

The farm house sat next to a smaller place (for the farmers hired hand), both houses surrounded by fields, a grove of fruit trees and swine. Lots of swine. And let’s not forget a nice herd of cattle and feral cats. All new to this townie. The pitiful driveway was so long and curvy, I could not see the gravel road from the house. About the loneliest I’ve ever been. Both our families lived 350 miles away. I would not have made a good pioneer woman, although I probably learned more during the 2 years on the farm than I have since. About lots of things.

My Dad, teasing Joshua, 2 in 1977 on the farm…

We were close to destitute, the commute was killing us in more ways than the cost of gas, keeping our junker car running and John being gone 12 hours a day. I had no car so I was literally stuck. When I think about that now I almost panic. What would I’ve done had Shannon gotten sick at school? Couldn’t even go pick her up. I did have a couple good friends but they lived about 20 miles away. Dang. Heh, we were young and dumb.

I pushed Josh in his stroller everyday as we walked Shannon to the road to catch the school bus. I wore out 2 umbrella strollers because the drive way was one pothole after another and jutted with rocks the size of baseballs. If Joshua was napping when the bus was due my heart would start racing. I’d wait until the last second possible, slip out of the house, jog along the edge of the driveway getting smacked by cornstalks, but the terrain was more even. Encouraged Shannon to book it back to the house with me before some un-named, un-seen ne’er-do-well turned me in for leaving my child unattended.

It was at the farm where I really learned to cook and bake. There was nothing else to do with all my time besides the copious number of letters I wrote. For 2 years I never bought a loaf of bread. Yeast was my best friend. Cinnamon and caramel rolls, hamburger buns and dinner rolls were made as easily as a box of mac & cheese. I soon realized the more often you make something, the better you become at that task. I could ‘feel’ if the dough needed another half cup of flour by the texture. Of course there were consequences with this new found talent. Hubs and I each gained 20 pounds during our 2 year carb-fest. Homemade bread with butter, now there’s a meal in itself. When you add goulash, pot roast, spaghetti, well it wasn’t hard to see where exactly those extra calories were coming from. But my desire and dedication to become a better baker and cook became important to me as a woman, wife and mom. Huh. Strange days.

So while I was becoming an expert in the world of yeast breads, gorgeous fruit was ripening before my eyes in our tree grove. I asked Bob (the sadistic farmer who owned a thousand acres) if I could pick some apples? He said sure (he was nicer to me than he was to his wife, Mary Ann. Actually Bob was nicer to everyone than he was to her, and he really wasn’t very nice at all). Anyway, there were several varieties of apple trees, and I tried them all, my sights set on becoming a good pie baker.

Of all the apple trees, one really stood out. Wooing me like Adam & Eve in the garden of Eden. I can’t say for sure if it was a Granny Smith but it was a large, tart green apple. After I made the first pie, I realized it wasn’t quite sweet enough, so I increased the sugar amount by a quarter cup. Yes, that’s the ticket. My pie crusts however took a bit more time to perfect. Crusts were kinda tricky for me. Not enough flour on the counter and they’d stick, too much and they didn’t fold easily and would crack trying to slide it on the pie plate. We ate our way through some mighty unattractive pies 40 years ago. But like feeling the texture of bread dough, my hands knew when the texture was right for pie dough too. That last tablespoon of water might be too much one day or not quite enough the next. Fickle stuff. But I continued to bake and learn.

I remember discovering sometimes a brand name makes a difference. Back then, I don’t recall a lot of different brands, or very many of their own ‘store brand’ products in stores. I know there was Spry and Crisco for shortening, and you could buy lard, but that just sounded gross. (There are women who swear by using lard in their pie crusts, including my sister, but I never jumped on that bandwagon). I tried a couple different brands and was convinced Crisco made the best pie crusts, still feel that way today. Though to be brutally honest, I’m loathe to try something new this late in the game. I just stick with Crisco.

My Mom was a good cook and baker, though didn’t bake too often. She excelled with candies, Fudge, Penuche and Divinity. Also a 7-minute cake frosting which very much resembles divinity, (which I’ve always been hesitant to try). After Mom made a pie, she gathered up the leftover crusts bits. When rolling out a crust you make it a couple inches bigger than your pie pan, then trim it after it’s in the plate, leaving enough extra to fold under the plate edge and crimp (yes, with a fork). Thus you end up with quotation mark shaped pieces ranging from small scraps to some several inches in length. After the pie was out of the oven, Mom would takes these leftover dough bits, dab a bit of milk on them, then sprinkle sugar, and cinnamon on top and bake them. Almost better than the pie. For real.

Penuche, some kind of wonderful. Too sweet? Nah…

After I mastered decent pie crusts, I made all these tiny scraps exactly the same way Mom did. And my kids loved them. (Me too). That all changed when Shannon had Landon 17 years ago, though it took me a couple of years to figure it out. Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has some allergies, so finding foods, especially treats became a challenge. One I embraced seriously. Always on the lookout for different ways to fix the foods he could have. And take care of his sweet tooth with something other than chocolate.

When Landon was still in preschool, Shannon would come to our house for a weekend of pie making during the fall. With 2 of us tackling peeling and pie crusting duties, it didn’t take long before we had a couple dozen cooling on the counters. The amount of leftover scraps (I find you can’t keep re-rolling pie crust dough-it gets tough, even though I’m a pretty good judge of pinching off just enough for tops and bottoms) was staggering. By this time the boys were grown and out on their own, so the fun of making all this extra sugary pie crusts was a moot point. And neither Hubs nor I needed more carbs when we were grazing through good sized pie wedges like we were prepping for a pie eating contest as serious contenders.

Above the pie are the scraps I used to dink with…

Since Ariana and Landon were along for the weekend, I decided to make some sweet crusts for them. Oh-oh. Looks like Landon had found something good, sweet and right up his alley. He loved them. Ate them as fast as he could until they were gone. Then asked for more. Instead of dabbing milk on top though, I switched to water. I dab milk all over my top pie crust, then sprinkle the top with sugar. As it bakes, the crust gets a bit shiny, crusty and sweet. I don’t know why I do this, just always have. Maybe Mom made pies this way. I think most people use an egg wash. I never jumped on that bandwagon either. Egg wash sounds gross.

That was the beginning. What had I started? Indeed. That little boy was possessed with pie crusts. Still is. Used to be the first thing he’d say as he walked in the house. “Got any pie crusts grandma?” But now he’s gotten sneaky about it. Because he had a little sister named Peyton who also likes pie crusts. And he doesn’t care to share. I supposed he feels somewhat entitled. Peyton loves chocolate. I usually make her a batch of fudge when they came for a visit. According to Landon, the pie crusts were just supposed to belong to him. It wasn’t like he had a dozen treat choices with which to indulge.

Kind of looks like Michigan…

When they were kids, I thought Josh and Adam ranked near the top in their uncanny abilities to hide stuff-right out in the open. Most often the items in need of being stowed away from their brother’s view and memory were leftover food. I know, they were just a couple of nuts! The lengths they would go to, the time, and thought process. Masterminds-both of them. Spaghetti was the top vote getter. Their favorite supper and ANY LEFTOVER was well worth dying for. Ok, that’s maybe a stretch but they made hiding that leftover their main goal in life-to keep said leftover out of the mouth of their brother. Countless times when they were growing up I’d find a container, green with mold because they had hidden it so well, then promptly forgotten about it. That part wasn’t a priority though, as long as their brother didn’t get to eat it. I swear as God is my witness this is the gospel truth.

It’s no longer efficient or worthwhile to continue to use pie crust scraps. Whenever I’m making scratch pies, I simply dedicate the equivalent of 3 9” crusts for Landon’s treats. Roll out the crust in a large rectangle as if I was making a slab pie for a party of 50. Fold it, slide it on parchment paper and onto my biggest cookie sheet. Dab on the water, sugar, cinnamon, more sugar, then cut it in bar size pieces. Bake it for 15 minutes or so, let it cool and start filling his container.

Landon has taken hiding pie crusts to a whole ‘nother level, which is kind of odd because in truth he’s the only one who feels their life is not complete without cinnamon-sugar pie crusts. He might just be bordering on paranoia. If the family is here for a holiday, he rarely asks about crusts anymore. The sports jock saunters in and immediately heads downstairs to check out the freezers, if he doesn’t spot the 9 x 13 rectangular old Tupperware container on the counter. Landon then makes it his mission to ensure not one other person in this house gets nary a whiff of pie crusts. Landon’s hidden the container under beds, in cars, shoe boxes, outside, behind pillows on beds. He’s quite inventive. Every few minutes he’ll just appear, walking through a room, sporting a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. Chewing, smug and contented. Goofball kid, always playing his crazy gram…

We all have them. Personalized, unique to our upbringing, environment, fetish-whatever. In my head I own my quirks. They’re part of what makes me-me. But when I think about them realistically, I realize it would be very rare for someone else not to share what feels like it belongs to me alone.

My first attempt at chocolate mud pie for breakfast, 1954…

I’ve never been a very good breakfast person. I need to be up for several hours before I’m hungry and feel like eating. I do better when we eat omelettes, waffles, pancakes or eggs for supper than in the a.m. Big breakfasts often feel too heavy, like lead in my stomach throughout the morning. If Hubs and I are out and stop to eat during the in-between time, mid-morningish-10 to 11:59 I always opt for lunch if given a choice. John will choose breakfast 95% of the time.

Yup, still sprinkling sugar on something for breakfast, 1962…

I go to work early, either 6 or 7. To squeeze all our infant room caregiver’s lunch breaks in during a reasonable time frame, someone has to go first-and it’s rather early. Since I get up about 4:30, I’m starving by mid-morning, my usual break time. I have my lunch packed in the fridge, ready to go the night before. Not once have I ever considered bringing something remotely associated with breakfast fare to work. Spaghetti, beef stew, chicken corn chowder, shrimp cocktail, shepherds pie, and on rare occasions a sandwich (not much of a sandwich girl either). While the smell may gross out those in the hallway while I heat up my leftovers at 10 or 10:30, I have no problem eating supper food with a Diet Pepsi at this early hour. I’ve been up for 5 hours, to me it’s lunchtime. And a miniature Hershey Bar for dessert if I’ve got nothing homemade to fulfill my sweet tooth craving.

It wasn’t until I had kids I realized cold cereals was their top choice for breakfast. Early morning television programs packed with commercials vying for my kids to pester me non-stop. Snap, Crackle, & Pop, Toucan Sam, Tony the Tiger, the Leprechaun hawking their wares. Available in containers the approximate size of one of the smaller Great Lakes. One might think this would last 3 normal sized growing kids a month. Yeah, try 2 days. Three days max. Their role model in this venture was their dad. Maybe not so much Shannon but definitely Joshua & Adam. Grab a bowl designated for holding a double batch of chocolate chip cookie dough, pour cereal for roughly 3 minutes, add a quart of milk and viola’. Three minutes later, lather, rinse, repeat. Another 3 minutes, well, you know the drill.

