Not every newlywed couple started out like we did decades ago. Some young couples might have been handed keys to a business, deed to a farm or home. I don’t know if that properly prepares you for the rest of your life. Hubs and I had to figure out life the old-fashioned way, the hard way. By ourselves and making a few mistakes along the way. As John’s dad was famous for quoting, “you made your bed, now lie in it.”

Not long after we eloped…

We all bring baggage to a marriage. John and I had dated off and on long enough to know every detail about each other. Ha! Geez, he slept weird (head cupped in his hand with his arm bent, his face moving slowly, almost touching the mattress, then he’d lift his head uppright again. Kinda like one of those goofy birds that swing into a glass of water. Plus he expected me to cook. Holy smokes, what had I gotten into? I had a domineering family with issues, Hubs was generally ignored by his. Still, we dove in, head first and in love. knowing we were a unit. We would have a family and a happy home. Everything else would fall gently into place or land with a clunk.

Our first big clunk was a mountain of debt. Thud, me first. I just bought a car from a young couple in Sioux City. They had one child, were expecting another and about to have their car reposessed. I didn’t even go to the bank, just had my name put on the remainder of their loan. The payments were high for 1969, 80 bucks which would prove difficult. The car was a 1968 blue Mustang hardtop which is the reason the couple needed to sell it. With one kid and another on the way that 2-door would be a pain with 2 kids. That car caused me nothing but grief. Passenger seat broke 20 times but was never recalled. Bam, the seat snaps and suddenly you’re halfway in the backseat with whiplash. Worse, that sucker would not start when the temperature hovered between 25 to 40 degrees. In Iowa, this is about 6 months a year. However I feel awful when I bad-mouth the car. A few months after I bought it, the former owners, now a family of 4 were all killed when their car was hit by a train. Ironically, about a year later I nearly collided with a train in the Mustang at the railroad crossing in Merrill, Iowa. I was about 5 months pregnant with Shannon. Thanks for watching out for me and Shannon that night God.

A twin to my lemon…

But Hubs incurred the bulk of our debt when we started this journey together. He was paying for a car too, a gorgeous 1965 Chevy Impala. He was hard on his car because he loved to drag race on Douglas Street. Along with his payments came speeding tickets and he lost his license. Plus he and a buddy took a trip that summer. Might have started out as an overnight joyride but lasted two weeks. They drove north to Canada, dropped down through Montana to Yellowstone, then the Black Hills. In a Corvair.

Not done with Hubs spending spree. He worked at KTIV, Channel 4 in Sioux City. You’d think he’d be tired of watching TV cause he watched it at work. Yet he’d become a full blown Trekker since that show premiered. As soon as he got a steady paycheck he bought a humongous flat screen. Mind you, colored TV’s were not yet popular but were expensive. And small. John’s big screen was a 13 inch on a wobbly stand. That tiny TV cost $350, which was not paid for when we got hitched.

So I’m earning a whopping $1.60 an hour as a nurse’s aid in Morningside, working full time, taking home 60 bucks a week. John was cranking a check every other week around $235. Two car payments (remember, he couldn’t drive), credit card bill for his vacation, plus our Star Trek TV, rent, groceries and insurance for the car. We were in trouble from the get-go.

Hubs working at Channel 4, 1970…

We were so broke. After paying the bills, we had 5 bucks left for groceries, gas and smokes. It was easy to get discouraged, but we didn’t fight much except about my mom. She was a thorn at times. When Mom came over and wanted something from the fridge, if she spotted beer, she would dump every ounce down the sink without saying a word. This was my fault, I set no boundaries with her. Now John had paid a buck-fifty for that six pack, but until next payday, it was irreplaceable. Mom and John bumped heads until she died.

With less than 6 months of marriage under our belt, we moved from a house on Douglas that was costing us 3 times more for utilities than the rent, to a darling duplex in Leeds. More expensive to rent, but some of the utilities were included. Cute brick one bedroom and as a bonus a fabulous couple living in the other half named Lee and Carolyn. We would soon have more in common than being newlyweds. Both husbands worked nights, while Carolyn and I worked days, thus giving us lots of time in the evenings to bond while anticipating the births of our babies in a few months.

The duplex in Leeds, 1970…

Back to food. We were too dumb to stop smoking so tuna was the only thing we could afford. Usually on sale for 3 cans for a dollar. It was tuna salad/casserole a couple of times a week until I learned how to cook and grocery shop. We couldn’t afford the Sioux City Journal but I read the paper and grocery ads at work. John often worked until the 10 o’clock newscast was over, then I’d pick him up. I noticed a meat sale in the paper, but I was torn. He’d warned me several times not to run around Sioux City at night. Sections of 4th Street were not safe, which was where this meat market was. So I snuck downtown like I was trying to buy drugs. Peeking around, still in my Pony to see if someone was lurking-ready to pounce on this 19-year-old-mother-to-be. I slunk into the store, studied the meat counter in earnest, checked my wallet to make sure I had enough cash. Ordered and paid for what I needed. Stopped and looked cautiously for any lurkers since John warned me they would be waiting.

