Arly. He was-complicated. Not sure how well I knew him, but we were related through marriage over 4 decades. The 4th child of Jim and Mag. Everyone assumed he was the baby of the family. To this family outsider looking in, Arly was always Mag’s favorite. He was a bit different. Even odd.

Les 8 standing, curly-haired John 1-1/2, & Arlyn 5 in 1949…

Lo and behold, with Eleanor nearing her 18th birthday, Jimmy entering his teens, Les 7, and the adorable 4 year old Arlyn, Mag, now 38 and so done with babies, found herself ready to give birth to John. My Hubs. John and Arly’s childhood together would prove to be rather rocky. John believed Arly despised him and was trying to kill him since birth. Arly scared the living snot out of Hubs for years. Until John finally started growing. Arly knew then he’d better leave him alone, or else. Sharing a bedroom until the 2 older boys moved out didn’t help.

Arly looked different than the rest of the brood. Slim, dark, quiet, and very intense, more like Jim. Elly, Jimmy, Les and John were more of a stocky build like Mag. John, easy going, didn’t grow up like the normal baby of the family. I should know, I’m also the baby. Spoiled rotten, the way the youngest of the family are usually treated. Not John. By the time Hubs went to school, he was pretty much on his own. Cooking his own eggs by age 6, he had the run of the town. It’s a miracle he didn’t get into more trouble than he did through the years. There was not a lot of supervision. But Hubs turned out just fine.

Arlyn, Jimmy, Les & John in the back. Mag, Jim & Eleanor, 1979…

My Hubs, John in 1948…

After high school, Arly went to Morningside College in Sioux City, about 60 miles from our hometown. He was president of The Young Republicans during the 1964 presidential election between Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater. Anyone who knew Arly after age 30 would find this simply impossible to believe. He was the most liberal person I know in his political beliefs. He truly thought Hillary Clinton was going to take over God’s spot. (Well, so did she).

I don’t exactly know what happened at Morningside. He didn’t get his degree, but was very close. He dropped out of school, bought a 1959 Ford Thunderbird and ventured to Chicago for a few months. I think he was after a girl he loved in high school. But he forgot a couple of things. Making payments on the car. Bingo. Way behind and in a tight spot, he felt his only option was to sell the car and flee. He needed a fresh start. So he joined the military. Begged John to go with him. But Hubs preferred the Marines over Arly’s choice of the Navy. If you remember, John had a horrible accident when he was 15, riding a green broke horse. The horse got spooked, reared up, landing awkwardly on John’s foot. Long hospitalization, 2 surgeries, wheelchair and long rehab. Hubs could go to every recruiter in the continental US, nobody was going to take him or his totally messed up foot. He tried a couple of times and could never get that foot/ankle to pass a physical. So Arly joined the Navy. Actually wrote me a couple of letters from his ship, the USS Saint Paul, docked in San Diego. Telling me to take care of John and that he missed Rock Valley.

I think every person in the world has a friend or relative like Arly. To me, he was absolutely brilliant! I never wanted to get in a really deep discussion or worse an argument with him. He LOVED to argue. About anything and everything. Not me. You could see by watching him, his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. And he often wore this little smirk/half smile. It was somewhat deceptive.

Arly and the oldest brother Jimmy were very good card players. I don’t know if they counted cards, cheated, or got their information from above, but they always seemed to know the exact cards in your hand. How’d they do that? Half the time, I didn’t know what was in my own hand, let alone anyone else’s. Although it makes for a lot of defeats for the rest of us normal folk, it does tend to make the less frequent wins much sweeter. Arly taught us how to play double deck pinochle one Christmas Eve when I was about 16. There was a blizzard of epic proportions and I couldn’t get home, which was only about a mile away. There were about 2 dozen people stuck in Mag and Jim’s little house that night because of the weather. A group of us took turns playing cards most of the night. With Arly the card shark. My Mom was absolutely beside herself because I couldn’t get home. Thought my reputation was forever ruined in our small conservative Dutch town by staying at John’s house. Surely the whole group would give up a bedroom for the night so John and I could have wild sex and become parents soon after. That ship sailed Mom. Instead, we played cards all night long and had a blast. Mag had enough food to feed an Army.

Arly ended up doing a couple of tours in Viet Nam. During an R & R in Japan he bought a Triumph motorcycle. When he got back to his ship, his CO greeted him with, “you can’t bring that on board. Send it home or get rid of it.” Arly returned the bike and bought the best set of component stereo equipment money could buy. Also got Mag and Mary Jane sets of china. (Les and Mary sent him the money) Hubs and I were eating off 5 dollar Melmac dishes. There was no china in our vocabulary yet. Then Arly mailed the stereo to us without telling us. We were newlyweds, living in a small house on Douglas Street. That fabulous system took up almost our whole living room. Along with the radio, turntable, and speakers as big as me, Arly mailed dozens of music reels he had recorded. A lot of work back in ’69-70. Every song from The Beatles and The Doors. Those 2 groups I remember very well. Memorized every lyric.

But along with his brilliant mind was about the most impractical person one would ever meet in life. Arly didn’t have a lot of common sense, and few skills for everyday life. He seemed oblivious at times of his surroundings. Once when Arly and John were pheasant hunting and he was about to graduate from high school, Arly commented how sorry he felt for the farmers around Rock Valley. Why, ventured John on a beautiful fall day? “Because all the corn is dying.” John explained that’s what happens every fall to the corn crop.

After Arly got out of the Navy and returned home, he met a girl from Hull. Vicki was the polar opposite of Arly. Several years younger, sheltered life and had graduated from Western Christian High School. But they really hit it off. Both of them liked to party and have a good time. A Hippie life style. After a short
courtship, they got hitched. Eloped at the same courthouse in Elk Point, South Dakota as Hubs and I not long before. By this time, we had moved to Hinton and Shannon was a few months old. Arly and Vicki were about to become parents too. They found a small house in Hinton to rent. When Hubs and I think about that year, we realize we did quite a few things with them and for them. John changed their light fixtures, replaced headlights, helped with their car, and I taught Vicki how to make Taverns, which was about the first supper I learned to cook. Remember, I couldn’t boil water when we eloped.

Seriously, Vicki was stunning…

Hubs was working at Channel 4. One of the perks (what a joke) of his fabulous job were press passes to Sioux City’s semi-pro hockey games. The Musketeers played at The Auditorium downtown. We took Arly and Vic along one night. The trouble with these free press passes, you had to wait until people took their seats, then find a place in the leftover spots, which were usually in the nose bleed section. The game was about to start, we were slowly making our ascent. Finally found 4 seats together and sat down to enjoy our favorite player, Pete (something, his last name is forever lost) strut his stuff on the ice. Can you believe it, Arly couldn’t see the puck flying across the ice. Why? He was too vain to wear his glasses. Hadn’t even brought them along. Oh my stars.

One night Arly came over without wearing a coat to borrow our shovel because we had a huge snowfall. John got the shovel and I gave Arly my red and black plaid wool shirt jacket (he wasn’t much bigger than me). A few days later he brought both items back. Not long after, I pulled the jacket on to shovel the front sidewalk, came back into our 3 room house hysterical. In the pocket of my jacket was an inch long cigarette of marijuana. I screamed, cried, and yelled at John, “the cops are going to arrest me and take Shannon away.” (Maybe a little over the top). Hubs grabbed me, hugged me tight, said “calm down!” He plucked the ominous-scary, life-wrecking, mother-ending, Nib-sized (anyone remember that licorice candy?) weed from my hand, tossed it in the toilet and flushed. Ok then. But something had changed. At least for me. I no longer wanted to be around Arly and Vicki as much. They just lived so different than we did. At that time, if the cops picked someone up with marijuana and you were with them, you got charged too. I was kind of scared to be with them.

Probably the biggest thing we did was find Arly a job. This is a tough one for me. I was enormously proud/smug/happy when it happened, but if I knew then what I know now, there’s no way I would ever call him excitedly about this job. I have no idea if this changed the course of his life. I certainly hope not, but I fear it did. Could be the way his life turned out was my fault. Here’s what happened. Arly didn’t have a job. John and I were out for a rare evening. Who we were with I cannot recall. Maybe the Reinke’s, or the Duits, although I believe Dale and Beth had already moved to Minnesota. We were in Sioux City at The Jockey Club, inside the Holiday Inn. I ordered some fancy drink that didn’t taste like booze, sloe gin fizz or perhaps a strawberry Daquiri. Anyway, it took forever, plus they made it wrong. I complained and the manager walked over and apologized. Said he couldn’t keep a decent bartender. I piped up and said my brother-in-law had just returned from Viet Nam, was a hell of a bartender and could make every drink in the world perfectly. Manager said, send him down in a couple of days and I’ll interview him. John spent the next 48 hours grilling Arly on how to concock every imaginable drink in the book. Arly aced the interview and got the job. Stayed with Holiday Inn for awhile, got offered a promotion if he would move to Montana, so they did.

Jim, Arlyn, John, Elly w/ Les on the steps about 2000…

They moved back to Iowa a few years later. By then we had already moved to eastern Iowa, later, Michigan. Arly and Vic had 2 more children about the ages of Joshua and Adam. We’d see them sporadically, usually at Jim & Mag’s house for holidays. The brothers still got into some very heated arguments, everything from what bag balm (cow tit salve) could cure (John swore it could help the blind-but just did it to bug Arly) to if drawings of a new concept car could be considered ‘art.’ Oy vey.

About 10 or 12 years ago, very close to Easter, we received a phone call saying Arly was in the hospital and very sick. Hubs hopped on a plane and spent several days with his brother and the rest of the family. I don’t know if we learned what the diagnosis and prognosis was right away, but it wasn’t long before Arly told John he had cirrhosis of the liver. Arly said he could never take another drink if his intentions were to remain here on earth.

The complicated lives of Arly and Vic. Five years ago, March 1st, 2012 we got a call that Vicki had fallen in their kitchen, hit her head and died. Unbelievable, she was 3 months younger than me. Arly called John the next day telling us not to come to Iowa for the funeral. It was ok, the rest of the family was nearby and more than enough support. John and Arly talked on the phone every couple days after that. Arly was mellow, quiet, sweet and grateful for this close relationship that had somehow formed. So was John. One night towards the end of March, Arly called saying he didn’t feel well at all. John begged him, “please go to the doctor. Do you want me to come home? I will. Let me go to the doctor with you.” “No John, there’s no need for you to come. I’ll be ok,” Arly answered. Later that night Arly somehow managed to drive himself 25 miles to a Sioux City hospital. But it was too late. His organs were shutting down. Arly died the next day. He was 67. It was 4 weeks to the day after Vicki had passed away…

Arly, gone too soon…

I think I live in the present. I like the present, it’s true, everyday’s a gift. There’s enough ‘stuff’ in my life to keep me feeling busy and fulfilled. Yet as I age (could maybe slow that part down just a bit God) I find myself reminiscing/ remembering/thinking /reviewing/ times during my childhood. Not really dwelling on things, but definitely thinking about my past more than I used to.

Goodness, how did I make it to adulthood looking like this?

One of the sillier memories that has niggled it’s way in my head the last few years is a supper Mom used to make. How very strange, yet it pops in my head ever so often. I’ve not enjoyed this particular meal for at least 50 years! You know how odd that is to even write? I don’t really think of myself as 50 yet, then I write about not eating something for half a century! Where has the time gone?