I always gave them choices. Occasionally making French toast or oatmeal. When instant oatmeal packets became the rage, they became a hot ticket item some mornings, requiring only water and a minute in the microwave, thus my ravenous kids had another choice. These packets came (probably still do) in several flavors with bits of dried fruit that bulked back up with the addition of hot water. The Van Berkum kids preferred apples and cinnamon. But never just one packet, at least 2, sometimes 3. Pre-sweetened cereals were a huge hit, Lucky Charms, Count Chocula (gag), Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Frosted Mini-Wheats (looks like a bale of straw, how un-appealing. John and Shannon used to fight over Frosted Mini-Wheats, and as adults have given each other boxes of it for Christmas over the years) plus Frosted Flakes (more on this one later). Still, all of them enjoyed Cheerios, Rice Krispies, Raisin Bran, Corn Flakes, Wheaties and the least appealing one-Grape Nuts (were they nuts? horrible stuff, looks like gerbil kibble). One weekend morning we might make waffles, pancakes or eggs, but the majority of mornings, cold cereals were preferred.

So back to this odd quirk of mine concerning breakfast foods. I didn’t grow up with boxed cereals in our house. I ate sliced bananas in a bowl with milk and sprinkled with sugar or Mom would peel and dice a couple of oranges in a bowl (sprinkled with sugar). Ruby red grapefruit, cut in half and placed in a small bowl. Mom took a knife, gently cutting between the pith and fruit all the way around, sprinkled the grapefruit with sugar. Using a spoon, I’d slide it down the side of each membrane section, then scoop up each tiny sweet bite. When the fruit part was gone, picked up the grapefruit half, tipped it sideways. Squeezed out the juice to fill my teaspoon a dozen times, then moving on to the next half. Oatmeal with milk & brown sugar or toast (not toasted too dark or it got tossed) & butter, topped with a mixture of cinnamon and sugar. (I’m noticing a common thread here, might have something to do with sugar). And yes, I’ve strived to keep my breakfast traditions alive with my kids and grandkids. (Plus Hillbilly Bread, butter, sprinkled with a half inch of light brown sugar. But not for breakfast, this delicacy was more like dessert). And now the kids have to eat it on my whole wheat bread. Leveling the playing field for the brown sugar. Of course I have their best interest at heart.

OK, I’m ready to divulge my quirk. This one belongs to me and me alone because no one else is weird like me. Wrong. A couple of weeks ago at work I’m feeding 3 babies breakfast in low-riding high chairs. Moms bring their food which ranged from yogurt to oatmeal to a cut up bagel. So I’m doling out small portions of bagel bites to one, but feeding the yogurt and oatmeal kids, while carrying on a conversation with Angie (the other breakfast weirdo in the world). Ang and I are talking breakfast traditions. I mention I don’t eat cereal very often, but when I do it’s an ordeal. As I described the steps taken to eat the occasional bowl (or bowls, I’m getting there) of cereal a knowing look crossed her face. Good grief, there’s another one in the world! I’m not alone. Thanks Ang, or maybe I should say-sorry.

I only eat 2 kinds of cold cereal. Frosted Flakes and Cheerios. The bowl for my cereal resembles an antique individual salt bowl. About 2 inches in circumference, and holds approximately 8 Cheerios, 2 Tablespoons of milk and a quarter cup of sugar. Seriously. Yes. I’m. Serious. All ingredients must be in place, close at hand before the ice cold milk is poured or I have to toss the whole works and start over. There is no book to read, my ever present iPhone and iPad are oddly absent. I will not be distracted by phone calls, conversations or eye contact. There is now only one purpose in my life. To consume 8 Cheerios, 2 Tablespoons of milk and a quarter cup of sugar BEFORE THE CEREAL GETS SOGGY. These 3 steps will be repeated for approximately 10 minutes, which equals a normal size bowl of cereal and milk. Sugar part, maybe not so much. But once I start, it’s all about getting to the finish line. Eating only crunchy, crisp cereal, nearly frozen milk and a heaping helping of sugar. Yes, one must have goals in life. And no, I don’t eat Life cereal. It’s not on my approved breakfast list…

It was September, 2013. Our house in North Muskegon had been on the market for 6 months. Essentially we had been guaranteed a quick sale with a move most likely by Labor Day. Well that didn’t happen. We were already sorely disappointed, and didn’t have a clue it would be another 2 long, miserable years before we were finally able to move.

Ari 3 in the back of our North Muskegon house, 1994…

I had just retired from my Parish Visitor stint. Partly because we were moving, but the main reason was the rapidly rising death count on my watch. Couldn’t grieve more than a few days when I would lose another dear person from my long list. I had been losing an average of one person a month for a decade and it was taking a toll.

The pull to central and eastern Michigan was strong. Our whole family, 3 adult children, spouses, and 4 grandchildren lived within 50 miles of each other. Except for us. Now both retired, living in a too big, too expensive home on the lake, where we no longer wanted to be. We were 175 miles away from everyone we held dear.

Landon in junior high..

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) was in junior high and already making a mark in the basketball world with his uncanny skills of ball handling and shooting. Peyton, 9 was tuning up her skills on the dance floor, or singing in front of a crowd. Adam & Sarah needed help with caring for Graham, 4. Sarah was a full time student to become an RN and Adam was head chef at a ritzy restaurant in Ann Arbor. On the weekends Sarah was a waitress at another ritzy place to earn some extra bucks. Between Sarah’s Mom Karen, Hubs and I would take turns with her watching Graham on their busy work filled weekends. Newlyweds Josh & Erica had just purchased a lovely condo over-looking the Detroit River and Canada on the 24th floor, in downtown Detroit. We were driving 150-180 miles every weekend to visit, watch games, performances or stay with Graham. We loved it, just not all the driving. But our nice house remained un-sold. So we continued to drive. And drive.

Ari…

At this time, our oldest grandchild Ariana was a great concern. In her early 20’s she had recently suffered a major heartbreak. She was in a funk and rightly so. This might be one of those times in your life where you either fight or flee. An opportunity was presented to her and she grabbed it with both hands. An acquaintance needed help for 6 to 8 weeks with her 2 children, 5 & 1. Would Ari be willing to live with them during this time? The mom Bobbi, an American was in the Air Force and transitioning back from her deployment. Her husband Paolo was in the Italian army, training for his deployment. Did I mention they lived in Anzio, Italy? Ari took a leave from college & work and flew to Italy to nanny the kids (and escape). Make the return of one parent and departure of the other easier. And think about her own future. Away from the pressure and hurt.

Probably need to tell you about Romeo here. (No, not the low-life-pond-scum-asswipe-dick who had hurt Ariana so deeply). Romeo was Ari’s new kitten. Jet black, cute and cuddly, he helped Ari with her massive hurt heart. But keeping the kitty at Shannon’s while she was in Italy was out of the question since Landon has animal allergies. Shannon went to Ari’s apartment every couple days to feed, water, and play with Romeo, but poor kitty was alone a lot. Enter the super grands. Ari had a great apartment in a large complex in Jackson. Part of a 100 year old abandoned prison building converted into apartments. It boasted 1 foot thick brick walls. And Ari’s apartment was empty (except for Romeo) for the next 6 weeks.

Handy and helpful for us plus the kitty. If Shannon and Tracey needed help to chauffeur kids here or there, or it was our turn to watch Graham for a couple of nights, we’d just get Ari’s apartment key from Shannon and spend a few days. Her apartment had a TV, a decent queen sized bed and a kitchen so we didn’t have to eat out the whole time we stayed. Plus John was warming up to the kitty. That might be a stretch. John actually liked Romeo, but there were some issues.

Romeo didn’t feel it necessary to move out of the way when John was walking where Romeo had put down roots for the moment. When Romeo did move he was either trying to join John in the restroom, or sneak into the bedroom. If Romeo missed sneaking through the bathroom door, he’d sit by the closed door and meow, plus swipe his paw under the door a thousand times like, “dude, you forgot me. You can’t do this on your own! I can help, honest.” We kept the bedroom door closed all the time, which stumped Romeo cause he had free reign when Ari was around. And had a highly prized sleeping nook near her head on a pillow all night long. This sudden freeze out miffed the kitty. So he made it his mission in life to sneak in the bedroom whenever the opportunity arose. But he quickly learned if he simply hopped on the bed like he owned it and had won a major battle, one of us would just snag him in our arms, haul him out of the room and close the door. Well shit.

When we were visiting and sharing Romeo’s space, if the bedroom door opened for a nanosecond, he’d zip through faster than the speed of light. But now instead of leaping on top of the bed and bragging about his accomplishment, he’d zoom underneath the bed. To the farthest corner and the only impossible spot where neither one of us could get him. Romeo would hunker down, in for the long haul. Until we tried to go to sleep. Then he’d claw the bottom of the box spring while on his back, going over every inch meticulously. And making quite a bit of noise, protesting over us not sharing the top side of the bed with him.

We were spending a few days at her apartment, not long before Ari flew back home. We’ve loaded up the cupboards with canned goods, the freezer with home cooked meals, and picked up a few things her apartment needed. One appliance still missing was a microwave. We decide to buy one before we drove back home. Found one on our way to Landon’s basketball ball game which started around 6. We visit with Shannon, Tracey and Peyton during the game, then head back to Ari’s apartment. It’s about 8:30, we’re tired and hungry, but don’t feel like a sit-down restaurant. (When faced with this dilemma I always choose McDonald’s-always). But Hubs has different fast food in mind. Ugh, about my last pick and if there was another choice nearby I’d make him stop for me. It’s not that I don’t like Mexican food, I do, but Taco Bell, not so much. But that’s what he’s hungry for, and since I usually get my way, I cave this time.

Taco Bell has one thing I can stomach fairly well, don’t recall the name, something Crunch. Some kind of folded flat thing with pretend beef and a crunchy flat taco shell in the middle. We do the drive-through thing, anxious to get back to the apartment, put on our pj’s and relax. The parking lot at the complex leaves a lot to be desired-especially around 9 on a Friday night. Luckily, there’s quite a few singles who hang their shingles there, so they’re ready to go out and party when we’re ready to poop out and crash. It is 9 after all. After zigzagging through the parking lot a couple of times, we nailed a spot not too far away. I’m not someone who has super powers to carry nineteen bags of stuff at one time, but would rather make a dozen trips. But not tonight, we’re both bushed. We’ve got a couple of bags, my purse, the Taco Bell bag and the new microwave in a box the approximate size of Ari’s apartment. We got this.