Hubs loves to grill any kind of meat. The grill we had was a small square on skinny legs that used charcoal briquettes. The cost was under 10 bucks, but we had to budget for it, and it lasted one year because we used it so often. He was an expert at stacking charcoal for what he was cooking. I believe he still misses those old charcoal grills.

I smiled all the way home cause I hadn’t been mugged (or worse). He’s going to be so proud of me. What a great little bargain shopper. It wouldn’t be fancy but it was his favorite food on the grill. A big, fat juicy cheese burger. I got buns, onion, tomato and potatoes. We already had dill pickle and Heinz (a must in this marriage from the ketchup expert, the Hubs. It had to be Heinz). The potatoes were for home made French fries, my contribution to the meal. Next night, Hubs gets out of work after the 6 o’clock news. I’m waiting (in the lemon), ready to cruise home and eat together (not something we got to do very often). The grill is lit, the patties are made, oil is heating for the fries. I start the fries 5 minutes before the burgers. Condiments are ready, there’s pop for me, Old Milwaukee for John. The grill was on the sidewalk close to the side door of our duplex. The fries are cooking and Hubs puts the burgers on the grill, comes back inside for a minute.

Living on love, French fries (and Heinz) that meatless night…

John grabs his beer, slaps me on the butt on his way outside when we hear this incredibly loud- WHAAAAAA-UMMMMPHHH! Flames shoot up the side of the duplex higher than the roof!! Hubs sprints outside, jumps sideways off the cement. There’s not one morsel of ground beef on the grill. What happened to our meat? The smoke is so thick, it’s impossible to see anything but bright red flames. One of the neighbors jogs over to check the status of the roof and asks if he should call the fire department? I assure him with, “No, John’s just grilling!”

Grabbing the lid of the grill, Hubs tries to fling it on the towering inferno, finally dropping it kitty-corner on top. He narrowed his brown eyes which were also spitting little flames towards me. It was hard to look at him for 2 reasons. I was about to get soundly scolded, but that was minor compared to what I was witnessing. The flames had eliminated most of his hair. He had no arm hair, eyebrows, lashes and I’m pretty sure at least one of his nostrils was completely void. He was hard to look at and he smelled kind of funky. Like singed chicken. I was morbidly drawn and repulsed at the same time. If I smiled, it would surely be for the last time-ever. He said testily, “what did you do?” “Umm last night I went down to the meat market on 4th Street,” I said meekly. “You mean the one spot in this huge city I’ve specifically asked you not to go alone? At night?” “Um, I think you’ve mentioned that part to me,” with an appropriate down-trodden face. “What exactly did you buy? How come the meat literally disappeared? What was this?” (He can be awfully smug sometimes). Now with a dose of defiance I shot back, “it’s just hamburger. I saw the ad in the paper and wanted to surprise you. It was on sale. Only 39 cents a pound.”…

It might be in the water, or even in the air. Maybe random, (doubtful) inherited or a complex part of our own unique DNA. Perhaps I’m putting way too much thought in this, yet somehow equate it with my being born and raised in Iowa. The greatest land with the richest black dirt, countless miles of corn and soybean crops. Hundreds of thousands of hogs making the world a better place so we can enjoy bacon with every meal. The rest of the fields not planted to feed the hungry masses are infused with huge herds of cattle, producing the worlds best beef-bar none. I’m all about the cows.

A housing project on the outskirts of Le Mars, Iowa. Awesome black dirt…

I was a Parish Visitor for 15 years. This job (more of a calling) included visiting the older members of the congregation. Some were still in their own homes, but most had moved to independent, assisted living or were in nursing homes. To help with my vocation, I took all the classes possible to ensure I could spot changes in behavior, physical failings, anything out of the ordinary, depression, change in eating habits, etc.

Several of the classes were on nutrition. A senior, living alone often does not have a very good appetite, sometimes does not recognize thirst, and who really loves or wants to cook for one? As we age, our tastes, habits, and routines change about a lot of things. They might go to bed much later than when they had to be at work by 7 before they retired. Now they’re waking up much later, which might play havoc with their prescriptions and eating habits. Plus they don’t seem to even like the same foods they have all their lives. What’s up with that?

Famous Iowa tradition. The Tavern…

I witnessed this whole food phenomenon with countless number of people I visited and my parents as they got older. The first food group that sort of gets shunned out of their lives is beef. (Hard for this beef fanatic to fathom, but we’ll get to that a bit later). Unless it was a super tender pot roast or something made with hamburger, beef just loses much of its appeal. Part is the taste, but also the texture, the chewy part. Also harder for their digestive system. Usually pork would be next to go, thus leaving chicken, fish and turkey if they craved protein at all. The last taste older folks give up is sweets. Yay! I’m right there with them on this one. And yes, I really am ‘one of them’ at least for sweets.