My better side….

I believe Mom called it 7-layer supper, though I could have that mixed up with a 7-layer salad I’ve made for years, (Layers of chopped Iceberg, celery, onions, peas, mayo mixed dressing, shredded cheese & crispy bacon bits) but I don’t think so. I’ve asked for help/suggestions from my Facebook friends, many who grew up in the same small Iowa Dutch community, Rock Valley as me. Not much help except Lori Jean who remembers eating something very similar and Wanda who came up with a dressing her family used to make and eat. But it still wasn’t Mom’s salad supper.

My bestie, Lori Jean who also ate something similar…

First, let me tell you my perception of the salad supper I remember. We only had this during the summer. One might assume because it was a salad it would involve no cooking. During July and August in northwest Iowa, the temps run approximately as hot as hell (though Iowa’s humidity usually tops hell I believe). During the 1950’s and ’60’s, we had no air conditioning, thus Mom wouldn’t want to use the stove or oven many nights. Our kitchen was very small and the heat from our gas stove would fill the entire house in no time-flat. (Mom had a spiffy electric fry pan which cooked our supper many hot summer nights. It sat on the counter and she could pretty much cook our entire meal in it, so the stove would set idle).

But what I remember from the 7-layer salad supper required several pans and using all 4 burners. I’ve tried 4 times this summer to replicate that supper and my kitchen looks like a tornado struck when I’m done! And yes, we have central air. It’s a lot of kanooey. (Ka-new-ee, farting around and many steps). Because you’re cooking: 1. Hard-boiled eggs on a burner. 2. Potatoes, another burner. 3. Bacon on a burner. 4. Dressing on a burner.

The real reason we ate the salad supper during the hottest part of the year is because the main ingredient is soft leaf lettuce Dad used to grow in our garden. Torn pieces of soft garden lettuce was the first layer on our plate. Can’t swear to it, but I know this meal included potatoes. Don’t think they were mashed, but diced very small or semi-smashed with a fork. (Hey, hey, stay with me on this one. You’re not the first person to go, huh, potatoes-nope they don’t belong. Hubs and Shannon think it’s a strange layer that should be eliminated but I cannot. Besides, potatoes taste good. I’ve been using redskins unpeeled, dicing them very small. So no, the spuds gotta stay). Topped with sliced hard boiled eggs and broken pieces of crispy bacon. Now I’m up to 4 layers which is all I can remember besides the dressing. Don’t really care about the other 2 layers, but it was the dressing that’s driving me NUTS! I remember it coming hot off the stove, kind of white/opaque with bits of bacon/drippings in it. Most of the suggestions did include some bacon grease/vinegar/sugar combination. Thanks Wan.

Wan loved to bake when we were teens…

It’s early August and I’ve tried 4 various combinations of layers and 3 different dressings. I just keep adding more bacon each time to keep Hubs interested and satisfied. Really, can one ever go wrong by adding more bacon? I think not. Neither does John.

Half pound for the salad, half a pound in the dressing, yum…

I’m now up to 10 layers in my salad supper, and still have not figured out which 2 might have been on my Mom’s special supper. I do know at least one that would not have been on her list however. Fresh mushrooms would not have made the cut with Mom. Don’t think she ever bought them or even liked mushrooms. She was a big casserole cook, but if a recipe called for Cream of Mushroom Soup, she would substitute Cream of Celery instead. I could see her adding baby peas or sugar snap peas, maybe slivered radishes which adds color. Or green onions. Just can’t remember what else was on my plate those nights. And I can’t say I ever remember her having green onions in the house, just regular white or yellow onions. I wonder if other families had a meal that was kind of their own? Not really a signature dish, but something unique in their household that was always just considered a regular meal? Until the kids grew up, parents passed away, and the kids, now senior citizens have nothing else better to do with their time than spend a summer trying to duplicate a salad dressing?

Anyway, I’ve decided pretty much for taste and a nice visual effect, my summer layer salad will include: garden lettuce, shredded carrots, slivered radishes, frozen peas-thawed, diced green onions, chunked fresh mushrooms, sliced hard boiled eggs, diced redskin potatoes, a virtual boat-load of crispy bacon chunks, and dressing. Ta-da.

Dressing, a combo of sugar, vinegar and lots of bacon…

Six of the layers that go on top of garden lettuce…

Ah, the dressing. A kick back to reality. I think I’ve found a dressing that is pretty close to the one I remember as a kid, that’s been stuck in my head for 50 years. The taste reminds me of Mom’s, though the consistency and color remain different. The way I recall Mom’s is more like a thick gravy. The recipe I like is much thinner. So I added another tablespoon of cornstarch to the one already in the recipe. Better, though I may continue to tweak the thickness, I absolutely love the taste. Oh my goodness, kinda sweet with a twang. By jove, I think I’ve got it…

My most recent attempt at 10 layer salad, tasted fantastic…

The Lowder’s had a dilema. Their 2017 summer schedule was packed to overflowing. Shannon and Tracey thought they had it all figured out. Au contraire. Their European trip went without a hitch and the numerous lists on the calendar were beginning to clear. Landon’s basketball AAU stint with “The Family” out of Detroit had one last tournament. It was a biggie in Florida, end of July. Since much of the summer had been spent apart for various tourney’s and Peyton’s rigid touring choir schedule in France and Germany, the Lowder’s thought the whole family would spend the week in Florida together. To make it a more homey vacation, the rented a house instead of a hotel, airline tickets were bought. Even Ari, Josh and 6 month old Jovi were set to spend a relaxing week together. Plus that biggie tourney, but at least it was the last one this year.

Long about mid-July, Landon’s AAU coach sent out a memo saying the team had decided not to go to Florida, instead choosing a tournament in Fort Wayne, Indiana on the same weekend. Oh for cripe’s sake. The Lowder’s found themselves mildly perturbed with this news. What to do? Cancel the Florida trip, disappointing a few family members and taking a big hit monetarily? Go to Florida and take Landon along, letting him miss one tourney? Wouldn’t be the end of the world. Except for those dang college coaches constantly calling Tracey, asking when Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world, he was on several college watch lists during AAU’s Nike season) team was arriving in Fort Wayne? Maybe let Shannon take the family to Florida and Tracey travel with Landon, but that’s how it goes most weekends. Or all but Landon head to Florida and ask the mild mannered superhero grandpa and grandma to accompany Landon for the weekend?

Actually most of the team player’s parents rarely go to these tournaments. There’s just too many, and it’s too expensive. The players and coaches travel means and hotels are paid for, so they just send their kids with the coaches. Money for meals is about all they need. I’m sure they get updates from their kids after games with twitter or phone calls. The AAU tourney’s tend to be quite far away, Las Vegas, Atlanta, Los Angeles, so Hubs and I only watch him a couple times during the summer, usually Grand Rapids and Fort Wayne, neither more than 100 miles from us.

Truthfully until the plane took off for Florida, I thought Tracey would call saying he had changed his mind and was going to Fort Wayne after all. After he comtemplated all the conversations between college coaches he would miss during the weekend, I didn’t think he could do it. It’s not a matter of trust in Landon’s care, (we did squat anyway, except show up for every game in support of the best player on the planet, or should he need us if he was hurt) but Tracey knows most of the coaches in the tight world of basketball. Can you see them popping questions to me about Landon’s technique, agility, or fade-away jump shot? Umm, no but I gotta say, I’m biased as heck where this young man’s basketball skills are concerned. Honestly, I cannot imagine ANY Division 1 college that would not benefit enormously from his prowess as point guard/defender/outside shooter/ball handler/play maker/and all around assist dude who routinely makes other players look and play better. Any. Division. 1. Team. Flat out. He ‘sees’ the floor in ways other players don’t. He just keeps getting better. Yeah, it’s all good.

But Tracey and family flew to Florida and the job of game-stat-texter was left to me. Which I totally blew the first game! We were stinking late. No excuse, our hotel was like 10 feet away! I always like to be early and watch the team warm up. I thought each half was 20 minutes, we got there about the 12 minute mark. Ugh. But it wasn’t that bad, each half is 16 minutes. In these tournaments, the games on Thursday and Friday’s are called pool play (?) something like that. It’s how high your team gets seeded in your division for the tourney, which starts Saturday morning. When Saturday rolls around, lose 1 and you’re done. So the first 3 games were not the most important ones, yet you want to do well to be seeded high. Well, we lost the first game by 3 points. Not a good way to start the tourney. They weren’t in sync and it showed. Lousy game. Period.

Fort Wayne’s Spiece Fieldhouse (home of the Gym Rats, quirky, love that name) is quite a place. We’ve been watching Landon play there occasionally for about 8 years. It has 7 basketball courts, a private workout gym for paying members, a shop loaded with t-shirts, shoes, and sports gear. But it’s the entrance and signage I find interesting. Everyone knows Indiana is one of the biggest basketball states around. There’s tons of framed uniforms from famous players (Larry Bird) and coaches (Hoosier’s Bobby Knight-I think I’m gonna be sick) hanging as you walk in the building. Plus a quote from the Fieldhouse owner Tom Spiece, bragging about the size of Indiana’s high school’s gyms. Funny.

I never think Landon’s team plays particularly well in the a.m. Might have something to do with teenage boys staying together in hotel rooms, video games, eating junk food and lack of sleep. I’m just guessing here. Naturally, The Family’s 2nd game is at 11:30. Could be worse, they’ve played as early as 8:30 before. Not a pretty sight. Lots of puffy eyelids (looks more like teenage girls who spent the night bawling). I should really be more clear when I say, The Family. At this tournament, The Family had 4 teams. One team for each age group, 14 through 17, all named, The Family. But only the 16U (U meaning 16 and under) has Landon (and his 2 doting grandparents).

The game is about to start. The coaching staff has not been very good about supplying water for the players, so we stopped at Meijer (yes, Fort Wayne has a Meijer-yay) and buy a 12 pack of water. John walks over to the team’s side of the court, hands Landon 2 bottles of water and 2 sticks of gum (Dude is coordinated. He can chew, run, dribble, shoot, set up plays, defend and make it look effortless all at the same time. Umm, Landon not grandpa). The whole team looks as though none of them feel very well. You gotta sleep guys. We hope for the best as the game starts. I’m determined to text a better game to Shannon and Tracey and keep Landon’s stats at the same time. No, I do not possess Landon’s multitasking abilities. Watching the game, using a smart-ass phone and writing down stats are approximately 2 too many things to do at one time for this gram. When Tracey is texting a game to me, he writes all kinds of stuff, floater, put back, terms I know nothing about, plus he includes the whole team. With me, unless someone gets hurts, a technical is called, the coach is being a pudgy jerk, or a kid (besides Landon) is having a superlative game, I concentrate only on Landon’s shots and stats, and both team’s score. Tracey seems content (I know it drives him batty not to be here in person) with what I send him. At least he always knows who’s leading and how many points our boy has. Had I known what was about to happen in the next 16 minutes, I would have/should have been recording. The entire half. Here’s the first half texts because I haven’t figured out how to copy and paste more than 1 text at a time. Ugh, my cross to bear:

Over 100 colleges had coaches watching players, ok Landon…

Warming up now.
Hugged me, told grandpa he doesn’t feel well. Starting.
6-0 us, L with a 3. Another 3 for L, 9 zip. Another 3 for L, 14-0.
Another 3 for L, 20-0.
(Shannon) WOW!
Another 3 for L, blocked a shot too. 20-1. He’s got 15, not many coaches here tho. 22-5, 10 min left.
Another 3 for L. For L, he’s got 18 of our 27.
Coach cannot find a reason to yell, though he did have a turnover.
Another 3 for L. First miss. 30-5. Not planted.
(Shannon) Michigan is there, so that’s good-Edwin is calling all excited and so is Rayshawn.
Jumper L. Time out, 3 min left, 36-12. L has 23.
Another 3 for L. Another 3 at the buzzer, he’s got 29. 44-14.
(Shannon) that’s 9-3’s?
Right and one short jumper, he missed one long shot all half.
Dad’s taking credit, gave him 2 sticks of Juicy Fruit. Oh boy.
(Shannon) apparently tl (Tracey Lowder) told him he’d buy him shoes if he scored 30 in a game. Or it could be the juicy fruit.