At least the city-block-sized-box has indented holes on each side so we can easily lug it together, staggering our steps, trying not to drop anything or smash our shitty food. The apartment complex outside entrance has a key code, so we set the compact-car-size-box down and enter the numbers a dozen times before iris recognition kicks in. Clumsily we make it through 2 outer doors and the 3-city-block-foyer. (Geez they could have made another dozen apartments with all this space). Head through a small hallway (where the foot thick brick walls are exposed-really neat looking) and mosey towards the elevator, since we gotta go up 3 flights. Push the button, wait an eternity, finally the door eases open. The box is about the size of the elevator. We wheedle our way in, set the box down, push the third floor button. Door finally closes. And nothing happens. Nada. Zip. Zilch. No nice hum, no little belt creaks that cause you pause as it glides slowly upwards. Nothing. John pushes the lobby button, nothing. Floors, 2, then 3. We’re simply in a dead zone. Going nowhere fast. With smelly food that now borders on a dumpster dive grand prize.

Minutes pass. I’m now sitting on the microwave box and don’t care if there’s a dent the size of Delaware when and if we ever get it to Ari’s apartment. The smell filling my nostrils is tepid, gag-worthy Taco Bell which I swear has been made last June. Is this building deserted? Does no one ever need to use the elevator? Hubs tries the emergency phone made for umm, emergencies. We get a recording instructing us to call maintenance after 8 in the morning if we still need it. Thanks for that. Finally, we hear muffled voices. We yell and scream as if the elevator is on fire and about to free fall 40 stories. No, merely a couple of hysterical old coots. Lo and behold, it’s someone we actually know, one of Ari’s friends. She realizes we’re stuck, gets her boyfriend who tries to pry the door open. That doesn’t work, so they call 911. We’ve been with the box (and molding before our eyes) Taco Bell for a good half hour. Just telling you about it makes me want to hurl. Ten minutes later the firemen arrive. They have some kind of tool used for prying open elevator doors. After the door opened, we were instructed to stay inside until the smell dissapates from within. Nice.

We later learned the elevator’s issues was a common occurrence in this building. Had I known, we surely would have used the stairs, no matter how tired we were, and certainly not entered with less than desirable food products. All in all about an hour until we were rescued. The firemen encouraged us to use the stairs until mainenance could look at it in the morning (after 8). That was fun. At least the Taco Bell got tossed, but the smell had permeated my hair, clothes, even my purse (a Michael Kors for heaven’s sake).

We don’t watch much TV that hasn’t been recorded. So we rarely watch commercials, Hubs fast forwards right through them. We watch an hour program in 40 minutes. Recently however, we switched from Directv to Dish (long story, and you don’t want to know). John is still learning all the buttons and has yet to program all the junk he likes to watch (see how I take the high road here). Thus we’ve been subjected to some live TV, which prompted this story. I’ve been exposed to a barrage of COMMERCIALS. Oh the pain. Every time I have to endure one of Taco Bell’s, I cover my mouth and eyes. My mouth so I don’t gag, my eyes so I don’t have to watch 2 things. One is some kind of coated chicken nugget blob, cut up in a taco thing. I think I’m gonna be sick. The other is a fried egg Taco Bell is trying to pass off as an outside shell for some yummy breakfast sandwich. Just kill me now. Could there be a less appealing way to serve an egg? Definitely not, no yolk…

It’s sneaky fast and virtually un-noticeable. By the time you realize it, years have slipped through your fingers. What happened? One minute you’re in the middle of moving 800 miles east of Iowa and raising 3 kids. The next minute (I swear) you’re celebrating your 48th anniversary. There’s no way we’ve been married that long. Weren’t we just the brave young couple who defied my parents and eloped?

I’m out-of-touch. I notice this in everything I do. From the wall colors I pick, the clothes I wear, the way I talk and songs I sing at work. Yup, still singing my odd playlist of songs to the babies. A song, long forgotten popped in my head a few weeks ago at work. I was valiantly trying to rock one of the babies to sleep. Whenever I start singing in the infant room, there’s a protest. Some of their reactions are pretty funny. Everyone looks up (workers included) because they’re trying to find out where those claw marks on the chalk board are coming from. For some reason it does not seem to affect the baby I’m rocking as much as the rest of those around me (yes, including my poor co-workers with the bleeding ears). Some babies protest falling asleep with every fiber of their being. Others are dream babies about taking naps.

The song? I’m sure Mom sang this song to me, thus I sang it to my kids. Still it’s been decades since these words left my mouth. And those were not hearing impaired days, so I might have been in tune at least for a couple notes. Not anymore. But this doesn’t seem bother the baby I’m rocking. They usually find comfort in the midst of my caterwauling. So I’m rocking, patting and I start singing:

“Oh where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Oh, where have you been charming Billy?
I have been to seek a wife, she’s the joy of my life.
She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.”

Her head pops up and she gives me her best, “what you talking ’bout Willis?” Her furrowed brow quickly turns into a enormous, toothless grin and she lays her head back down. Doesn’t get any better than that. No matter which baby.

What happened # 2? I’m at work walking from the fridge with bottles, food containers etc. on my way to the gated kitchen section to warm everything up for various aged little ones. Bottles get plopped in a crockpot of hot water for a couple minutes, solids placed in little bowls in the crockpot with their name on it. But as I walked through the playroom, I get smacked with a smell. Somewhat offensive. Someone’s got poop. I politely ask for a show of hands. They band together choosing not to be singled out. I pick up one after another, nothing but sweetness. OK we have a winner! This is what slips out of my mouth-without thinking. “Let’s go change your pants.” What? I’ve never heard another worker say ‘pants’ instead of diaper. Just another goofy phrase that dates me.

What happened # 3? This most often occurs when I head to what I’ve named the pantry. Really the rear entrance of our house just off the kitchen/dining area. A small room with cupboards, countertops and a narrow closet, which has been a lifesaver. Our kitchen is small, thus I utilize this room and stock it with everything from soup to nuts. Literally. Soup. To. Nuts. All my small appliances, crockpots, popcorn popper, garbage bags, cereal, pop, potatoes, some canning supplies are hidden in the closet. Cupboard hold cook books, pantry staples, drawers with extra utensils, silverware in case 40 people show up to eat unannounced. So I head to this room at least 20 times a day. At the same time, my mind is on everything but what I need immediately from the pantry. Pause, gaze around with a blank look on my countenance. Shit, why am I here? Hmmm. Glance behind me, looking towards the kitchen, hoping for an easy answer. Why isn’t there a light shining down from the heavens with a clue to help me out here? Dish cloth, marbles, cake mix, Diet Pepsi, cupcake papers, jello, casserole, parchment paper, red hots, light bulb? Yes, even red hots.

Quite possibly, I could stand there for an hour hoping for an easy answer or a sign. Sometimes I just have to retreat to whatever room I was in when I felt it necessary to go off to my la-la land called the pantry. Return to whatever I was doing and hope that my not-so-literal light bulb goes off and I recall what it was I so desperately needed. So how come I can remember every word from a song 60 years ago, but not the Cream of Celery soup I need for the casserole I’m in the middle of making?

I’d like to think I’m aging well. At least about some parts. No, this isn’t about the wrinkles, saggy skin, age spots or the solid head of grey hair I cover with artificial light brown every month. This is realizing when I feel that dull ache between my right index and middle finger knuckle trying to open a Diet Pepsi screw top lid or baby food jar (I often have to hand it over to a co-worker, which is embarrassing, not so much with the pop to Hubs at home). Or that painful catch in my left leg whenever I pivot wrong. I’m thankful and grateful these are my only aches and pains for the day. Many are not so lucky or blessed like me. Friends with real health issues. Friends who have passed away way too young. My complaints are piddly at best. And while annoying, I realize remembering Cream of Celery soup (in the moment) is NOT a biggie. Just annoying and frustrating.

But I am strong willed, stubborn, and have a real problem changing my ways about a lot of things. These character flaws seem to get more pronounced the older I get. Let me point out a couple. (No you don’t have to help. I’m sure you’re all well aware of my faults, but I got this). I’m usually a real stinker when it comes to following rules I’ve been given. Hold on, I know what you’re thinking. But I’m really the exact opposite of what you assume.

After I’d been with McDonald’s a year or so I was given the responsibility of calibrating the grills, doing meat temp checks at changeover, and recording these temperature checks daily in a booklet. On the days when I wasn’t there, it still was my job to go over what had been logged in my absence. All meats, chicken, fish, beef had various temperatures they needed to reach after cooking, and though I can’t remember all of them anymore, beef was 155 degrees. Every couple weeks I’d go over this temperature book checking for issues. Why? Not sure. I believe we had to send them in to corporate, plus they got checked when the health department visited twice a year. Since beef had to reach 155 degrees before serving it to the public, there was no wiggle room in that magic number. After a day off, I resumed checking out what had been recorded when I spotted a glaring 153 degrees beef temp staring back at me. No explanation, no remedy, just a beef temp 2 degrees off. Kind of embarrassed but I went ballistic. Yes, Neese the rule follower was livid. At the manager who recorded the (lowly) temperature number. Why didn’t she do a second check, add a second to the cooking time until the grill could be re-calibrated or boost the grill temperature a couple of degrees for the day? When I’m given a set of rules to follow I’m usually a stickler about those rules. Although the word ‘usually’ can cause me to do the exact opposite at times too. Yeah, I’m complicated.

I don’t bake as much as I used to. When the kids were little I’d make a hundred fruit pies a year for the freezer. I love pie. I. Love. Pie. Not the easiest dessert to make, but once they’re made, baked and frozen, an easy answer for the best way to end supper. With our family of 5, a pie didn’t last long since Hubs got dibs on the extra slice sitting glumly in the pie pan. Now it takes us 3 or 4 days to get rid of a pie. And neither of us need 3 days in a row with a slice of pie, although he’d argue that point emphatically.

For the last decade when I’m baking apple pies in October, I tend to make much smaller versions, (which are just as much work). This inspiration came from my aging congregation too. A group of church ladies (they did not invite me) got together and made a hundred pies to sell. The problem? They froze the pies raw, and they were all 9 inch pies. For most members, now couples or singles at this point in their life, that’s a lotta pie. Plus it still had to be baked. I searched the Internet, found deep dish, 6 inch foil pans and bought 100. Made and baked 25 cleverly named, Itty-Bitty-Apple-Pies, slid them in quart size zip lock bags and advertised them for an upcoming church bazaar. Guess what? Not one pie was available when we opened the doors that fall morning. Workers, setter-uppers, members walking through looking at other folk’s castaways found my cute little pies. Bought them all before the general public walked through the doors. Ha!