Well, what is there left to say? The Family went on win the game easily. Landon played very little during the second half-no need with the score that lopsided. And rest those starters for the next game, which just might be very close. Game 3 is Friday afternoon, then we’re done with seeding. Another easy win. Cute little 30 year old gal sitting next to me, not old enough to have a son on the team. No, she is dating one of the coaches of, The Buckeyes (from Chicago-I know, makes no sense. The team is from Chicago, but the coach graduated from Ohio State. Huh?) She politely asks if I’m # 4’s grandmother? No, # 0 is my grandson, I reply (# 4 is a big blonde-she seemed embarrassed). But she recovered nicely after Landon tossed in a couple of 3’s in a row. I said, yeah, he’s been having a good day shooting 3’s. She slapped a hand over her mouth and squealed, “is he the young man everyone’s talking about? Had so many 3 pointers in a game this morning?” “Yup, that’s Landon!” She looked confused until I explained that I’m the only one who calls Drew, Landon. Only because it’s his name.

Shortly after the game, I get a text from Landon: “I’m in a 3 point shooting contest tonight at Northside High School.” OK, now we have something to do that night. Can’t believe how many people show up, the gym is packed! (Remember how crazy those Indiana folks are about their basketball and gym size)? They start with the 14 year olds, one player on each side of the court. Five chairs, evenly spaced along the 3-point line, each chair holds 3 basketballs. The players start by one chair in the corner, shooting as fast as they can before moving to the next chair with another 3 balls. Perfect score would be 15. The shot clock is set at 30 seconds. You’re not really pitted against the other player as much as you are against the ticking clock. After all the players of that age group are done, there’s either a winner or a play-off of those who tied. Same set up, but timer is set at 15 seconds. Landon’s 16-U division (only 1 player from each team can enter the contest) has maybe 14-18 kids in line. Landon scores 8 in the first round, tying with a couple other kids. But my man comes through, hitting 4 shots in 15 seconds to win his age division. Gets a round of applause and a winning plaque, which he promptly brings over to me. Hubs and I leave just as they’re starting the dunk contest. Unless you’re 7 feet tall, it’s impossible to see cause everyone is now gathered in a huge circle surrounding half the court.

Landon’s team wins both games on Saturday to qualify for the semi-finals on Sunday morning. Landon plays well in both games, scoring 11 in the first one. He does not feel well in 5th game, he’s pale and bending over a lot, so sits out most of the first half, sipping water. Landon ends up with 18 points, with several college coaches (including Michigan’s Beilein and MSU’s Izzo, sitting one chair apart from each other, but pretty much ignoring that fact, no love lost there I think) on one side of the court. Over a hundred colleges are represented with coaches watching certain players.

Landon, front row, 2nd from right. The reigning 16-U national champs, 2017

The Family landed a team in the semi-finals in every age division. Amazing. All 4 teams win their semi’s. We win by a dozen points, Landon’s game is solid, scoring 8, with several assists and rebounds. The championship game is better. Landon has 13 the first half, game total of 18, sitting out the final minutes because we’re up by 30!! Three of the 4 ‘Family’ teams win their divisions. Only the 17-U lose (we’ll remedy that little issue next year, Landon’s 17th birthday is in a couple weeks). Landon is picked as one of the top 5 players of the whole tournament, averaging 15 points a game. I truly believe it’s based more than on just his average point total. It’s the ‘way’ he plays. Intensity, court skills, unselfish play. After pictures with the trophy, we collect the kid and head back to Jackson. We’re all bushed but pumped. Shannon and Tracey will be home the next day and our super hero status will falter, although Landon’s team fared about the best with us as fabulous substitutes during their many tournaments this season. Just sayin. Landon tells me to keep the 3-point plaque, I’m thrilled, though his parents might be a lot less than.

A week later I’m sitting next to Landon at Peyton’s final concert at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. “Do you want your plaque back,” I asked? “No, why,” he counters? “Because I’m deciding where to hang it and don’t want to make a nail hole if you want it back.” He turns and says seriously, “pound the nail gram.”

It’s been a good summer. No, a great summer. Peyton with her European concert tour. Watching Jovi get cuter by the day. Landon with another great season of displaying his hoops talent. And growing a couple inches. Maybe the biggest news is getting his first 2 basketball scholarship offers from colleges, Toledo and Northern Illinois. Not the biggest or best baskeball schools-yet. So I guess it’s officially started. Let the bidding war begin. The line forms on my back deck. Do not park on the grass, Landon’s grandpa hates that. Now exactly who are you, why do you want my boy, and what kind of playing time we talking…

It all started late last fall, think it was Thanksgiving. Shannon announced that our 7th grade granddaughter, Peyton (singer-dancer extraordinaire) had been selected as a member of Michigan’s Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp International Touring Choir. Peyton would be heading to France and Germany with 4 dozen singers for 6 weeks during the summer. “Anyone interested in a little plane ride to hear her sing in Paris?”

Staying limber by the Baltic Sea. Singer/dancer Peyton, 2017…

Not hardly. I adore Peyton and her over-abundance of pure talent, but another trip over seas, no thanks. I was still recovering from my 12 day trip to Italy, June 2016 with Shannon, and the thought of another long flight was less than appealing. Italy was fantastic, but physically challanging because of my sore leg. Before heading back to the kitchen to finish the dishes, I mumbled, “Think I’ll pass, but the rest of you go and have a great time!”

Venice, Italy 2016…

Shannon, Tracey and Landon were going for sure. Josh and Erica had an invite for a Paris destination wedding of a friend so they were contemplating the trip to include both events. I can say with utmost certainty, I NEVER gave a trip to Europe another thought.

T, Landon & Shannon on their way to Paris, 2017…

Peyton got out of school on a Thursday in early June and headed to Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp the next day for a week of intensive rehearsals before jetting across the ocean. Shannon was planning her extended stay in France and Germany, plus the week Tracey and Landon would be there, when she sent this zinger. “Ugh, I’ve been detailing our trip, concert venues, hotels, car rentals, places the guys might like to see besides everything old and artsy! You know mom, I’m gonna be alone in Paris for 5 days after they leave. All it would cost you is your flight. You interested? Think about it!” Oh boy. “Umm, just for curiosity’s sake, where might I find some good flight prices?” I asked, ever so casually. “With a date this close (about 3 weeks away), Metro’s gonna be high. Try Chicago or Toronto. Surely dad would drive you to Toronto.” Double oh boy. Really need to mention to the Hubs I’m now contemplating ANOTHER trip abroad. How exactly do I broach that one? After hem-hawing around, finally just blurted out I wanted to go to Paris. Awkward. John was not in favor. At all. No, it wasn’t the money or going without him. He loves when I do stuff with any of the kids-with or without him. He was very uncomfortable with ANYONE from our family traveling abroad this summer.

After Hubs calmed down, I started looking for an inexpensive flight. Without going into first class stuff, the prices started under a grand and up. Cheapest was flying out of Toronto. That’s about 300 miles away. But what a great excuse to stop at Niagara Falls again. It’s only 75 miles out of our way! I booked the flight on an airline I’ve never heard of. Had to board a train at the airport, walk out in a poop filled field and pick out my very own Canadian Goose responsible for zipping me to Charles de Gaulle airport. Oh honkers. Glad I wore long sleeves. It’s cool at 38,000 ft.

Breathtaking Niagara Falls, 2017…

While I thought the trip to Italy was a couple days too long, I felt the opposite about Paris. Much of this was due to travel time. Peyton’s last concert (my only chance to hear her) was 7 hours from Paris, thus pretty much shooting anything productive or touristy for 2 solid days, which were spent in a car. OK, it was a Mercedes Benz. And driving on the Autobahn. Just belt it out there Janis. So, while I can hardly be considered knowledgeable about one of the most famous cities in the world, I’m not without an opinion or willing to share it either. Just take the following observations with a grain of salt-s’il vous plait. (If you please)

Yup, says I was doing 102 in Germany, 2017…

1. They eat kind of strange. No matter what type of restaurant we were in or what they were eating, the French eat weird. They use their knife like an extra digit/extension of their hand. They’re talking (quietly) a mile-a-minute, using lots of expression, but the knife in their hand seems to have a mind of its own and a mission to accomplish. It’s (the knife) on the move constantly, moving, circling, cutting, encouraging morsels to get with the program and move towards the fork. Daintily piling it on higher, making the mound on the fork fuller, and neat. Ready for consumption. There’s no way I’ve ever got my knife to behave like that, making those slick moves.

2. Don’t know about the rest of France, but Paris has an overabundance of motorcycles. Crowded city, parking is at a premium. Motorcycles park everywhere and anywhere, usually on the sidewalk. But it’s when they’re not parked that really blew my gasket. They have more rights than cars or pedestrians. I’ve watched motorcycles weave in and out of traffic my whole life, nothing new. But in Paris motorcycles drive in between the car lanes, yup pretty much right on the painted lines. You could easily maim a dozen bikers every block if you just opened either one of your car doors. And when you come to a stop light, all the motorcycles behind you pull up to the front of the line. And they have a style of bike I’ve never seen or noticed before. It has 2 front tires. Rather small and quite close together, maybe 8 inches apart. Do they even have sell that style here?

3. France does not seem to like colored cars. About 80% of the cars were black. Henry Ford would be pleased about their color choice, but not with the amount of American cars on the roads. During the week, I spotted about 5 Fords, couple of Nissans, not one Chevy or pickup and very few SUV’s. Silver and white colors made up the other 20%.

4. Guys/hip/young/older-even business men wore very skin tight jeans or dress pants. Capris too and many carried purses. That was different.

5. The French didn’t get the memo: smoking is bad for you and those around you. Wow, a lot of folks were still smoking in France.

6. The French enjoy a good meal out. They eat late and take a very long time in restaurants, often 2-3 hours. Perhaps perfecting their knifing techniques. You can watch your entire life pass before your eyes (in slo-mo) before the waiter brings your check. Side note: saw very few overweight people in France.

This was my only German meal, rote bratwurst, speck & sour-salad…

7. A very popular mode of transportation is walking. On uneven surfaces (poured cement was rare), but sure-footed, agile and often in high heels. As for fashion, almost anything goes. Because walking is done by the majority of the French, young parents use strollers far past the time most Americans parents do. Children, looking as old as 7 or so were quite common to see. As for why many of these kids were still using pacifiers, I cannot imagine their reasoning. On the flight home, a family of 3 sat next to me. The little boy appeared to be around 5 or 6. Drank from a baby bottle and sucked on a pacifier as he colored and drew pictures in his book. Ugh.