Before I fell off the organized religion bandwagon, I did a lot of volunteering and contributing of my so-called gifts in our last church. Cooking, baking, canning and offering my goods and services. With our aging congregation anything homemade was highly anticipated and well received. I donated hundreds of jars a year of Bread & Butter Pickles, Pickled Beets and assorted jams, which were sold on Sunday morning after worship. The money was used for mission work. We had regularly scheduled dinners to raise money for a variety of needs. Chicken, pork loin, or turkey dinners, where cooks and bakers volunteered their time, but got paid for ingredients. The rest was profit going for whatever need we were trying to fill. I often signed up to make the desserts for between 125-140 people. Yikes. (I was a lot more ambitious 15 years ago).

The fund raiser that comes to mind was 6 or 8 years ago. I was responsible for desserts for 130. The tasty treats were on a table in Parish Hall. You went through a buffet line for your meal or someone served you. After you were done with the main course, (yes there are folks who maintain pork loin, potatoes, and green beans take precedence over dessert! Freaks, et al) you would peruse the dessert table and decide what you were craving to complete this feast. I made 3 different desserts, amounting to 45 servings of each: Apple Pie, German Chocolate Cake and Cream Puffs (with my homemade vanilla pudding and drizzled with dark chocolate syrup). Yum.

Shannon sends me You Tube videos on ‘how to’ for anything ranging from something cute to make for the families of our babies at work for a specific holiday to recipes I might want to try. Recently a catchy video piqued my interest. About a dozen ways to top a pie without using a whole boring crust with 4 vent slits like I’ve been doing for 45 years. Cute little cutouts like various sized hearts to top my pie, or polka dots crust, or leaves for fall. A dozen different themed crusts. I was intrigued. I got this. This was definitely doable for a pretty good pie baker. Until I’d been standing on my feet for hours. Me, with my own little assembly line of one. First thing I do is take the recipe for a 10” double crust and multiply the ingredients by 4. I make pies until I run out of pie crust dough. For the apples, I double the apples used for a 10” pie (so 16 cups total) plus the sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon and my secret weapon-nutmeg. I mix this up in a huge bowl and fill bottom crusts with gooey apples until they look “just the right amount of full.”

Now this is where I should review the fancy crust video and add the “wow” factor to my humdrum pies. But I’m bushed. If I don’t dawdle, I can make 2 or 3 pies, slide them in the oven, sit for a grand total of 5 minutes, and have just enough time to make another 2 or 3 pies just as the first 3 are done. (I really get messed up when I eat in between).

Let me back up for just a second. Several hours after the church fundraiser dinner featuring Neese’s desserts, I got an email from a friend who attended the dinner. Said she was too full for dessert so she and her family picked out desserts to take home. Later as they were enjoying my apple pie, they got curious about something I do to my crusts. She inquired, “what kind of fancy crimper do you use on the edge of your crust? We are stumped by it’s unusual design.” Huh? Fits of giggles ensued as I read the email to John. “What’s a crust crimper,” he asked? “Don’t you just use a fork?” Indeed…

Not many days go by where I don’t spend at a few minutes reminiscing/ reflecting about something from my home town. I have not called Rock Valley home since 1969. Yet it remains of utmost importance in many facets of my life, nearly a half century later. I suppose this midwest town can easily be summed up as one of thousands of small rural, farming communities. The heartland of America. With a twist of course.

At the time I certainly didn’t think there was anything unusual about my town. It was just a normal little community. We had town kids (I was one and didn’t know what a soybean looked like-or cared) but many of my classmates grew up in the country-outside of our little shopping Mecca/swimming pool/park/school. They lived on farms with their parents, growing the best corn crops/cattle/hogs on earth. No, I didn’t realize that either until I grew up. Crops-bushels per acre/prices of beef and pork weren’t part of my vocabulary. Going to Sioux Falls (45 miles west) to shop, eat, see a movie, and be part of big city life, even for a short time was important. And I’ve yet not gotten to the oddity of RV.

Really shouldn’t single out Rock Valley here either. Because some of the same size small towns surrounding us were eerily similar. Instead of having a quirk, it was probably more like a county wide issue. As in Sioux County, # 84 of 99 counties in Iowa. For some reason, when Rock Valley was being founded in the late 1800’s, folks of Dutch descent flocked here. Growing up, I never gave that a thought.

That’s not to say the whole town (in the 1950’s & ’60’s, maybe 1,600 to 1,800 including all those fabulous-out-of-city-limit-farmers) were Dutch. But the vast majority were. If I click off churches that I remember, I come up with 8. One Methodist, 1 Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran (one was several miles south of town). Add to that one Calvin Christian Reformed, the First Reformed, one Christian Reformed and the Netherlands Reformed. See what I’m saying? Goes a long way when assuming over half our town was Dutch. At least. Me included.

All 8 churches had various services on Sunday morning. I believe most began around 9:30. With Rock Valley’s one stoplight (the very reason I chose the name for my blog) directing some of the traffic flow, an extra stop sign was erected at Main Street & 16th Street to help folks arrive at their destination on time. Never a problem for the Gerritson’s small band of misfits heading short 4 blocks away. Dad would drive 1-1/2 blocks west to the stop sign. His head swiveled south, watching a string of constant traffic heading north on Main. Every church with a ‘reformed’ in their name was north of us. Weird huh? He could have easily turned north a half block from our house, then west, thus landing at the temporary stop sign and making it much easier than waiting for an opening from the traffic light. Yet Dad did not. We always arrived at church a half hour before the preacher perched on his pulpit. Our pew choice might not have been assigned formally, yet somehow we always sat in exactly the same spot. From the back of the Narthex, left aisle, approximately one third from the back. I went in first, then Mom, with Dad pulling up the rear and sitting on the end. Quite often he had to get out for some reason, help serve communion or a baptism. Dad was elected as an elder of the church (thus placing this brat on notice to behave and not embarrass him) many times. So I guess it was important to arrive early, get to our non-assigned-assigned seat, watching other folks file in. And what they were wearing. Who had on new church clothes. Just saying.

One other small detail about the 8 churches I remember. The 4 with the word Reformed in them-had second services on Sunday nights too. Sigh. You don’t know how much this little known fact affected every facet of my life from that day forward. My own fault. I forced my parents to switch churches right before I started junior high. Already did a blog or 2 about that touchy subject. But I did little when researching other venues of worship. I was just a little sheep trying to join a herd with familiar sheep faces. Did I not notice that all the churches west or south of me did not engage in that extra Sunday night service ritual? I did not. I was ecstatic having friends in my new congregation. I was an outsider and outcast at Calvin. The only kid not attending Christian school. Being a loner, I don’t know why this bothered me so much, but it did. I was happy to belong to a big group of my school peers, although probably about as many friends attended the Methodist church. Maybe in the back of my mind, I knew Mom and Dad could never be coerced into the Methodist ideology. (Dad was a firm believer in predestination). Was I really that clever? Doubtful. Either way, I made a huge deal, cried hysterically, pleaded, whined, begged, was thoroughly aggawase, Dutch word for stubborn or pig-headed and zhanicked Dutch word meaning begged, pleaded & whined for months to convince them switch to a church with kids I knew and ran around with at school. I really, really needed this after we lost Larry and they acquiesced. While I feel bad about being an all around jerk, I’m not thoroughly convinced a church change wasn’t good for Mom and Dad at that time too.

It was February 1964 and this chick had just turned 13. Something big was about to happen, literally changing the world. Alas I was totally left out. And it was a very big deal. The Beatles were going to be on TV. It was almost as good as seeing them in person. (Yeah, a small black and white TV, snowy features, no remote or surround sound). Ed Sullivan had booked The Beatles for 3 weeks in a row!! They were going to sing I Want to Hold Your Haaaannnnndddd. All four of them wearing those cool Beatle boots. Was I glued to the TV like the estimated 70 million lucky folks watching across America? Screaming, crying, fainting or swooning? No. I was in church. All 3 Sunday nights. Every Sunday night. Every. Sunday. Night. Cruel world out there Neese. You think it would have been permissible to watch The Beatles one of the Sundays. Just once. Nope. Television was off limits-period on Sundays. And we didn’t miss church. Ever. No You-Tube, Google or even a VCR tape to covet back in the day. I had to wait until I got to school on Monday morning to be filled with dark green/leaning towards black envy at the lucky ducks who got to sin on Sunday nights while I was being preached to for the second time that day. Fourth if you count Sunday school and RCYF (hmmm, not sure, Reformed Church Youth Fellowship maybe). RCYF was held in First Reformed church’s basement before the evening service and and I really did like it. Our fellowship meeting ended just as the preacher upstairs was gearing up for his second sermon of the day. We were required to file up the stairs, (guards were not posted, though a couple dads disguised as ushers were mulling around but trying not to watch us as the doors were now chained from the inside anyway. I jest) and sit in the new addition together during worship. There was no doubt, every single parent went through the mass of kid’s heads until they lit on their own, now safely ensconced to hear more of God’s word before we were allowed to ride around the loop of RV for a couple of hours. Yup, this was my life.

So I missed a lot. For this girl, there would never be a do-over. I missed watching the British Invasion at its inception. Over one third of the United States watched The Beatles on that first of three Sunday’s on the Ed Sullivan show. However, not me. Oh I still enjoyed the music of The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dave Clark Five, Monkees, Animals, Kinks, Zombies, and Herman’s Hermits. But I could never say I watched The Beatles when they were first on American TV. A sin and a regret. Should have faked an illness. I was a good liar. Great even. Could have, should have pulled it off.

By the time The Beatles broke up in 1970, I was expecting Shannon. Too busy learning about the ins and outs of marriage, figuring ways to pay our numerous bills, find something suitable and affordable besides Starkist Tuna (sorry Charlie) to eat every day rather than mourn the loss of my number one rock band. Plus the upcoming overwhelming job of motherhood. That one had me all twitchy. There was a lot on my plate besides music. But new music and news about about my favorite groups did invade my world at times nonetheless. Hubs brother Arly sent us all The Beatles and The Doors music (reel to reel) while he was in the Navy for safe keeping, which we played continuously. So, compounded with the loss of my favorite group, add to that the death of Jim Morrison (lead singer and lead hottie) of The Doors in 1971. Both hit me hard. I just didn’t have time to dwell on these minor tragedies that quite honestly didn’t affect my real life. I did feel bad though.