8. For the most part, I found the French very polite. One motorcycle dude nearly hit me with his bike. I was in the cross-walk, walking with at least a hundred people on a green walk sign, yet he clearly thought he should be able to squeeze through and motioned for me to stop, letting him go because I was in the wrong. I poo-poohed him away with my hand (no, not just the one finger) and kept walking. A couple of folks might have been a little bit frustrated with me at times when I didn’t understand what they were trying to say. When I explained my hearing loss (just showed ’em the old hearing aid) they were much more patient and pleasant.

St. Francis of Assisi painting at The Louvre, 2017..,

9. Not one hotel (I stayed in 3, one was in Germany) used top sheets on the bed or had washcloths. That’s just wrong. And weird.

10. There are security guards at the entrances of every store, and I had to open my purse or bags I was carrying.

11. In our last Paris hotel, the bathroom was bigger than the room. The strange looking door key slides into a slot by the light switch which activates the electricity. When you pull your key to leave, everything turns off but the air conditioner. And you turn your key into the front desk everytime you leave. I should have asked someone because I have no clue why. Hotel had 6 floors but the elevator only went up to 5. Don’t say it. Just don’t. Guess which floor we were on? Of course, number 6. It did have great views of the city. As we were checking in, the manager motioned conspiratorially for us to follow him. Down the hall, through 2 doors, he unlocks a service elevator, packs in the 3 of us (we now have Peyton with us) and all our belongings inside with this admonishment, “you are not to use this elevator unless you are checking out. Walk down one flight and use the elevator from floor 5. Same when you come back in, use the regular elevator up to the fifth floor and walk up the stairs to 6. Understand?” No, please explain that again. It’s 10 pm and we’re too tired to go back out and find something to eat, but explain again how your world will unravel if we use the service elevator.

12. Tables in restaurants are spaced less than a foot apart. Ice is a precious commodity and doled out unwillingly. Water is never given unless requested, plus then you get charged for it. Pop is more expensive than some wines. Coke lite was 5-7 dollars a bottle.

Pop & water adding up to over 21 bucks, so out of line…

13. Driving the Autobahn in Germany was a blast. Made Shannon take a picture as I cruised along at 102 mph, the fastest I dared to drive. No one stays in the left lane EVER like they do in America. You signal, move to the left lane, pass, signal and move back to the right. So that’s how it’s supposed to work! Clipping along at 102 in the middle lane, I was constantly passed by cars going much faster, say 130 or better. Yikes, I loved it.

14. Peyton’s concert was held in a high school in a small town in Germany, not too far from Munich. During intermission, the hallway had a lovely table set up offering beer, wine, pop or champagne. No cookies though. Bummer. Shannon and I sipped Mimosas! Can you believe it?

15. Notre Dame is magnificent! Just think, construction began about 1000 years ago. Makes you realize how young America is. 14,000,000 people visit the cathedral every year. Amazing and awesome. Did not see the Hunchback.

Notre Dame…

16. The Louvre. Inspiring. No small feat once you’ve arrived. The place has almost 800,000 square feet and 38,000 objects/art/antiques, vying for your attention. Overwhelming after you walk in. Quick crash course: The Mona Lisa is a bit over-rated. It’s rather dark and small. But by far the most popular room at the Louvre. The painting hangs behind glass, and back a few feet from a railing, keeping the crazies at bay. A least a couple of hundred jostling, pushy people, all trying to get up to the railing to take some pictures. The oddity? Most everyone turned around once they managed to get to that coveted spot. Wanting a selfie with The Mona. Ugh.

No selfie here, just Mona Lisa at The Louvre…

16.A. The famous ancient Greek sculpture, Venus de Milos (Aphrodite) is very impressive.

Venus de Milo. Beautiful…

16.B. As was Napoleon’s apartment. For a small guy, he might have overcompensated just a bit. If the painted ceilings weren’t quite enough, one of his Chandeliers is larger than our entire family room. Very showy, little man.

17. The Eiffel Tower. Just. Wow. Built as the entrance to the World’s Fair in 1889, construction started in 1887. Made of wrought iron lattice work, it spans about 1000 feet in height. Impressive. Very. Standing tall and proud on the banks of the Seine River, it is the most popular paid monument in the world with close to 7 million people a year. All of whom picked the same day as Shannon and I. We stood in line for 2 hours to buy tickets. With 2 security check points. The views are spectacular. We toured during the day, so I did not see the gorgeous night lights. Shannon, Tracey and Landon went at night before I got there.

Eiffel Tower. Speechless…

18. Steak Tartar. Hubs and I went to a fancy restaurant in Janesville, Wisconsin 30 years ago. The place had a humongeous pipe organ and a menu that could have been considered a novel-it was that long. On the menu was Steak Tartar. I had to ask because I had never heard of it. Raw steak. Not rare, but raw. I always assumed that meant a good sirloin or Porterhouse. But ice cold and raw? No thanks. At McDonald’s we were taught that E-coli sits just about everywhere on meat. Yucky thought. If you want your steak really, really rare, that’s ok. As long as you sear both sides on a very hot surface, any nasty organisms are toast. But with hamburger, E-coli is no longer just sitting on top because it’s ground up, thus putting it throughout the meat. So we cooked our beef to a minimum of 155 degrees, thus ensuring 99.99% of E-coli was destroyed. Sorry, that was more lengthy than I intended. Anyway in France, Steak Tartar is on every menu and very popular. But it’s not just hunks or tidbits of steak. It’s good ground beef, steak or HORSE meat that resembles a hamburger pattie. And often served with onions, capers and raw egg yolk. Just kill me now. Looking at the plate I thought, wow if you take away the capers, add half a cup of oatmeal, mix it all up and plop it in a pan at 350 degrees oven for an hour. Voila-meatloaf. Oui-oui…

View of Paris from the Eiffel Tower…

Looks like a raw meatloaf on his plate…

I’ve always loved slapstick so you’d think the Three Stooges would be at the top of my list. Not so. I never found them particularly funny. Moe was just plain mean. Still I watched them when I was younger. Anyone remember the skit about Niagara Falls? Everytime those 2 words are uttered, Moe and Larry go into this speel, “Ni-agra-Falls! Slowly I turn, step by step, inch by inch.” Poor Curly, (I do love the noises he makes) gets the ever-lovin’ snot beat out of him. Again.

My incredible Niagara Falls, 2017…

I have been a-ga-ga over Niagara Falls since the first time I laid eyes on this amazing wonder of nature about 20 years ago. Hubs was buying a piece of machinery equipment in New York and I was along for the ride. After the business was done, we were ready to start our 8 hour drive back to North Muskegon, John casually asked if I wanted to stop at Niagara Falls? I had never been, so I said sure.

He assumed half hour-tops-and we’d be on our way. Poor Hubs. Talk about an immovable object. I simply could not tear my eyes from the Falls. “Come on Denise, we’ve got a long ways to go. If we don’t get on the road soon, we won’t get home until 3 in the morning. We gotta go.” “Just 10 more minutes,” I whined, “I’m not ready! Can’t we just spend one night? Or a week,” I pleaded?”No, I have to get back at work. Let’s find the car,” he said. “I promise, we’ll come back soon.”

Deserving a big wow I think…

From that moment forward, getting back to Niagara Falls as often as I could, no matter the means became paramount. Hitchiking, flying, walking, driving, jogging, duck walk, crab crawl, skateboarding, roller skating. How I got there didn’t matter, only how often and how long could I stay this trip?

My next trip to Niagara had to wait a few years. Mom was in deep health decline and all trips from Michigan were heading due west to Iowa, not north-east towards The Falls. Mom passed away in late 2004. A few months later, Hubs, Adam and I moved my spry 88 year old Dad to an apartment a couple blocks from us in North Muskegon. When Dad was settled, we finally found some time to spend at Niagara (8 hours by car). I prefer staying on the American side, although probably the best view of the Falls is from the Canadian side. Canada’s side is just too busy, almost a carnival-like atmosphere. Vendors hawking t-shirts, hotels with an outside wall to practice your wall/rock climbing skills. Geared towards families with kids who are bored after watching some water spill over some rocks for 10 minutes or young folks looking to party. For me, I enjoy the more sedate beauty of the oldest state park in America. Established in 1885. Two hundred plus acres, Goat Island and 3 Sisters Islands. Lots of room, even with 10 to 12 million visitors a year. And you can almost touch the water near The Bridal Veil as it runs over. If you watch for a few minutes, you can see leaves in the water jetting by. I’ve even seen fish go over. And the color is such a beautiful light mint green, it cannot be duplicated. No really, Sherwin tried. So did Williams.

It was May, 2005. I brought along my walking paraphernalia, including playlists to keep my feet moving. We were there during the week and the weather was quite cool. Always an early riser, I had all my gear in the bathroom so I wouldn’t wake John up. My hearing loss was noticeable but not nearly as significant as it is now. I walked out of the Holiday Inn at dawn, stepped out on an empty sidewalk and listened. The Falls are about a block and a half away, and I can clearly hear the roar and see the fine mist rising up. There are no words. No. Words. I set my music to play, plop on my headphones and start walking towards the mist. My, that sounds positively Stephen King-ish. Eerie. But Niagara Falls mist is all good except when it hampers my view too much.

The 4 foot wide blacktop trail that runs along the falls is often slanted, full of pot holes, cracks, and unforgiving edges. For a person with a hearing loss and balance issues, this means I must pay strict attention to the pavement at all times. Bummer. I had hoped to ‘walk & gawk’ the Falls, but now was faced with paying close attention to my not so fancy footwork. There are a couple popular very wide sections of cement that hold hundreds of people trying to get up close and personal just at the edge of the Falls where a few million gallons of water per minute spill over. By now I am sharing my walk with a few local joggers (can you just imagine this is their regular daily routine and most probably don’t even ‘see’ the Falls anymore-say what?), a few maintenance guys emptying trash barrels, sweeping sidewalks, picking up trash.

I find myself doing 2 things out of the ordinary during my normal walking routine. I ditch the headphones and music cause it seems sacrilegious not to enjoy the sounds of The Falls as I walk. And I stop frequently which I never do while walking. Not even when I should to avoid getting hit by a car (drivers who seem hesitant to give the right of way to a mere mortal). Hey, I’m the pedestrian here, you stop for me! (Hubs has warned me repeatedly, “Denise, you’re gonna get hit. You’ll wind up dead, but at least you’ll be dead right.” What a keen sense of humor). Whenever I dare glance up for a second, the breath gets knocked out of me from the spectacular view. I simply stop until normal breathing ensues, and continue on my merry way.

The next morning it’s raining. Hard. Let’s see. How many people in the world get to walk/jog/run/meander along one of the world’s most beautiful natural wonders? And almost have the whole place to themselves? Not very freaking many. I am certainly not giving up my time alone with The Falls because of a little rain. Besides, it was in the mid 50’s, and I have a rain coat. I cross the bridge (the original one built in the late 1800’s, now it’s only used by folks walking across) that leads to Goat Island and find since some of it is metal, it’s like walking in an ice storm. Very slippery and my footing is precarious. After crossing the bridge, there’s lots of bushes, shrubs and trees on both sides. It’s very early and pretty isolated and I don’t have a good feeling being there by myself. Turn around, slip and slide back across and eliminate the bridge from my walk. For the most part, I make about a half mile loop, out in the open, along the Falls. I do venture a bit farther than I should though on every loop. Why? Because of a tree. My favorite tree in the world. It’s full of worts. I really don’t know what you call these good sized bumps. The tree is crooked, kind of by itself, near where The Rapids actually start.