Shannon rocked her poncho, 1972…

I listened to a lot of music in the 70’s while raising our kids. But when homework and school activities added to the mix, the music of the 80’s didn’t get much of my attention. Until my kids really started listening to music. Which is way different than the kids of today. Much like my love of contemporary music when I became a teen, my kids didn’t listen much to the radio/tv/boom box until their early teens that I recall. By the time Shannon was in high school and Joshua in junior high did I realize I did not like most of their music when we were in the car together. If I wanted to listen to music, I now required ‘an oldies station’ much to their dismay. All my great music from the mid-60’s to around 1980. The aforementioned bands plus CCR, and still number one in my heart, Neil Diamond. It would be almost 2 decades before I started listening to new pop music again. New playlists to keep my feet and fat ass moving when I walked daily. Pitbull, JLo, Maroon 5, Enrique Iglesias, P!nk, Lady ga-ga, Black eyed Peas, Kelly Clarkson, David Guetta and Kylie Minogue. I know, I’ve lost my mind.

This re-found pleasure in popular music appears to be the reason I started attending crazy concerts during the last decade. I don’t think I’m trying to rediscover my sad sack youth or assume I’m trying to stay relevant in any way-shape-or-form. But the concerts have been a hoot.

P!nk soaring in Auburn Hills, 2013…

Which brings me to my latest adventure (and most expensive). First, the expense. I just can’t let this major gripe go on without pitching-a-bitch. I’ve never been a huge sporting event, concert person, so this weird (isn’t it illegal) phenomenon hit me hard between the eyes about 15 years ago. The Cubs were playing the Tigers in Detroit. We were buying tickets for the entire family (though not all were baseball fans-yes it breaks my heart). For some reason it was hard to buy tickets. I was used to going to Chicago Cubs, picking out the section and price I was willing to part with, pushing ‘purchase’ and have them send me my tickets. That ship sailed. It’s now required to go to Stub Hub, Ticket Master, Vivid Seats, or some other scalper and buy your $90 dollar ticket for $225. What the hell? I am in total disbelief that any ‘star’ or ‘team’ allows this to happen. Or our government. I thought if you got caught near a sporting event scalping tickets you were arrested. Now that seems to be the only way to get tickets for anything. And it seems to be legal. Tickets go on sale at 10 a.m. Five minutes later, you’re connected to one of these blood-sucking sites and the ticket prices have tripled. A crying shame and pisses me off so bad. OK I’m done. And exhausted. Bastards. Rotten bastards.

Six months ago I noticed Paul McCartney was going on tour and Detroit was on his list of stops. About an hour from us. Wow. I already had tickets for Neil Diamond in June. Could this old gal ‘do’ 2 concerts in one calendar year? And would we have to resort to 6 months of nothing but Starkist if we bought tickets? Pretty close call. If not for Erica, my wonderful daughter-in-law who knew a guy (isn’t that always the way things get done) Her friend’s name is Jeff and he had a suite, tickets (also sweet) which didn’t cost me a dime for Diamond. Very sweet. So I took the plunge. Told the Hubs I wanted to see Paul before one of us died (Paul or me). And I wanted good seats. Paul’s concert was one of the first in our brand-spanking Little Caesars Arena, downtown Detroit. New home for the Pistons and Red Wings. Two-$150. tickets cost us $552. bucks. Bastards. Seems like Aswin (appropriate first name) Hartono bought my tickets before I could and deemed it necessary to add $252. in fees in addition to the already exorbitant prices of $150 each, thus allowing Paul to sing for Neese. I’m just not gonna say bastards again. But it’s so wrong. Just wrong.

The concert was fantastic. No changing of sets or clothes for Paul. At 75 years young he came on stage and sang for almost 3 hours. Started out with A Hard Day’s Night (he probably knew it was gonna be). He told story tidbits, dedicated a song tribute for his late wife Linda. For John Lennon, A Day in the Life and “all we are saying, is give peace a chance.” For George Harrison it was, Hey Jude. The sold out crowd helped Paul by singing, “nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, hey Jude for 5 minutes. (I might have lost track of some ‘nahs’ there, but you get my drift). Paul’s voice was a bit wobbly by the end, but he came out for 2 curtain calls. The last one was ‘Yesterday’ on an acoustic guitar with a Red Wings sticker on it. The crowd went nuts.

So glad we went. Well worth it. Parking 1/2 block away was 40 bucks, my Paul t-shirt another $45. We’re been pretty content with tuna casserole for a month of Sundays. About the blog post title. I’ve always been somewhat different in my choice of favorite songs of a band as opposed to everyone else’s favorite song by the same group or individual. Three songs from The Beatles or Paul with Wings remain on most of my playlists for walking.

1. Ob la Di
2. Ballad of John & Yoko
3. Mull of Kintyre (by Wings)…

I don’t know whose idea it was at first. Shannon’s certainly smarter than me, and much more clever. At the time though, I was the money supplier for such extravagances. What I can pinpoint and tell you is almost the exact time within a few days. It was October, 1991. Where it began.

Shannon & Josh, 1976…

Twenty-six years ago there were 3 likely venues to choose from. Penny’s, Sears and Olan Mills. The Sunday paper carried coupon specials that were hard to beat. Get your baby’s picture taken for $1.99, sometimes as low as 99 cents. For that sum you could choose one 8 x 10 from maybe 3 poses. An incredible deal. However, these businesses made their money by guilting you into buying more than one picture. These photographers were ruthless and relentless in their bid to make money off us poor unsuspecting new parents. They had been well trained not to take no for an answer. They’d lump some locket sized charms, wallets, 5 x 7’s all in different (the cutest) poses to wear you down until you’d pay just about anything for those damn pictures and get out of there. Because your kid was never gonna be that cute, wear that outfit or have that same adorable smile ever again. It happened often enough to this hapless, helpless mom when my kids were small (and cute, wearing adorable outfits from my Mom, with beaming angelic smiles). Walking out of those store I’d be half crying/cursing for spending money-we-could-ill-afford-on-pictures.

Shannon 1, 1971…

By 1991 we were a little better off. The kids, Shannon 20, Joshua 16, and Adam now 12, were long past getting their picture taken every 3 months because they changed so much and fast. But our granddaughter Ariana was getting close to her first birthday.

Ariana, 10 months, 1991…

We had already had several pictures of this exquisite child taken at various ages in different stores. Ari was a natural, stunning with the most beautiful almond shaped eyes and arched eyebrows. With this many years in service as a mom and now gram, I wore a tough coat of armor when being accosted by the hard selling band of photographers. And I was honing Shannon’s skills early as a young mom. She could offer a steely-eyed glance that would burn the lips right off their smiling face as they hit paragraph 2 during the sales pitch. Makes me a little teary. Yup, I taught her well.

My favorite picture, Adam & Joshua, 1980…

So unless Shannon’s going to argue the point, I will take the credit of the bath time pictures. Ari was 9 months old, probably having her picture done at Olan Mills. I may have had a lot of resolve in saying no to enormous picture packages, but had not yet acquired the set of skills needed in saying no to buying bundles from Olan Mills. When I bought these bundles, there were time constraints involved. I had a year to schedule 3 different photo shoots. I could fake a sick kid, or say the Hubs was out of town on business and stretch it out a couple extra months if I needed to. They actually were pretty lenient. Olan Mills always did a good job getting cute poses, and didn’t seem quite as crestfallen when I said no fourteen times. In a row. At one sitting. So Shannon and I were trying to come up with something different when we took Ariana in for yet another round of pictures. One of us (ok, me) thought maybe a bathtub shot would be cute.

Ariana, 1991…

Well, the bathtub pictures turned out simply adorable. My favorite part was Ari’s little curled toes. By now Ari had her first set of white high tops (as every baby should. BTW, my Hightops & Onesies story from May, 2017 is rather funny. I know, I was surprised too. Read it some night when you’re having trouble falling asleep). Anyway, I always had a tough time getting her high tops on that chubby little foot of hers. When I noticed her toes curled up tight as a drum on the picture I realized why I was having so much trouble.

Zoom forward 10 years, 2001 (which really took all of 3 minutes). Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) is now about 9 months old. Shannon and I decide to have his picture taken with some kind of bathtub scene like we did with Ari. Turned out just as cute. Those dark ringlet curls all over his head like a halo. In one of the pictures he’s holding a basketball. Of course. He has yet to let go. I decided to have Ari’s and Landon’s professionally matted and framed with matching frames and mats. Our master bathroom in North Muskegon is huge with a whirlpool tub. I hang both pictures on one wall above the tub. Man does that look cute.

Landon, 2001…

Wait, we’re not done. Late 2004, Miss Peyton is now 9 months old. Her bathtub shots were all gauzy and she was chewing on a bead necklace. It’s adorable. I go back to the frame shop (still open, thank heavens) with Landon’s picture so they can match the blue mat and metal frame. And kind of wonder if I’ll have anymore grandkids? Shannon seems kind of done, but there’s still Adam and Josh with no kids between them. Oh what the heck. Just in case, I order 2 extra mats and frames. For future use. If there’s ever a need.

Peyton, 2004…

Sure enough, God gifted us with an incredible grandson named Graham in 2009. I reminded Sarah and Adam every month of Graham’s life about our family tradition of bathtub scene pictures around 9 months. Sarah had G’s appropriate picture taken at the same age as the rest of the grands. It too turned out so cute. When I spot Graham’s little leg high in the air, I just smile. I kind of thought my last picture frame would be wasted. None of the kids seemed to be having any more babies. The wall of four tubby time pictures of our grandkids have been my favorites since I hung the first one up.

Graham, 2009…

Months after we moved back to Jackson, our bathroom remodel was finally done. But it’s less than half the size of our old master bath. I’ve stood with those 4 framed grandkid pictures a dozen times, staggering the frames, holding them up and down, straight, from the ceiling, to no avail. Trying to figure out a way to get them on a wall without overpowering that rather small space. Cannot. Be. Done. So back in the spare bedroom they’d sit on the floor. Forlorn and dusty.

And then along comes Jovi! The best surprise package this family’s had since 2009. Our amazing first great-granddaughter. How times have changed. I don’t think Olan Mills is even still in business. Haven’t had pictures taken at Sears or Penny’s in years. I’ve been keeping tabs on the months flying by and reminding Ari to get a bathtub picture when Jovi’s 9 months old. Which Ari did by a talented young photographer named Faryn Steel yesterday. I’m sure these are some the preliminary shots aimed to tease us (well done Faryn), but my oh my. Jovi. This baby is simply too cute. She melts my heart. Melts. My. Heart.

A mommy snapshot of Jovi, 5 months…

What to do about our darling picture less bathroom? Now I’ve got another fabulous picture to squeeze in a too-small-room. I think I’ve come up with a plan. I’m going to take all of the pictures out of their custom frames, resizing them all to 5 x 7’s with a mat, or 8 x 10 without a mat. Try and find a hanging pattern which suits my one big wall in the bathroom. Hubs is great at figuring that stuff out. And I’m instructing him to leave an inconspicuous spot open. For another bathtub shot if the need arises. Just in case…

Jovi photographed by Faryn Steel, 10-17…

Couple weeks from now we’ll celebrate 2 years in our fixer-upper. Man has that gone fast. Partly because we existed in a three-year-time-warp trying to sell our North Muskegon house in order to move. But mostly because of all the things that needed to be done here-all at the same time. At first it was fun, picking out paint colors, appliances, light fixtures. Soon it became tedious. First thing every morning we’d stop at Lowes, Menards or Home Depot, with a revised list in hand. It was hard to keep our bubbling enthusiasm going. We wanted to be settled, finally done with our long list of to-do’s and hunker down for winter.