My gnarly tree…

The Rapids. They run the width of the Niagara River about a half mile before tumbling over the Falls. There is a sign stating, No boats beyond this point. (Meaning, you can’t stop or get turned around past this point, you’re going over, adios). The Rapids are only about 5 or 6 feet deep but the water is clipping along at a brisk 30 miles an hour. This puts The Rapids in some special catagory of a 5 or 6. What that means exactly I don’t know, but a tour guide once said, “The Rapids are unsurvivable should you fall in.” Alrighty then. The Rapid’s colors vary from light to darker blue, to white and green. I won’t say I love the Rapids more than the actual Falls. But it’s very close, maybe even tied. The Rapids have their own story to tell, and I find myself listening (it’s quite loud, even for the hearing impaired) and watching them in awe. For hours. Which can be a little frustrating to a person who does not love The Rapids with all his little pea-pickin-heart like I do.

The awesome Rapids…

By the time my rainy walk was done, my shorts were soaking wet. I hung them up in the bathroom to find them nice and dry the next morning, but stiff as a board. Still, all good. How about taking a ride on Maid of the Mist, which gets you pretty close to the actual Falls? Strange sensation, hearing and feeling the power of the boat’s engines fighting hard to avoid from being pushed rudely downriver. You can take an elevator beneath The Bridal Veil, tramp your way through a tunnel, and find yourself directly under the biggest shower-ever. Climb some wooden steps close enough to be scared by the water’s enormous power. Or take a cable car across The Gorge (notice how I capitalize The each time I mention Rapids, Falls or Gorge? They’re just too important, too big, too impressive not to have the word The with a capital letter. And I don’t think I’m that easily impressed). But The Falls, The Rapids, The Gorge deserve such recognition. I’m still surprised I dared go on the cable car. It’s quite a stretch, very high over the river, a bit further down from The Falls. Smack dab in the middle of the water is this strange natural phenomenom. It’s a gigantic whirlpool, caused by erosion. Scary. Another great way to do some oohing & ahhing is off the Observation Deck. Jutting out over the river with fantastic views of both sides of The Falls.

We (or just me) have visited Niagara Falls with different family and friends over the last few years. John’s brother Les and sister-in-law Mary Jane went with us in the fall of 2006. Jane and I used football as an excuse to enjoy The Falls and bought Buffalo Bills-Minnesota Viking tickets. A word about a couple things here. Remember I said 10 to 12 million people visit The Falls every year? Ugh, that’s an awful lot of people horning in on my territory. But I’ve found a solution, and was reminded why I came to that conclusion on this last trip. Folks flock to The Falls en masse during June, July and August. I assume cause the kiddos are out of school. So here’s the ticket. Don’t, I repeat, do not go in June, July or August. Had we wanted to go on the observation deck a couple of weeks ago, it was about a 2 hour wait. Same for The Gorge, or Maid of the Mist. In a hot line with dogs, kids and strollers. The most enjoyable trips for us have been in May or September/October.

Long time friends Dale & Beth Duits came to visit us from Minnesota in 2009. We let them recuperate from their long drive for a whopping 24 hours before hauling them to Niagara. They had never been there before. Good times. In 2012, Shannon and I attended a bridal shower in Pennsylvania for our then soon to be sister/daughter-in-law Erica, but not before spending 2 days at Niagara. Shannon hadn’t had the opportunity to see them before either. Joann, one of my dear friends from Muskegon wanted to go to a wedding near Boston in 2013. Didn’t want to go alone or fly. “Umm, I’ll go along and drive if we can stop at Niagara Falls.” Wasn’t that nice of me? We stayed in Niagara twice, on the way to the wedding and on the way home. Heaven. This was in April and it was very cool and rainy at The Falls. We actually drove through downtown Boston 2 days before the Marathon bombing. Heard about it on the radio on our way home through Canada. Horrible terrorists.

Since I hadn’t been there since 2013, I noticed many changes. There’s been a lot of remodeling. The Bridal Veil observation lot has been completely redone. It’s fantastic. All the blacktop walkways that were long, long overdue for updating have been replaced. Now they appear about twice as wide, maybe 8 foot instead of 4. And I was only there several hours. Did not get over to Goat or 3 Sisters Islands which have had face lifts too. Maybe next time. There will be a next time. Soon.

One more little item. A side trip when you’re visiting the Falls. Buffalo is about 30 miles away. There’s a pub in Buffalo called The Anchor Bar (yes, also deserving of a capital T on the). Legend, folklore, don’t know, don’t care. The Anchor Bar is owned and operated by Frank & Teressa since-forever. In 1964 several of their son’s friends stopped at the bar quite late and were hungry. Ten minutes later Mother Teressa (different gal than Mother Teresa of Calcutta) plopped down a platter of something in front of them. No one knew exactly what they were looking at and her son was a bit embarrassed. “It’s a shame to put such beautiful wings in a stockpot,” said Mother Teressa (again, not the same saint). Teressa had just invented the original Buffalo Wings. I do know the wings are the real deal. Delicious. Mild, medium, hot or suicidal, yikes. During our trip with Les and Mary Jane, we were standing in a long line waiting for a table on a Saturday night. On John’s left stood a half dozen Vikings (Brian McKinney-all 355 pound, 6’8″ of him) each patiently waiting for their own to go bags. Who am I trying to kid? Brian walked out with 6 boxes. The Anchor Bar. Worth the trip as long as you’re already at The Falls. And if you require a guide, I’m available. Cheap…

I never had a desire to travel abroad. There’s too many places I still need to see in America. Then I got an opportunity to visit Italy up close and personal. It’s been 13 months since Shannon and I traveled to Italy. And I’ve written a whopping 4 sentences about it. These were snippets that occured while I was there. It was a wonderful 12 day trip with my daughter, and inexcusable why I haven’t written at least one story about my trip.

The Coliseum literally took my breath away. June, 2016…

I wasn’t ready. I know, that’s lame. I knew about Italy months in advance, yet still felt unprepared when I left. Much of my anxiety/apprehension was because of a health issue, which is kinda funny. When Shannon asked me to go, she worded it this way, “mom, you really need to come. You’ve never been to Europe and we’ve never taken a big vacation together. I want you to go while you’re still ambulatory and have all your faculties.” (she has such a warped sense of humor) Well ‘most’ of my faculties were hovering nearby, but it was the ambulatory part which was given me fits.

The Coliseum is enormous…

I hurt my left leg behind the knee 4 months earlier. Just walking. Felt a burning, searing pain and instead of turning around and limping home, walked another mile. Tried to tough it out but after a month of swelling and hobbling around I went to see my primary care doctor. He thought it was a Baker’s cyst and sent me to an orthopedic guy who didn’t think so. Had x-rays, an MRI, physical therapy and a couple of prescriptions over the next 2 months.

By Mother’s Day, 3 months after the initial boo-boo, I had a baseball size lump on the left side of my knee. I was starting to panic about going to Italy. I was in constant pain, limping with every step. In my detailed trip itinerary was this troubling sentence: we’ll do a lot of walking, bring comfy shoes. No where did it state, make sure you have 2 good legs (guess that’s a given). I didn’t want to embarrass Shannon or hold up the group. About a week before we left, the ortho doc gave me a cortisone shot in the knee. It helped quite a bit. Still I was a huge drain on our little 17 non-related American family in Italy, especially Shannon. It was Shannon and one of the leaders of our group, a great guy named Doug who often helped lug my suitcase up and down the stairs, on and off busses, trains and the airport. Ah, water under bridge, or in the canal. By the way, when you see those charming canals, the way humans get over them without getting wet is a bridge. A curved sloped bridge, usually with steps. Many, many steps. Which I had to take one-at-a-time with my purse, carry on and suitcase, unless one of my guardian angels saw my pitiful grimace. Oh, I was a slow-moving-sloth-drain. OK, enough about my temporary disabilites. (It took my knee a year to heal and I still have to be careful when I twist, pivot or use the stairs, but it is loads better)

Christy from our group near The Coliseum, 2016…

First stop. The highs and lows of 3 days in Rome. I might have been expecting too much. Rome-holy-city-Pope. Nope. OK, it wasn’t all ethereal. It’s a huge city, so there’s some trash in the streets, slums, even graffiti on abandoned buildings. But when you visit their ancient artifacts, they’re absolutely pristine. They know how to care for the things they revere and honor.

Our hotel in Rome was the nicest of our 4 stops. Breakfast was included everyday with all our hotel rooms. But Rome! Yowza! The dining area had a huge room where they served the breakfast buffet. Not chintzy American hotel fare either. Wafer thin slices of prosciutto which is dry-cured ham, homemade crusty breads and rolls, butter, a dozen varieties of cheese. Eggs, meats, fresh fruits. Their breakfast feasts resembled a fine lunch or brunch buffet. Coffee was strong and delicious. Real china plates, coffee cups, silverware and cloth napkins. The salt & pepper shakers were miniature. Salt shaker had 3 tiny holes, pepper had 1. So cute. Hubs would still be sitting at the first table, the first day, shaking condiments on his eggs. Thirteen months later.

Look at the itty-bitty holes on condiments. When in Rome….

We toured Pricilla’s Catacombs. Underground, narrow, dark, uneven surfaces. These catacombs were used as burial grounds from the 2nd to 4th centuries for Christians. It’s the only thing I did and wished I hadn’t. I still can’t believe I didn’t trip or fall. Small rocks jutting up from the ground with poor lighting at best. But it was neat to go through. Scary for me with my lack of balance and fat knee.

The biggest disappointment of the trip fell to Rome too. The Sistine Chapel. We arrived early, waited in line a long time and got shoved through in under 90 seconds. Ugh. Maybe nobody’s fault. Still sucked. The Orlando, Florida mass shooting happened the day before so there was heightened security. The police stood everywhere shouting, “silence, silence, keep moving, silence! Move along. Silence.” Not exactly the most reverent mood setter as you should slowly stroll through, eyes lifted upwards as you gaze on Michelangelo’s, The Last Judgement painted on the ceiling. It was like waiting in an impatient line for a carnival ride as a kid, jostled, pushed, smashed against too many people. This week, a year later on my FaceBook newsfeed, I noticed a TV anchor guy, Bret Baier vacationed with his family in Italy. My jaw dropped when he posted a picture outside the Sistine Chapel. Oh my, not exactly the way I remember the Sistine Chapel on the day we were there.

But Rome also supplied me with my favorite top-spot of the whole trip too. And I was kinda surprised with my reaction when I saw it. I was smitten, speechless, breathless, awed, mesmerized. More than our constant art overload, more than Michelangelo’s David in all his nude glory. Not the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, none of the above-put together. For me it was The Coliseum. Heavens to Betsy, it seemed not-of-this-world! There are no adjectives to describe setting eyes on The Coliseum, which once held 50 to 80 thousand crazy folks. They had recently installed an elevator or there is no way I could have gone inside. The steps were too numerous to count, narrow and very steep. Those ancient Romans were in tip-top shape. If you ever have the chance to go, pick Rome. Just for the Coliseum. Awesome, superb, mind blowing, stunning. Wow. Just wow. Wow.

Shannon & I at The Coliseum. Surprising how high up we are, 2016…

Second verse, same as the first. No, our second stop was the polar opposite of anything Rome-like. Assisi. I loved it there. A drastic, dramatic change in sights, sounds and scenery from Rome. Assisi was built on the top of a hill as a fortress. For this gal with a bothersome leg, the steep up and down streets were almost too painful to manuever. But it was just so neat. With spectacular views overlooking the countryside, small towns, roads and woods. The birthplace of St. Francis and St. Clare back in the 11 century I think. Church after church after church! Holy Hannah. Awesome. Some churches were very humble, some beyond very ornate.

Our tour group with the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi in the background, 2016…

The street artist in Assisi was phenomenal. He started this 6 foot chalk drawing before we got there and finished St. Clare before we left town. Townsfolk said these chalk drawings usually last a few weeks. I’m still sick about a gorgeous oval platter I did not buy. It was made near Assisi and believe it’s called Deruta. I would buy a special trinket later, but still wish the platter was hanging on my wall. I would be remiss here if I didn’t mention gelato. Italian ice cream. Rich and sweet. Never tasted it before Italy (ok devoured a dish every day of my trip). Life is good with gelato.

A street artist chalk drawing of St. Clare of Assisi, 2016…

Florence, my third stop. The city is hip, yet very old. Our hotel was just bizarre. It’s ultra modern. Just didn’t seem to go with the flow of the city. The hotel entrance looked like a bench with a mess of open laptops on it. Those were chairs. But I liked Florence a lot. Michelangelo’s David is in Florence. And Michelangelo is buried there. There’s a church called Duomo Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. It’s made of pink, white and green marble and is very striking. Pink marble, still can’t get over the color. But even that unusual landmark didn’t have the impact or bring up the raw emotion that traveling 8 miles outside the city on a bus would hold for me. The Florence American Cemetery. Sitting on 70 acres rests over 4,400 of our soldiers remains. I started crying as soon as we got there. Green, green grass surrounded by trees, with rolling hills, a memorial wall and small pool. And thousands of white crosses. Thousands. Most of the deaths were from the Fifth Army during the month of June, 1944. Too much. The cemetery is immaculately cared for by Italy, which has promised to always watch over our soldiers.

An emotional day. American Cemetery in Florence, Italy, 2016…

Our last stop was highly anticipated by me. I think I was the only one though. We went to Venice for 2 days. Venice-meh, but one of the side trips offered was a 45 minute boat ride to the island of Murano. This is what I was excited about. I LOVE blown glass. This is where I was going to buy a-drop-dead-gorgeous-piece-of-authentic-Murano-hand-blown-glass. We had some time constraints, (there was that boat back to Venice we needed to be on) and I had a terrible time choosing a special-I-went-all-the-way-to-Italy-just-to-buy-this-but-I-got-er-done. The vase was too big and fragile to carry, so I had it shipped home. It’s a lovely remembrance of my trip.

Um Dave, show some modesty please. Dude, nice butt…

One other side trip was really neat. I’m a little vague on exactly which person of our group knew this gal, but think it was our fearless leader, Dave. Pretty sure the gal’s name was Ann and I know she’s American. She married an Italian 40 years ago and has lived there for decades. Ann invited us to her home for an Italian family dinner. I didn’t count the number of courses but it had to be close to 20. Ann had every known friend and relative helping with serving, clearing, cooking, washing dishes, taking pictures, visiting with all of us. We were stuffed and humbled by their kindness, delicious food and desire to make it a night we would all remember. My trip to Italy, gelato, the quaint farm supper, The Coliseum, The American Cemetery, gelato, Catacombs, Assisi, 17 foot David, the art, gelato, island of Murano, the magnificent churches. Really fabulous and memorable. I’m sorry I didn’t write about it sooner. It was so much to process. Big thanks to Shannon and Tracey. Love you guys. Until my next story, Au Revoir, er, I mean Auf Wiedersehen…

My hand blown glass vase from Murano, 2016…

My Mom was a clothes horse. She could still out-shop me when she was in her late ’60’s. She loved clothes, enjoyed wearing nice things and always looked really put together. She preferred shirt-jacks and blazers and most of her blouses had a bow at the neckline. Mom wore dresses until the mid-70’s when Hillary introduced pantsuits to the world. She might have owned a dress or 2 after that, but Mom had found her comfortable nitch, and rarely strayed from her usual ironed slacks (in every color imaginable plus multiples of white), a loose fitting jacket or blazer (she always thought her butt was big, it never was).

Great aunt Lena, Mom w/bow & loose jacket and Uncle Floyd…

When I was in school, it became important to Mom that I dress nice, and I did. Most of my clothes were not bought though, but hand tailored. That sounds ritzy but it wasn’t. Mom knew a gal who lived across the street from the First Reformed Church in Rock Valley. (I believe she was a stay at home mom with several children. She had an enormous amount of sewing talent. Think this was her way of working from home and helping the family budget) Her name was Mrs. Van Holland. (No first name that I can recall. Rock Valley women usually went by Mrs. So & So. I vetoed that option day 1 of marriage to Hubs).

One of my many hand knit sweaters from Mom…

Mom would get an idea about an outfit for me. Most of her ideas revolved around whatever fabulous sweater she was knitting for me at the time. She might want a pleated skirt to complete my ensemble. Mom got on a shorts kick for a couple of years while I was in high school. Not for her, I never saw in her in a pair of shorts, though I do believe she owned a pair of culottes. Notice I said she got on a kick, not me. Most of this was Mom’s doing. Dead of winter in northwest Iowa, 20 below or worse and that crazy Gerritson girl came to school wearing shorts. Oh Neese. They were bermuda length, always wool, fully lined (thanks Mrs. Van Holland for lining those itchy things). Actually, probably warmer than skirts. Knee socks were popular, so basically only my knees were exposed and showing. Mom also had a thing for orange, her favorite color. She knit me this orange mini skirt. As I remember it was pretty darn short even though we were coming to the age of hot pants and really mini-skirts.

But I’ve never been on the cutting edge as far as fashion is concerned. I guess I’m slow to accept new things. By the time I’m ready to embrace something different, it’s been out of style for a year-minimum. Sometimes I’ve never been on board for what is perfectly accepted apparel. Here’s a great example. I love jeans, always have. Mom never owned a pair of blue jeans or a t-shirt. Different era. I still prefer jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. This is a casual outfit, no matter how dressy the jeans or top. Why would anyone wear high heels when you’re wearing jeans? Makes no sense and I think it looks dorky and dumb. Tennis shoes, flats, boots, sandals go with jeans, not high heels.

Even my saddle shoes matched…

I don’t like to be the center of attention. Makes me uncomfortable. Stands to reason I would never lean towards outlandish or fad clothes. I don’t want to spend money on a seasonal trend, say a jacket sporting some weird trim or odd shaped sleeves that surely will be out of style in 6 months. Just not me. My grandson Landon mentioned he liked the t-shirt I was wearing recently. Plain, gray Nike swoosh. Landon will be 17 in a couple months. My Nike t-shirt is older than him by a couple years. And still one of my favorites.

2001 with Landon. My Nike t-shirt is several years old already…

So last fall I was in JC Penney looking for work clothes. I buy easy care clothes for the daycare. I get drooled on, snotted on, spit on, pooped on, spit-up on, peed on, and baby food-ed on by those lovable little rascals. Everyday. Everything needs to be washed after my 6 hour shift, including me. And we’re only allowed to wear jeans on Friday. That’s if we pay for that privilege. Boo-hiss. I don’t mind paying, in fact I’d give a buck a day to wear jeans everyday. I’ve never owned so many non-jeans clothes in my life! Anyway, I found a couple of tops that were wash & wear and was ready to check out when I noticed some clearance jean capris. A dark blue pair just past my knee with a cuff. And several holes-on purpose-all over. Cute. But too young. Should be worn by gals much younger than-this-then-soon-to-be-great-grandma. Hmmmmm. Tried them on. Fit nice. Cute. Hmmmmmm. Five bucks. Sold. I’ll just wear them around the house, and if somebody sees me, they certainly will think I came by those holes the old fashioned way, hard work and wearing them for 20 years like my Nike t-shirt.

What was I thinking?

I haven’t worn slacks with a pattern since the wacky 70’s. I don’t know if it’s becauseI think they make my butt look huge, or that I’m just too much of a chicken. To wear printed pants. That’s just plain crazy right? So this loner-introvert bought a pair of herringbone print slacks (on clearance, duh) for work this winter. They hung neatly in my work closet while my I gathered courage to actually sport them for a day being peed, pooped, well you know what happens to me at work. The slacks are kind of loud, not exactly fushia, maybe cranberry and black. No one noticed. Maybe a few of the babies. They’re all into textures and colors and seemed to like my loud pants just fine.

Since it was October when I shelled out that enormous wad on beat-up capris, I didn’t give much thought to them over the winter. In May when it was time to change my dreary winter closet to spring/summer duds, I spotted them again. Didn’t feel foolish or flamboyant when I wore them either. Until Ari came over to pick up Jovi. As she was heading out the door said, “cute capri’s gram.” Oh-boy, a sure sign they’re too young for this great-grandma.

Kerrie, Kelli, Shannon w/hot-pants-mama-me, Christmas 1971…

I was not done with impromtu/foolish purchases just yet. Wandering around the aisles of my favorite department/grocery store Meijer this spring, checking out the clearance racks. My weakness, jeans. Something called boyfriend jeans. Kinda baggy through the legs, with a cuff. If they really are supposed to be your boyfriend’s jeans, that’s the way they should fit I guess. No boyfriend around, but dang if those jeans weren’t sporting similar holes, rips, frayed spots, and something that definitely looked like a patch. Cute though. Hmmmm. Fit cute. Hmmmmm. $2.80. Sold.

Let this be a warning to anyone (of a certain age) considering a similar purchase. These holy jeans and capris can be deadly. Here’s the scoop. Gospel truth. It’s a few weekends ago, and my goal for the day is finishing a story for my blog. Don’t think I’m leaving the house, so it’s a safe bet the boyfriend jeans will be seen by no one other than the Hubs. I lounge around in sweats, reading the paper and finally decide I’d better shower or the day will slip away.

Grab my $2.80 jeans, a comfy t-shirt and head to the bathroom. Shower, dry off, and ready for clothes. Undies, check, shirt, check and now for the new jeans. Got my left leg in, (remember they’re kinda baggy) and I’m sliding my right leg through when my big toe hooks that darling, on purpose knee hole. (Due to my profound hearing loss and Meniere’s Disease, my balance is dicey at best). I start to lose that delicate balance, yet somehow manage to catch myself before flailing into our new glass shower doors. I miss a perfect 10 face plant by an inch above the water level of the toliet. My right arm hits the rim pretty hard causing my head to bounce back up. Gulp. Close, but no I didn’t gulp any water. Still don’t know how I managed not to get seriously hurt. I must have had my dumb foot going through sideways instead of straight up and down. My 3 dollar jeans almost cost some new teeth and a pretty smashed up face. Lesson learned. This old gal will be making no new fashion statements (no matter what the bargain price) anytime soon…

Obviously I need to sit when pulling these on..