Except for the broken glass from the front storm door strewn all over the porch and yard, nothing got done outside. The door had to be replaced as it was hanging by one screw. Curb appeal ‘ya know? There was just too much to do getting the house ready to live in. We eliminated a third of our household goods from North Muskegon. It was after we moved everything (twice) when we realized we still had way too much stuff. But here’s the thing. I like stuff. Especially my stuff. Collections and antiques. It’s like comfort food, having familiar things I’m used to, in our new place. Familiarity felt good. Tasty.

So I crammed, stuffed, rearranged, moved, squished, squeezed all I possibly could into our little house. And felt pretty good about how the place looked and had turned out. My living room still boasted quite a few of my favorite antiques, plus a new Lazy Boy. Just for me. Somewhere to blog, have a cup of tea in the afternoon and not be bothered by the family room’s TV. Perfect.

Fast forward six months. Spring. The most popular sentence in our vocabulary is-holy hanna, the outside of this place is an absolute disaster! The worst offender was the broken, dilapidated blacktop driveway. Must be original to our 1963 home. Took up half of the front yard! Tore it out and poured a new cement driveway. Removed a tree that was bigger than our house and had some issues, new roof on the garage, replaced the central air, started planting grass, and pulling out the horror show of old landscaping. We were knee deep in outdoorsy stuff, (not my favorite) including 5 ton of river rock and landscaping shrubs.

One day John noticed something odd about the living room carpet. Suddenly it looked like undulating-amber-waves-of-grain (wheat color carpet). There were 4 or 5 little rolls/waves all over the room. Grabbed my phone, snapped a couple of pictures and headed back to the big box store called Home Depot. Waited our turn, stated the complaint, passed Adrianne my phone with documentation. She called her boss and they decided we needed to have the carpet stretched. Set up an appointment with the carpet layers. It was up to us to take out everything out of the living room and hallway. Ugh. It’s a small house. There’s not a lot of places to set large, heavy, imposing antiques. I cleared the stacking oak bookcase, filled with everything from soup to nuts. A virtual catch all of things near and dear. The china closet full of Blue Delft, emptied and separated by shelves. All my Isabel Bloom statues (each weighing about a ton). The carpet crew came, hauling some kind of machine to stretch, did their little job, vacuumed up the fragments and left.

Carpet looked pretty good. I decided to rearrange the room since it was empty. (Ended up doing 3 rooms). By now we had been here about a year. A couple antiques were just in the wrong place. From the get-go I felt the curved glass china closet should be by the dining room table, but it was a tight squeeze and begging for a chair to bump into the curved glass. Decided to put the smallest of the 3 curved glass pieces (yeah, I couldn’t get rid of any of them) in the dining area which sports my Waterford glassware. Hubs was feeling magnanimous and offered a wall to hold the biggest curved glass secretary in ‘his’ room. This one holds my Lladro pieces, which are statues of mostly soft muted tones of blues, white and grays. This works well with light gray walls and medium gray carpet in the family (his) room. The Blue Delft china closet would be home in my living room.

For the most part we were just actually living in our house. Oh, there’s still a shorter list of to-do’s, but nothing pressing. I want to take out the dishwasher (never use it) add a cupboard (which I desperately need), get new countertops, backsplash, cupboard handles (these are ceramic-with daisies, hut-fa-duttie) and a new sink. All in due time Neese.

But almost 2 years after moving in, Hubs was getting antsy. We have a 2-1/2 stall garage which is still pretty full. We’ve come to terms that our remaining antiques gathering dust and scratches out there are never gonna find a home in this house. The kids have taken several pieces but there’s still more. John is tired of parking his truck outside. (However, I have been able to squeeze my Jeep in the garage). Hubs wanted to buy a shed and plop it in back of the garage, which is really wasted space anyway. The price of the sheds he preferred are outrageous. He called Duke (our bathroom remodel guy) for a quote to add on to our existing garage instead. A deal was struck and construction commenced, albeit slowly. We weren’t in a hurry as long as it was complete before winter. Duke finished his part, now it’s John’s turn to tidy up, move stuff and clean up the backyard again. We’re determined to get the antiques sold and out of the garage this fall.

Seems like every time we get distracted with a project, something happens when we’re not paying attention. This time it was me who spotted the issue. “Hey John, what’s that bump in the carpet from?” Not again? Yup. Well shit. At least the 3 waves were in different spots, but again only in our living room. We bought 5 different carpets and spent the most money on the living room carpet. Go figure. More pictures and back to Home Depot. Adrianne (mumbling under her breath when she spotted us saddling up cozily in her work station) looked at the pictures, called her superior Patty again, hung up and said, “no, not this time. The carpet’s 18 months old.” “But you’re still trying to correct a problem from the initial installation, or something’s wrong with that particular carpet,” I pleaded heatedly. She looked at me sympathetically and dialed another number. Talked for a minute and said, “we just got a new assistant manager, he’s a good guy. He’s agreed to come out and take a look and get some of his own pictures. Is that ok?” “Sure, thanks for the extra effort Adrianne,” I said as we left.

One of the biggest ripples was right by the front door, which ordinarily is not used. When Paul (from Home Depot, not Jake from State Farm) stepped through the front door, he glanced down and said, “oh boy, I see what you mean. We’re gonna fix this. I don’t know if it’s the carpet or the way it was installed. I’ll have to figure that out, but we will fix this.” He called a couple days later, set up an appointment 3 weeks in advance to have the carpet re-stretched because they’d had no complaints on the carpet itself from other customers. Which meant taking out all the knick-knacks from the bookcase and china closet, moving those chunky Isabel Bloom’s and all the furniture. Again.

The china closet has claw feet with wheels, so it moves pretty smooth, but a couple of the wheels like to fall out when it’s rolling. The bookcase is just a pain in the ass to move. One of my favorite pieces though. Willed to me in 2008 from a feisty old gal named Mildred (one of my better stories titled Mildred & Charlie, October, 2014). It’s a 5 section stacking oak bookcase, each section comes apart and is a slightly different size than the next section. Took Hubs a couple of hours to figure out the sequence the first time. (The movers solved this dilemma by wrapping the whole bookcase in Saran Wrap and just picking it up). I asked Josh and Adam for their help this time. Adam agreed to move the furniture out, Joshua would come after the carpet was done.

Our appointment was on Wednesday. Adam ended up coming on Saturday night, after working all day at The Chop House in Ann Arbor. He planned on coming Monday to move things but Graham’s great grandma Betty had fallen and broke her hip. Meaning his grandma Karen (Betty’s daughter) needed to be at the hospital with Betty and couldn’t watch G on Saturday. We’re always happy getting that wonderful kid for an extra day. It would be silly for Adam to drive here to pick up Graham late Saturday night and not move the measly few big pieces rather than come back and do it sometime Monday. Still, meant an extra 2 days with living room furniture packed tightly in my small kitchen. Wednesday morning Hubs is expecting a call to set up a definite time, instead they call to reschedule for Thursday because someone called in sick. Dang it. I had hope to put everything back Wednesday night because great grandpa had 8 month old Jovi coming Thursday morning at 7. Plus now I had to ask Josh to switch days.

Josh was gracious and came over on Thursday, so it all worked out. I got home right after the carpet guys left, but did not start hauling the small stuff back in the room until Ari came to pick up Jovi. Josh helped move our fire pit in the backyard, got the big pieces put where I wanted (rearranged them again) and move the antiques in the garage so he and John could take pictures to advertise them. And of course he can now park in our garage. Finally.

John and I were surprised at how big the living room looked-empty. On one hand I love all my stuff nestled close to me. On the other hand, clutter makes me twitchy. What to do, what to do? I need balance people. Arms laden with load after load of miscellaneous momentos and small glassware pieces back to the living room, I might have found the perfect niche. I just had too much little stuff cluttering up the big pieces. My lovely antique oak library table was almost completely covered with little do-dads.

When I was in Paris this July, I bought one very nice (small) piece of Baccarat crystal, which I hadn’t taken out of the box yet. Why? No room or proper place to show it off. The time had come for the tiny crystal butterfly to emerge from its red box cocoon. I spotted a perfect home. On the oval library table, but minus a dozen knick-knacks of minor significance. Hubs noticed it walking through and said, “what’s that?” “Oh, the one good remembrance piece from Paris,” I replied. He countered with, “Cute, how much?” Luckily my memory tends to fog on such matters, though I tried to stay in the ballpark. Or the general vicinity of the ballpark. He flinched-visibly. (That right there was worth the price of admission). A couple hours later I was basking in my slightly trimmed down, minimalistic version of this new, tidy living room. The sun was shining and glinting off the crystal butterfly. “Wow John, the butterfly is simply stunning when the sun’s shining on it,” I oozed, mesmerized. “For that much money, the damn thing should fly,” he shot back…

I work with an amazing group of gals in the infant room at daycare. Our latest addition is Angie. She has similar hours to mine but works every day-I do not. She has a teaching degree but with 2 young children and a husband, isn’t ready for a full time teaching position just yet. My problem with this gal? Angie talks soft and doesn’t move her mouth much. Kind of odd that still surprises me. I don’t realize how much I read lips when someone’s talking until I don’t get any help from the non-movement of their mouth. I literally want to stand by-her-face-to-face, lay my hands on her cheeks and massage her mouth into moving. OK, now I understand you Ang. Other times, with 12 noisy babies, she could have the voice of James Earl Jones and not one of us could hear or understand a word she said.

The expressive mouths of Jovi and Mommy, 2017…

Angie (the-soccer-mom) posted a question on Facebook the other day. I thought about it for a minute and was about to type my comment. As I was reading the comments from other people, their words took me back many years. I decided to write about both events. And I didn’t want to bore Angie and her friends with my book long comment. OK, you can stop nodding your heads about my comments. I have issues saying stuff with very few words. And I prefer to call them chapters.