Hopefully, sometime far into into the future it’ll read something like this:

1. She was a big chicken.
2. She tried hard, but fell short frequently.
3. If cotton candy was involved, she could out-eat a dozen kids-put together.
4. She dearly loved and was enormously proud of her family.
5. She would love the chance to make just one more list…

One of my favorite treats…

Did you guess this might be me? It was the cotton candy that gave me away, right? Maybe an adequate description on my headstone? It’s a bit wordy, so might not fly. Not exactly normal mainstream epitaph. Then again, not much about this wife, mom, grandma, and great grandma has ever been normal. As you can see, I’m not a risk-taker, but clearly a list-maker. Neese-no-taka-risks-but-maka-lists.

Reading list in order of a series of books I need to catch up on…

This story is about number 5. I don’t remember when it started, though I’m sure one of my kids, or Hubs would testify under oath, “she drove us nuts with her crazy lists. She’s made them forever. About anything and everything” Which is true enough. I don’t remember a time in my life when I was list-free. My life revolves around lists. No, I don’t have post it notes evenly spaced covering an entire wall in the spare bedroom. And no, I’m not gonna prove that to you. But if I want to accomplish future tasks, recall things that tend to slip from my small brain, rest assured, it was written down somewhere beforehand. Just the way stuff gets done in my world.

Possible story for my blog in the future. List this list for 6 months…

I think I’m an orderly person. And I don’t like to forget things. Lists help keep my strange little life sane. My world is better when I’m organized. Anything concerning a grocery run, general errands, upcoming events, Hubs-to-do, due dates for bills, or blog post ideas. I make lists for all of the above and so much more. It’s rare for me to forget a list as I’m heading out the door though it does happen on occasion. I’m more inclined to misplace a list somewhere in the house after I’ve written it. Might be something obscure like the probability of what canned goods I’ll be working on during the next 6 weeks. Why make a list about something so bizarre? I’ve no idea, yet I’m compelled to do exactly that on a regular basis.

The reason a list might go missing in this house is caused by a fetish of mine. Tablets. Not like my iPad. Tiny free mini pads from hotels where we’ve stayed. Geez, they’re like crack. My heart rate is accelerating already just talking the little buggars. As soon as I walk in a hotel room, I snag the petite pad of paper and pen. Stash it in my purse, tearing off one measly sheet (this pains me dearly) on which I write, “thanks for the clean room, have a great day.” Heaven help the misguided cleaning lady if she does not set out replacement pad the following morning when she picks up the money as she spiffs up our room. I wouldn’t say I have hundreds of mini-tablets throughout the house, but that total’s pretty close. Whenever Shannon’s out of town (frequently for Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) basketball tournaments, I can count on receiving all her token tablets. It’s like Christmas. Almost every weekend.

Love, love my stash of tiny tablets…

I have a routine list I’ve been writing which makes my life more manageable. On the top of the sheet pad I write: A week in the life… On it I list the days of the week, chores, cleaning, errands, Landon’s games, Peyton’s dance classes, work, meetings, Jovi, groceries, shopping. Not all things listed will be checked off or completed by the weeks end. They never are. But if I deem it halfway important, it will surely be re-routed on the following week’s scheduled list. Somehow I’ve found ‘dusting the furniture’ can easily be moved from one week to the next with nary a guilty thought. I rarely feel bad about skipping it either. Because my intentions are good and sincere, though it remains one of my least favorite chores.

Sounds like many of these should be on my calendar, but when there’s more than a couple things listed on it per day, my little alloted squares on the calendar gets too crowded and makes me twitchy. Besides, I already have birthdays and important dates I want to remember on the calendar. When planning my week in the life, I tend to bunch stuff together. Why? Basically I’m a lazy slug. If I plan is to run out for an oil change, I’ll get gas, money from the bank, stop at Goodwill for that cheap platter I need, and buy groceries. If this possibly means spending a full day at home instead of running around again, I’m in. Face it, I’m an introverted lazy loner.

A frequent mistake-2 lists on the same sheet, oops…

Not everyone in my world fully appreciates my ability to create these masterpiece award winning lists. Hubs routinely tops my list of non-appreciative folks. He might even go as far as saying he hates, abhors and detests the 2 sentences, starting with the words, “here’s my list” or worse, “let me make a list for you.” This from a man after almost 50 years together is still unable to find a gallon of milk in the fridge. Maybe I need to start a map division for my hopeless, hapless guy. But just hand him any kind of new-fangled gadget. He can draw you blueprints, build machines to make the product, cost out all the parts, determine when the machines will be paid for, start production before the deadline, have the finished products shipped efficiently and as cheaply as possible, and soon be making money. Long before he finds that elusive gallon of milk in the fridge. Dude.

High school buddy Bob Smith, shooting the shit with John, 2016…

I’m never without a running grocery list on my kitchen counter, especially on a canning or baking day. Adding sugar, flour, eggs, baking soda, whatever, whenever I start running low. One of my top pet peeves is running out of anything. Neese, the quantities shopper. My grocery list resembles hieroglyphics. MW means Miracle Whip, AM, Aunt Millies, BC, birthday cards, seedless usually means watermelon or red grapes. I’ve written my list this way for decades. I fully realize one day I could very easily end up in Meijer, staring at my list and not have a freaking clue what any of this gobbledy-gook-gibberish means. And yet it’s written in my own hand. That day would be the time to give my car keys up.

I have begged John to add whatever items he wants, needs, craves or sees we’re running low on to my list. But to no avail. He tends to remind me of what I’ve missed about 24 hours after writing a huge check at the grocery store. (I spend a lot of money on groceries, we rarely eat out, but eat very well at home). Invariably, whatever he needs is something I don’t eat or use, so of no consequence to me. Hubs will say, “hey, I couldn’t shave this morning, out of razors.” Or “could you buy some chunk cheese and Club Crackers again? We’ve been out for months.” (To simply avoid this Hubs, put it on my dang list).

I don’t yell and tell Hubs to get his own shaving cream or whatever because I truly enjoy shopping. Crazy, I know. I can waste more time wandering up and down aisles in Meijer. But only when I’m not in a hurry and they’re not super busy. (Always have to check the end caps for clearance items, these items change frequently). But it does kinda tick me off that Hubs can’t simply put the items he wants or needs ON MY LIST. SOMETIME BEFORE I GO TO THE STORE.

Hubs is not good at making his own lists. Much less following, admiring, appreciating or adhering to mine. Constant supervision and encouragement are needed (often with a gentle nudge from an electric cattle prod) when giving Hubs a list or insisting he make his own before running errands. If I feel further instructions necessary, his brown eyes glaze over and the headlights grow dim. I know he will need some Saturday morning cartoons to decompress before moving forward. Recently however, one of Hubs favorite childhood treats has appeared on my lists. Written in his own hand. And it stinking cracks me up. Almost weekly. OK, he sees my list on the counter everyday, yet somehow this is the only addition he sees fit to add. Walnut Crush? Dude.

Hubs crazy additions to my grocery list. Do you feel my pain?

Although it’s crystal clear my use of constant lists drives everyone around me crazy, the exact same lists continue to keep me sane. I consider this a win-win…

Where it began, I can’t begin to knowing,
But then I know it’s growing strong.
Was in the spring, then spring became the summer,
Who’d believed you come along. Sweet Caroline. By Neil Diamond.

I know, another yawner…

This song! This verse! It explains everything I need to say. How does Neil continue to fulfill my blogging needs? Taking you back to June 2014. I was full of discord. Retired, bored, twitchy, frustrated. I hesitantly embarked on an experiment. Under the tutelage from my long-lost childhood friend, Marlys Kempema Keatley, and after copious instructions from her concerning starting a simple blog. I had just purchased a new mini-iPad with the most memory, most storage, packed in this cute little red leather Michael Kors case (love Michael Kors, but the iPad case was a huge disappointment, leather cracked within a month). Marlys helped me pick out the blog background, layout, and decide on a name for it, Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town. Basically, this was a short trial run on blogging. I thought by the end of 2014, I’d be out of words and stories. Nothing more to say.

But once I got over the jitters and started telling my story, my head filled up faster than it was emptying. Every time my brain got near the one quarter full mark, and I’d think my blog had run it’s course, weird stuff would happen. Or an old memory would pop in my head out of nowhere. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine after 3 years, there would still be stuff I wanted to say. Maybe not worthwhile stuff, but that’s never stopped me before has it?

I remember how fast & furious the words were in the beginning. Like I couldn’t get the stories out of my head fast enough. Now more than 160 stories later, they’ve slowed down some, but I’m not ready to call it quits. Been pondering when to make a book out of my stories since I finished writing the first few posts. Just gonna be one copy for me. Gotta have my life (the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between) in print to lug around for my stint in the nursing home in a 20 years. First I thought certainly after 50 posts, then 100. Now I’m kinda afraid when I finally decide to publish, I’ll post an amazing story, AND IT WON’T BE IN THE BOOK! Probably what keeps me writing. Waiting for that one great story. Ha. Foolish little Iowa girl.

I wanted to acknowledge what I consider an accomplishment for this ne’er-do-well. Do I regret any of my stories? Not really, though there’s probably a dozen I’m not very proud of. Most should have been left unwritten and stuck in my head for as long as I continue to breathe. There are a few stories I’m satisfied with, maybe even a little proud of. The rest, just a mish-mash of the mundane life of Neese. But I’m still glad they’re written down. When I was visiting Josh a couple of weeks ago, he mentioned something from a recent post. I was surprised he had read it.

OK, I’m done tooting-my-own-little-out-of-tune-horn-with-the-ill-fitting-and-inappropriate-mouth-piece. First a couple of short subjects that need to be aired but are not worthy of their own full story. You remember my friend Rosemary? She passed away at age 46 from breast cancer in 2010. She had a great job, terrific boyfriend, and had just finished building a fabulous new home near Lake Michigan. I’ve blogged about her a couple of times. We were quite close. I was like a mother figure to her. Rosemary was quite a bit younger than me and had lost her own mom when she was in her mid-20’s. Her mom was in her mid-40’s when she too passed away from breast cancer. Tough. Anyway, Rosemary’s brother Brian gave me quite a few of Rosemary’s possesions after she passed away, which I cherish. Probably none more than her coffee mug. I’ve used it and her little Fiesta sugar bowl every day for almost 7 years. I’m so careful with it. Never put it in the sink, but leave it on the counter until I’m ready to wash it for tomorrow’s cup of joe. One day this week as I picked it up from my soapy sink, I noticed a big chip on the rim. I’m just sick about it. Still using it, but my days with Rosemary’s beautiful coffee mug are numbered. Sorry Rosemary.

Only word that sums it up: shit…

This one has bothered me since we bought our first VCR in the mid 1980’s. We were totally smitten with the thing. Joined a club at a movie rental store, think we got a discount after a certain number of rentals. Maybe 2 billion. Which we hit after the first month. Everytime we started a movie and they got to the disclosure parts. It wasn’t the one stating, “copy this you could go to federal prison.” That’s pirating or something. Yikes. No the one that’s tormented me for over 30 years comes after that I think. “This movie has been modified from its original version. It has been formatted to fit your screen.” Do you know how many TV’s we’ve had since 1985? I would cautiously say at least 8. How the heck do they know all my TV sizes? Feels like Big Brother is watching me a little too close. Gives me the creeps. Stop spying on me in my house. Freak.

How about a little Jovi tale? Little peanut is 5 months old already. She absolutely cannot get any cuter. So last week was probably Hubs last regular day to watch his favorite great-granddaughter, although he and Shannon may share her on Friday’s this fall. Ari is out of school for the summer, and after Labor Day, Jovi will come to daycare 4 days a week. I was working that day and got home about 1:30. Jovi and grandpa had a splendid day so far, but she was delighted to see her great-grandma walk in. John hasn’t attempted to feed her solids yet and she was nearing her threshold of tolerance. I got her oatmeal ready and she yummed her way through that lickety-split. Then we made a tour of the house. She loves walking through each room, stopping, me swaying just a bit while she observes everything in her line of vision. Mirrors are right at the top of her favorites, and we have a ton of mirrors. It’s not that I enjoy seeing me, but most of our antique furniture have mirrors on top. Jovi does not mind that the mirrors are far less than perfect. They’re very old and she seems to appreciate that resilvering would take away from their value and charm. (She’s very bright). After completing the tour (yes, even the bathroom, big mirror and no distortions cause it’s brand new) Jovi is thinking a bottle is in order. We get comfy, she scarfs a gallon (slight exaggeration, only slight though), burps like sailor, and toots for 34 seconds. (She’s quite at ease in our house and does not put on airs-well except for all that air-tooting).

Jovi, happy to spend the day at our house…

Her head is under my chin, her butt on my belly when I notice a bright green stain on my fushia blouse. Goodness, that was no toot, that was the real deal. Do you know how many diapers I change at work everyday? I should wear a counter for a couple days to be sure, but I would guess between 8 and 12 on my shift. One third to half of them poopy. Doesn’t bother me at all and trust me I’ve uncovered some doozies. I yell at John to bring some paper towels to the spare bedroom. We keep a beach towel, wipes, diapers in there for Jovi. He lays the paper towels down on the towel and I ease Jovi down. My shirt is a mess. I wipe off as much as I can, take it off, put on my nearby trusty flannel and see about cleaning up the poopster.

Doesn’t look that bad, just oozing out of one side of her chubby leg. Grab a handful of wipes and a new diaper. With my left hand I secure her kicking legs by her little feet. She’s having a good time, throwing her arms around, squealing with delight. About what, I’m not sure. I start wiping away. It’s just SO green. One more wipey ought to do it, and I’m 99% done when out shoots a green geyser that covers my hand. Completely engulfs my whole hand. Gosh that’s warm. And gross. And yet such a pretty shade of green. I yell at Hubs, “more paper towels please. Now please!” John comes sprinting through the hallway, stops dead in his tracks when he sees my hand (looks like it belongs to the Hulk at this point). He tosses the towels, (better than his cookies I guess) says, “man I’d be so sick if you weren’t here right now.” Meanwhile the most beautiful baby is the world is still throwing her arms around and gurgling, something she does when she’s really happy. Like purring. John’s now gagging, I’m giggling and Jovi thinks our strange antics are still worth gurgling about. Had it not been the most beautiful, precious little girl in the world, last Thursday just might been described as shitty…

Jovi on my lap wearing WHITE shorts, minus anything green…

I’m a jumble of conflicting emotions. Something’s been brewing for a long time and may have finally peaked. It has not made me feel better or given me any satisfaction however. I will likely find a plateau and remain there until I croak. Sounds rather dubious, but it’s not. Part of my story, so here goes.

Yeah, this is about the time it started…

My feelings/wide spectrum of emotions-warmth-yearning-guilt-euphoria-nostalgic-sadness-love-acceptance started 50 years ago in my mid-teens. I chalked it up to normal teenage-girl-hood. By 1970, these feelings were safely stashed away. Kicked to the curb. I was after all, a happily married woman. To Hubs. More importantly, I was with child, soon to be a first time mom. I had enough on my plate, no time for far-reaching, fantasy daydreams.

I have never really been attached to the TV. Do I watch it? I do. Could I live without it? I believe so. There are a few programs I enjoy. But they have never been as important to me as music. Listening to music that moves me and my soul in all different ways. Hearing a song from my past, remembering where I was, what was happening in my life. Sometimes accompanied by remembering certain smells. I do have some goofy songs by current hip-hop artists which keep my feet (and big ass) moving when I walk. Hymns that cause a lump in my throat and make me cry every time I see them in the hymn book. Yes, music has been an important part of my life.

Mommy & Shannon bath time, Hinton, Iowa 1973…

Until I lost a big share of my hearing about 20 years ago, I had the radio on constantly. Would not drive anywhere unless my favorite station was playing loud and clear. I listened to the top hits until Shannon was in high school during the mid/late 80’s. It suddenly hit me. I wasn’t enjoying the artists/songs like I used to. The search was on for the stations that played the songs I grew up loving. Music from the mid-60’s to the late 70’s. I was chided, scolded, tormented, and teased by my kids. When they were in the car they constantly begged me to change the station. New rule. My car, my gas, my insurance, guess who gets to pick the radio station? Me. Little shits.

The Beatles, Dave Clark 5, Buckinghams, Simon & Garfunkel, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Rolling Stones, Beach Boys, Kinks, The Doors, Animals, Monkees, Mamas & the Papas, The Hollies. I could go on but now you have the general idea of my tastes in music. In my humble opinion, The Beatles were the best band ever and made the biggest impact in the music world. Hands down. As much as I have always loved their music, or how stinking cute I thought Paul was, The Beatles pale considerably to the number 1 music love of my life.

It finally occured how much this unrequited love interest of mine really meant to me. A weird TV show, ‘Fantasy Island’ premiered in the late 70’s. “Ze plane, ze plane.” By now, John and I were about to become a family of 5. I was nearing my 30th birthday. No longer a love sick silly girl. But whenever I watched Fantasy Island, I knew in my heart what my own fantasy was, and freely told everyone. I wanted to be on a desert island. For my own personal concert. One fan. Me. One-super-hot-songwriter-singer-serenading-me. Neil. Diamond.

At this age, the kids drove me crazy with the car radio…

I’ve no clue why I fell so hard for Neil. A possibility perhaps, his personal, touching, written lyrics. Or one could assume, it’s his heartfelt, unforgettable accompanying music. Probably a mixture of both, making instant connections with millions of fans. Neil, one-of-a-kind-sexy-voiced-rocker-crooner-ballad-singer. As an extra added bonus, his incredible drop dead gorgeous good looks. Other than that, there was nothing really special about the man. He had me at Solitary Man. (Which I thought meant he would never marry because I was his number 1 love (whom he would never meet because I was getting married to another. Now that’s been a bitter pill to swallow. He’s on wifey number 3, the two-timing, I mean three-timing scoundrel). Then again, maybe he’s just never been satisfied because he couldn’t have ME! My story. Sticking to it.

Play Me… Neil Diamond
You are the sun, I am the moon,
You are the words, I am the tune
Play me.

Neil starred in a movie called The Jazz Singer, in 1980. He plays a Jewish Cantor, struggling with his marriage and religion while being pulled into the secular world, writing music and performing. While the movie was not a blockbuster, (though it remains one of my favorites) the movie soundtrack got rave reviews. Love on the Rocks, and America were 2 of the hits. When I got one of Diamond’s later CD’s as a gift, I got into huge trouble. At the time I was driving a ’92 DeVille with a Bose stereo system. Blew out one of the speakers learning the words to Neil’s new songs. Hubs was not at all pleased. Maybe jealous? Or he thought singing at the top of my lungs (along with Neil) inappropriate behavior while driving a Caddy. Whatever.

Concert stage at The Palace for Neil Diamond, 6-2-17

Until this week, I laid eyes on my main (secret-but pretty much everyone knew) squeeze twice. First near Chicago around 1985 when we were living in Davenport. Neil was in his mid-40’s. His concert garb was brightly colored beaded, sequined shirts. And he wore them well. Very well. The second time I saw him in concert was about 10 years later in Grand Rapids, with Hubs about 1997. I immediately noticed my feelings for my favorite singer had not diminshed one whit. His concert was even better than the first time. It wasn’t long after hearing Neil in Grand Rapids, I started going deaf. The decade (not the day for me the music died). Instead of listening constantly to an oldies station, the radio now remains off.

Beautiful Noise…. Neil Diamond
It’s a beautiful noise
And it’s a sound that I love
And it fits me as well
As a hand in a glove
Yes it does, yes it does.

Months ago I noticed Neil was going on his 50th anniversary tour (in the music business) and stopping in Detroit. I just had to see him again. One more time. My concert buddy, fabulous-daughter-in-law Erica graciously agreed to go with. She’s a music freak. And she would pick out where to sit, buy the tickets and let me know how much I owed her. Not to be. Turns out Erica was going to Japan for 2 weeks for Nissan. Figured we’d just forget about Neil (as if). But Erica, being the thoughtful soul she is, didn’t tell me there would be no concert date. Instead she enlisted (blackmail or old-fashioned arm twisting was more than likely involved) a co-worker/good friend of hers, Jeff Van Wormer to drag this old lady to one of the few concerts he probably didn’t care if he attended or not. Jeff is cut from the same freaky music cloth as E. Erica also arranged for my granddaughter Ariana to take her place at the concert with me. Poor Jeff. He was such a good sport. If Ari wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of watching a 75 year old man sing his heart out for 2 solid hours, she hid it very well. I saw no time checking, impatience or eye-rolling from her or Jeff throughout the night.

My Golden Ticket…

It started a couple of days before the concert. This mish-mash of emotions. Although extremely excited, there was almost a feeling of dread. Gone was the heart-throbbing, goofy crush once and for all. And it didn’t feel morbid, but there was some sadness and angst. I just knew this would be the last time. I would never get to watch, listen, sing along, enjoy, reminisce with my dear old friend Neil again. That was the part I was dreading. Not that I had planned on seeing him since the concert 20 years ago. Still, I knew this was gonna be the last time.

Our suite was furnished with great snacks…

Jeff managed to secure a suite for our concert experience. Wow. That’s definitely the way to enjoy a show. The suite was enclosed and could hold 30 people. There were 3 rows of great seats outside the room. And center stage was directly in front of the chair I claimed. Inside, we had our own bathroom, fresh fruit, veggies, chips, dips, popcorn, desserts, and nachos. Plus pop, wine, beer and water. Heaven. I grazed for a solid hour.

Song Sung Blue… Neil Diamond
Song sung blue, everybody knows one
Song sung blue every garden grows one.
Me and you are subject to the blues now and then
But when you take the blues and make a song,
You sing them out again, sing them out again.

The Palace of Auburn Hills was absolutely packed. Even the back of the stage. In a written review the next morning, this was the sentence that stuck with me. ‘Neil Diamond’s been selling out arenas longer than many people reading this review have been alive.’ Neil might have moved a little slower (as do I), maybe played the guitar a bit less than I remember. His songs have always struck a chord (ha-ha, a little guitar humor) with me, but I was completely unprepared and surprised by the tears. For many of his songs, I stood, rocking back and forth, singing every word (that’s a switch in my most recent concert ventures, usually it’s me who doesn’t know many lyrics) with my buddy Neil. For others, I cried through the whole set, song after song. Neil will never realize the impact he’s had on this little Iowa girl’s life for the last half century. But I do. Thanks so much for all the great music Neil. I remain your number 1 fan. Forever in Blue Jeans…

Forever in Blue Jeans… Neil Diamond
Money talks, but it don’t sing and dance, and it don’t walk
And long as I can have you here with me,
I’d much rather be forever in blue jeans.
Honey’s sweet, but it ain’t nothin next to baby’s treat
And if you pardon me, I’d like to say, we’ll do ok
Forever in blue jeans…

Special concert night with Ariana, 2017…