I knew it was going to be a fabulous day. Late summer, early morning and I was ready to start my walk. About a block from my house in North Muskegon, I head up the dreaded hill to get to the main drag of town, Ruddiman Drive. No sidewalk on 2nd Street, but if I ignore how steep the incline is, it’s the favorite part of my walk. There are trees on both sides of the street at the top of the hill filling my view. Some evergreens but mostly deciduous. So far, not one tree had started turning color-yet. Just above the steep incline of asphalt in my view is gorgeous dark green-leaves and branches of pine needles. Oodles of them, but that’s not what make the sight so spectacular. It’s that vivid blue sky above the trees. Not that sometimes pale blue which reminds me of Joshua’s eyes when he was a baby and didn’t feel well-blue. No, not navy blue either, but closer to Chicago Cubs blue. Flat out-a beautiful summer day sky. This color blue just pops, especially against the striking vivid green shades. Awesome. Thanks for that God.

I already owned a cell phone, but used it sparingly. Mom and Dad were beginning to have some health issues, so my trips to Iowa were becoming more frequent. As long as I had good transportation, I was fine making the 750 mile trek by myself 3 or 4 times a year. Having a cellphone by my side in case I had car problems and needed to go all damsel-in-distress-mode to the Hubs (miles away, but still) was reassuring. Back then, I never gave a thought of taking it along for my hour daily walk.

After I get home I wait a few minutes to cool down and stop sweating before heading upstairs to shower. It’s close to 9 when our home phone rings. It’s John telling me to turn on the news, there’s been a horrible accident/explosion. By the time I’m sitting at the dining room table, there’s already on-going news coverage. It’s hard for me to accept this is really happening right before my eyes. My brain is working overtime trying to reason/justify how this plane could ever get so far off course and not see that big-ass skyscraper right in its path. Then a second plane appears, heading straight for the south tower of The World Trade Center. My heart is thumping loud enough to be distracting-but fear and dread replace the thumps when I realize this must have been on purpose.

Never did shower on that awful day. Sat by the table, watching more horror from other locations, the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania field. Crying and shaking my head in disbelief. No commercials, no breaks, no afternoon or night time programs. The absolute worst for me were the people who jumped. My mind simply couldn’t/wouldn’t-comprehend/accept what my eyes saw until the news station asked a psychiatrist to explain what was going through their minds. These people already knew they were going to die. For them, there was no escaping the fire/flames/heat/smoke. They realized they were surely going to perish in one of the worst ways imaginable. These individuals are taking what little control they still have over the last few seconds of their lives. And if it was hard for me to understand while watching this unfold, try and imagine what was going through their minds. Dear God. Those poor souls.

I’m not a big TV fan. I watch several series that we tape with Hubs at night, however I would easily give up the boob tube long before my books and iPad. But for about 3 days I could not stop watching the coverage on TV. Probably emotionally unhealthy but when Americans are going through this un-ending horror I felt compelled-not to resume my normal life either. Suddenly there was no normal. It was days before the television stations went back to their regular scheduled programming or took commercial breaks. Before 9-11, I can’t ever remember days of news without a commercial break.

Three disturbing incidents happened to me during the following days. The first was while I was on my walk the next morning. North Muskegon has a population of about 4,000. It sits about a mile and a half (by water) from Lake Michigan, languishing between Muskegon Lake and Bear Lake. So it’s a narrow little town, only about 6 blocks wide most places. One main street, Ruddiman runs through most of it. If you wanna get a speeding ticket, try driving over 30 through it. At the top of the hill on Ruddiman were 4 police cruisers, all parked, lights on but no sirens. (Until that day, I didn’t know N. Muskegon had 4 police cruisers, or that many policemen for that matter). The object of their concerned interest was an older vehicle model with something secured to the roof of their car. Honestly, looked like a Directv satellite dish, screwed to the top of this car. I don’t know if this car would have been stopped driving through our sleepy town before 9-11, but the day after seemed to render the start of a different era in what some would deem ‘suspicious behavior.’

The second incident happened the same day. When I got back from my walk, all cruisers, cops and satellite car dude had disappeared. I showered and headed to church which had opened its doors, welcoming all to come in and pray. Ran into the pastor on my way in and he expressed his thoughts on the last 2 days. He said it was our fault. America’s fault for the terrorist’s attacks. We asked for it. We goad other countries. Everyone hates the U.S. and what we stand for. Oh bloody hell I don’t need to hear your shit. Stop talking. (One of 4-less than favorite preacher bosses in a row. Not a typo, that is indeed the number 4. And he wasn’t the worst, but ranked right near the top. Don’t even get me started. Yes, it’s a big chip I’m lugging around lately about organized religion. My cross to bear).

About a week later, I thought some kind of normal life had returned. Just weeks before, about 10 miles south from my house, our fabulous new Lakes Mall had opened. Suddenly I needed to get out, be near people, perusing shelves in sparkly new stores for something mundane. Anything to feel normal again. So I head to the mall. I’m coming to the stop light at Harvey and Sternberg where Perkins Restaurant was located. In their parking lot was the most beautiful American flag, flapping softly in the morning breeze. It’s one of those oversized flags, stunning against another true-blue summer sky. And the flag is flying at half staff. Sucked the breath right out of me. I round the corner and pull into the lot. Just sat there and sobbed. Guilt floods me. How can I think of shopping when this world changing terror attack happened a few short days ago? I have no heart. Turn the car around and head back home. Too soon. It’s too fresh and too soon. I couldn’t go back to the mall for weeks after that first attempt.

Getting back to Angie and her post question, where were you when 9-11 happened? The comments made by her friends? In junior or senior high, Mr. So & So’s class. Dang, this 50 year old already had 2 grandchildren, Ariana 10 and Landon who just had his first birthday. Couple gals commented on having young children already, but most were in their early/mid teens at the time.

Landon & Ariana 2001…

Which was what brought me back so many years ago when I first read Angie’s post. The day was November 22, 1963 and I was 12. It was a Friday and I was making my way to the new library from the old school building through a long hallway. I believe just before the double library doors were a couple of steps. I was on these steps when someone (can’t remember who it was) caught up to me and said president Kennedy had just been shot. Soon we were sent home from school. My Mom had already left work and was watching our black and white TV. Walter Cronkite solemnly announced President John F. Kennedy was dead. Mom and I watched all afternoon, crying together. He was so young and handsome. He had little kids, younger than me. Why on earth would anyone want to harm him? If you were around, who could forget the procession with the horse drawn hearse? Never forget that scene.

Two world changing events. The first one, when I was not yet a teen, the second nearly 40 years later. Anyone old enough-remembers exactly what they were doing at that moment. We all have moments in our lives we’ll never forget. Some very personal, getting married, giving birth, or losing someone we love. Other events, not so personal, but mourned and remembered by millions. The highs and lows of life…

I’ve been thinking a lot about Rock Valley, my home town. Probably because I was just there for part of a day. That part kinda bothers me. Seems every time I visit, there are less reasons for me to hang around. After I lost my ‘home base’ it feels rather foreign when I’m there. Like it’s not really my home town anymore. What the heck is that about? It was my lifeline for 2 decades. I knew that town like the back of my hand. Though some of my memories are painful, for the most part, I hold Rock Valley in a very special spot in my heart.

My afternoon kindergarten class, 1956…

When I started kindergarten there were morning and afternoon classes. As in 2. Since I still get the weekly Rock Valley Bee, I’m privy to all the newsworthy happenings of my not-so-little-town anymore. Rock Valley Community School District just purchased a half million dollar building because they’re short so many classrooms since the school year started. I believe this extra building will house a couple of preschool and kindergarten classes. I find this amazing. I never thought my somewhat isolated, secluded little town would ever change from the way I remember it. Stuck forever in the 1950’s and ’60’s. I guess it’s like seeing someone from your past that you’ve not seen for years. You expect them to look the same as you remember them and are surprised when they’ve aged considerably. Guess what they’re thinking? Geez oh pete, Neese has gotten all wrinkly and frumpy. How did she get so old?

My heart swells as I drive around my town. When I’m with Hubs, we rattle off who-lived-where 50 years ago. John tells me the strangest little stories as we slowly ride around. Now where the Cedar Rock Grill is located used to be a small gas station. There was an outdoor pop machine that looked like a chest type freezer. When you lifted the lid, the small glass pop bottles were hanging in rows. You made your pop choice, Coke, RC Cola, Dr. Pepper, 7-Up, Sunkist or Squirt. Then you moved the bottle through the maze and because you plopped in your nickel, the little lock mechanism released your bottle. Nope, not the way Hubs got pop. He waited until the station closed, brought along a straw and pop bottle opener. See where this young sinner was headed? He popped the cap off, stuck in a straw and sucked it down. Who would even think of that? Silly question, I married this misdemeanor dude. Hey, I already copped to a felony at the ripe age of 13. The Hubs gets no protection or free passes from me.

As we head east on 14th (?) past the old creamery, he tells me how the driver of the refrigerated truck used to leave his delivery truck running all night to keep the ice cream frozen. Back then, no one in Rock Valley locked their doors at night except the bank. Maybe. So Hubs would open the truck and get some ice cream. Logical right? You can’t make this stuff up.

Just past the creamery, still heading east is a new business I’ve not noticed before. Rows and rows of gigantic round bales of hay, plus what looks like a rodeo fence set up. Don’t know exactly what that is. Back in my day there were very few homes after Randy Timmer’s house (corner of 17th or 18th street and whatever Valley Manor’s street is). Now there’s a huge new housing addition. There’s a serious shortage of homes in Rock Valley which is why the city wisely started incorporating more land into city limits. Hundreds of people drive daily to work in Rock Valley but can’t move there because the housing market hasn’t caught up yet. Incredible.

Hay, hay, hay…

When I was a kid we had 2 big factories that I remember, Kooima’s and Roorda’s. (You couldn’t own a factory unless your last name included double o’s) You can’t believe how many large factories/machine shops there are now. Massive new structures, parking lots full of cars (mostly pickups). Still I’m surprised with all this growth several stores/chains seem absent from such a hot commodity like Rock Valley. Where’s the Hy-Vee, Fareway, and Walmart? I would have thought by now there would be a couple of good restaurants on the outskirts of town plus a 6-8 movie theater complex. This just seems plain backwards to me and their growth potential for bringing in new families. Don’t know what the hold up is.

Rock Valley, my one-stoplight-town…

Heading north out of town (never knew that was north until recently. Yes I have no pride-or sense of direction, for that matter). John wants to see the new bridge where the dump used to be. Oh fun, Hubs’ got another tale for me. He used to go to the dump at night with a spotlight and a gun. Waited to see shiny eyes and then shoot rats. Ugh. The bridge is beautiful, with a walkway along the side. Turning left (west, I knew that) to what was just a field is now a beautiful church with another housing addition, and a landscape business. All of this surrounds a fairly new campground and pond which was full of campers. As I remember this was like wasted space in your house. Now a flourishing plethora of various homes and businesses. This. Town. I. Just. Can’t.

Seeing my old house though was not pleasant. Devastating really. One of my friends, Ray Witte still visits Rock Valley with regularity because his mom lives there. Ray took a picture of my house a couple of years ago and sent it to me. Besides some shrub and tree trimming the place looked pretty good. Let’s take into account it is one of the oldest houses in town. And added on about a dozen times by my Dad (one of my better stories called Preliminary Steps, June, 2014). Haukee after haukee (Dutch word for little add on room or lean to) as Mom dictated what our old house needed at the time. Yard was a mess, the grass and weeds at least a foot high. Junk sitting all over the front yard. The whole place looked run down. The garage shingles had more curls in them than my first (and last) home perm. Yup the house was a big disappointment and brought tears. Mom and Dad took much pride of ownership in that old house and it’s painful to watch it go downhill.

One other thing stood out about Rock Valley which seems unusual. I don’t know if it’s really strange/odd but it jumped out at me immediately. Happened a month ago when The Bee arrived in the mail. The paper had 16 pictures of girls on the front page. A few were senior high school age, the rest maybe 7 to 10 years old. The older gals vying for the title of Miss Rock Valley, the younger ones, Little Miss for Rally in the Valley. Beneath each cute picture was their name and parents name.

I read 2 papers almost everyday, Muskegon and Jackson’s. This spring, each paper had the top academic students from surrounding schools, grade point average, college choice and their field of study. In addition to these kids, another section of the paper about once a week lists all the births from the hospital. I love this part. I rarely know any of them but the snippet has the parents, whether it’s a boy or girl, weight and name for the baby. I like reading their choice of names for some reason. Anyway, getting back to my point. I was surprised when I read all the Rock Valley girls names along with their parents. Not one of the 16 had either parent with a different last name. Not one. Not a single one. While the majority of graduating seniors around here had both parents with the same last name, that’s not the case in the baby’s birth section. By my calculations, less than half seem to have both parents with the same last name. I don’t know what to make of this, still it has struck me as odd.

While I’m proud of the growth in Rock Valley, I’m ecstatic I grew up there before the big boom. My little town may sound hokey, but there was something very special about that tight-knit, mostly Dutch community. The town that rallied around my family when Larry was killed. The smaller school which allowed this mostly-middle-of-the-road-girl to be a cheerleader and accepted me, warts and all. I’m not saying some of the townsfolk didn’t drive me bonkers at times. They knew before I lit up when I smoked. Or if I was letting John get to first base, snuggled deep in the recesses of the nearby Catholic Church. Still, not much I would ever change about this little girl and her history-the storyteller from a one-stoplight-town…

We moved from Iowa 3 decades ago. That’s 30 year’s worth of trips back & forth from Michigan to Iowa. I wonder how many times I’ve made that trek? Many more between 1987 and 2005 than since. Because my folks were alive and starting their slow health decline. Often I’d go 3 or 4 times a year, setting them up with a freezer full of meals, lugging heavy change to the bank for the grandkid’s bank accounts, getting chores done they deemed difficult. Always playing catch up.

About the time we moved to Davenport, Adam, me & Josh, 1982…

The trip’s been a migration of sorts. Steeped deep in it’s own traditions. Like caribou who leg out thousands of miles on life’s journey, their young are born with a sense of where to go, what to do, how to find food and water. Just like me. After 30 odd years of traveling mostly the same roads, I often have this weird innate ability to find what I want or need. Although my wants and needs have changed somewhat over the years.

Kinda crowded with Blue Delft…

The first big leg of the trip back remains Davenport. About 6 hours away, our whole family has a soft spot in our hearts (and tummies) for the Quad Cities. It’s unusual if I can’t find something I like at North Park Mall. Or Isabel Bloom’s store. Some of my best friends and double deck euchre buddies still look forward to my stop for a night of wild cards which now often lasts past 9!! After 30 years, there might be an inadvertent renege once in a while, but we’re still sharp enough to catch most of them. Because it’s a ‘quarter a game, dime a bump,’ type of night. Many of our favorite restaurants, The Mandarin, Rudy’s Tacos, Jumer’s, Old Oaks, and Yen Ching are either closed or not like we remember. But Happy Joe’s, Harris Pizza, Whitey’s Ice Cream and Iowa Machine Shed are still well worth a stop when we stay a night or just zipping through.

Since I went to Italy last summer I’ve had the hots for all things Assisi. The hilltop fortress town, incredible churches, and the history surrounding Saint Francis and Saint Clare have fascinated me. Perusing eBay this spring I spotted an Isabel Bloom statue (she’s quite a famous artist from Davenport, died several years ago) of Saint Francis for sale. I was intrigued and not surprised when the small print stated, ‘no shipping.’ Duh, little snot weighs a ton, most Isabel’s do, they’re concrete. But Franny was less than half price of what he costs new in the stores. So I contacted Cherie the seller, (who conveniently lives near the Quad Cities), asking if I paid for him, would she hold him for 3 long months until I started my yearly migration? She said sure. She works in Davenport and would lug the Saint along where we could meet her and pick him up.

Welcome home Saint Francis…

It wasn’t long after I started these numerous 750 mile trips when I discovered there are products, meats, baked goods I treasure from Iowa which are not readily available in Michigan. Who knew? And who’s ever heard of Vernor’s? For the first 15 years I made a point of buying a piece of Blue Delft in Orange City every time I ventured to Iowa. When my china closet started looking cluttered I put a halt on buying more pieces. My trip still includes a run to Orange City however, for dried beef from Woudstra’s Meat Market. There is a store we discovered a couple years ago in Grand Rapids that carries dried beef, but it’s not the same. Too dry and crumbly. So we wait until we’re in Iowa and buy the best. My sister-in-law Mary Jane freezes it for me, we plop it in zip lock bags in a cooler of ice for the trip back to Michigan.

A real treat-dried beef sandwich…

Side note, I can do more wandering around, stopping at antique malls, points of interest, take pictures of Iowa’s beautiful black earth, corn crops, small pink rocks on the road’s shoulders, shopping malls, outlet malls, inlet malls ON THE WAY TO NORTHWEST IOWA. But once we’re homeward (Michigan) bound, unless you’ve got severe stomach cramps, hurling green chunks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, a tornado is in my path, or-the-2-cups-of-coffee-one-bottle-of-water-and-giant-Diet-Pepsi is making me extremely uncomfortable, getting home is my ONLY priority. I stop for NOTHING.

There are places we stop every time we hit northwest Iowa. Archie’s Waeside in Le Mars is a must. Not the fanciest steak joint, but they just keep winning awards for great food for 70 years and counting. Hitting Southern Hills Mall in Sioux City is high on my list (Scheels) because I need a new Iowa T-shirt every year. Go Hawks! Same goes for The Three Sons in Milford, there’s just this strange urge compelling me to buy something that says Okoboji. But every year? Yup.

This one captivated me, Iowa, my home state-forever…

Then there’s this whole canning fiasco. There’s barely room for our suitcases in the Jeep because of the canned goods I haul back to Iowa? Why, I haven’t a clue. Must I push my canned goods on every Tom, Dick & Harry in the state? I would have to say yes. My guess is it won’t be too many more years when my canning days are over, so I enjoy this passion/obsession/hobby while I’m able.

Stop with the canned goods, please….

Two things have changed in my travel trips to Iowa. One is something I’ve been addicted to for over 25 years. It’s my dumb lip balm. (Sorry Mentholatum Natural Ice, you’re not dumb). About a decade ago my favorite all around shopping store-Meijer stopped selling Mentholatum. (Yet why they carry a dozen variations of ChapStick and Burt Bees remains a mystery-kickbacks perhaps for purchasing agents)? Not long after so did Walmart, then Walgreens. WTH? Luckily, a big food chain in Iowa, Hy-Vee still carried it. From the time I cross the Mississippi, every Hy-Vee store sign I spot meant a mandatory stop. And I bought all the tubes they had. Every time. I mean, what if there’s an apocalypse? If that little factory shuts down and I live for another 20 years, well, now you see my dilemma. This year no Mentholatum Natural Ice at any Hy-Vee’s. I still have some tubes in various vaults from coast to coast but now I’ve got to find a new supplier on the black market. My world is literally upside down!

The other important top stop in Iowa is my ice cream. This too is rather perplexing as I really have never considered myself an ice cream nut. Heck, I put cotton candy, cinnamon/sugar soft pretzels, popcorn (small amount of real butter and light dusting of salt-mandatory-and for heaven’s sake no microwave popcorn), Diet Pepsi, and fresh tomatoes far ahead of my love for ice cream. Except where Well’s Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream is involved. I make it my mission in life to eat it everyday while I’m in the state of Iowa. For awhile my hopes soared when Michigan Walmart’s started carrying Well’s Blue Bunny a few years ago. I thought the constant craving would eventually subside so I might return to normal. Ha! Walmart offered Cherry Nut-for the first few months. You know how limited space is when you only have a couple hundred thousand square feet to work with in those big box stores. Vendors pushing, bribing, coaxing, handing out favors to get their products on the shelves. Freezer space is even more limited. Well’s Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream lost out in Michigan, thus making me this crazed beast when I’m in the great corn/soybeans/hogs/cattle filled state. I’m constantly fixated on where my next Cherry Nut bowl of ice cream is coming from? Would if I’m not close to a store or ice cream shop that carries Cherry Nut? Last year, in a fit of desperation, I bought a half gallon (it’s not even 64 ounces anymore, the carton is several ounces shy, yeah I noticed) and plastic spoons and devoured a hefty share. IN THE CAR. This year, determined to be more sane about my goofy Iowa ice cream habits, I brought real spoons and napkins in my purse for such an occasion. Yes, I can be civilized.

Wells Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream. A rather scrawny bowl MJ…

Did that little stunt help me at all? No siree. Just over the Mississippi River on our way back to Michigan, I took an exit because I spotted a Walmart. Hell’s bells, they carried about 4 Blue Bunny flavors, none of them resembling Cherry Nut, so my spoons came home spic & span. And here I sit, typing, breathing like life is splendid. What a crock!

There was a wonderful high point to my trip home this year. A couple of weeks before I left, I messaged several classmates asking if a lunch date was possible? I always stop and visit Char, one of my best friends through school. I thought she’d get a kick out of seeing some of the girls. We chose a date where most of us were free, meeting at Cedar Rock Grill in Rock Valley. We had such a good time. We talked and hugged for 3 hours. And ate. Catching up with each other’s lives, reminiscing, encouraging, comforting. No longer one-upping anybody, we were just happy we’re still alive and kicking. No one to impress, just friends. Good friends. Getting together when chance brings us together. Thanks for that opportunity God. Girls, let’s not wait too long before we do this again. Life is a bowl of Cherry Nut(s). Indeed…

Burgers, Schelhaas, Wynia, Gayer, Plueger, Gerritson & Ymker. We rock…