Crockpot Beef Stew…

All studies show red meat is not very good for us. I can truthfully say, I’ve noticed Hubs lack of bubbling beef enthusiasm lately already. A steak eater since he got his one year molars, we’ve enjoyed steak as part of our menu every week or 2 since we said I do. The last couple years, it’s rare (a bit of steak humor) for John to say, “let’s have steak tonight.” He just doesn’t crave steak like he used to. Yet, I find myself in daily arguments (with myself, it’s not always pretty) I still love and crave red meat. There, I readily admit another one of my many weaknesses and shortcomings. Last week I took out a sirloin for supper. Tossed salad, Texas toast and a pretty good sized hunk of meat for each of us. John had a dozen good sized bites he didn’t finish, unlike my plate which was empty. I did wait to lick the plate clean until I was around the corner. A side note, we’ve gotten just terrible about eating at the table lately. Maybe the last 5 years, the only time we eat at our table was for steak supper, or something that needed cutting or cracking like crab legs. OK the few times we have lobster or crab we still down and sup together at the tabke, but now, even for steak, we take out a cutting board, cut our steak in bite size pieces, then haul ass to the lazy boy chairs. We watch one recorded program while we eat. Not something gross cause well, we’re eating. Then I get up to clean the kitchen, make my lunch for work and do the dishes. I still do not fully understand why we’ve gotten this lazy about sitting by the table.

I use beef brisket for my canned meat a couple months ago…

Although it seems like a decade ago, the reality must be 3 or 4 years ago. Something happened to our cattle herds in the US. A sickness or wasting disease and thousands, maybe millions of the cows had to be destroyed. Causing the price of beef in the grocery store to skyrocket. My go-to bone in or boneless chuck roast that I use for my Vegetable Beef Barley soup, and stew meat which normally runs around $2.29 a pound was now costing over 6 bucks a pound. Outrageous. For soup meat! I fretted and ‘stewed’ over the lack of good old red meat in our freezer. My supply of home canned meat looked pretty meager, and I ran out months ago. For canned meat I buy 2 whole beef briskets which was way too expensive to buy 35 pounds. I trim off all the fat from the brisket, so there’s an awful lot of waste. Since then I’ve bought an occasional roast, stew meat when I was so hungry for comfort food I wanted to cry, but my beef consumption was lower than my mind and body was happy with. Finally a few months ago, beef prices started coming down to a more reasonable rate, making this retired gram a happy cook once again. I canned 20 quarts of spaghetti sauce and sixteen, 24 ounce jars of canned meat. My life and love with beef is good again.

Home canned beef, redskins, green beans, cranberry sauce & GRAVY…

I cook most nights, so every few days I head downstairs to our big meat freezer. It’s not unusual for me to take out 3 or 4 main course packages at a time. A couple of butterfly pork chops for the grill. A package of bite size beef pieces for crock pot beef stew. A package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts (see, I can be good) for Chicken Tortilla soup, and almost always a package of ground round or ground sirloin. Meatloaf, Beef Skillet Fiesta, chile, ground beef-potato casserole, meatballs w/ mashed potatoes, Taverns. Spaghetti, my favorite meal is not included in the aforementioned list because I can my own meat sauce. When I want spaghetti, I just bring up a quart jar. I would eat spaghetti once a week, then eat leftover spaghetti for the next 3 days, Hubs wants it maybe once a month. Sigh, my cross to bear. I routinely hide spaghetti leftovers in the fridge in case the unimaginable happened and John decided to eat some for lunch. Since he’s afflicted with a pitiful illness and cannot spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge, not a lot of thought has to go into my hiding process. Honest, my list of ground beef recipes is huge. I fight the urge not to have beef more than twice a week, because I love it and I am weak. Just when I think my menu is done and somewhat healthy, I remember GRAVY. Umm, hot roast beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and GRAVY. Or pot roast, carrots, potatoes and GRAVY. With a good sized portion of cranberry sauce. I really kind of dread the day (OK, except for the healthier life style and longevity) where a hunk of beef is not my top priority when dwelling on what to make for supper. With some of my lump-free, delicious GRAVY…

My home canned Spaghetti Sauce. My favorite meal…

Twenty-seven years ago. Hubs and I were on the cusp of something huge! Two biggies, actually. We were a few months away from becoming first time grandparents. Yikes, we were young. And we’d been gearing up mentally and emotionally for a difficult moment for months. No years, really. Why May 5? Well, I didn’t know it would be exactly the 5th, but had decided Tareyton’s had ruled this chick’s life long enough. Over half of my life at that point, about 25 years. I’m still convinced I was born to be a smoker.

Exquisite Ariana in 1992…

The 5th dawned like a perfect spring day. I warned John, “this is it!” From my last carton, down to my last pack, I had about 10 cigarettes left. Then we were quitting for good. I was worried about Hubs cough and so sick and tired of listening to him hack 24/7. Only one of us quitting was not the answer if this marriage was to continue on it’s merry path of longevity. I knew to ensure success we had to quit together. I nervously tried to space and enjoy my last day of smoking.

Pretty sure I was the only smoking cheerleader in RV, 1966…

It was odd the different way we smoked. Hubs was a nervous or unaware smoker. If he finished his meal before anyone else, he thought nothing of lighting up at the table. And he was not loyal to any brand. If he stopped at a store for smokes and they were out of what ever brand he was laying claim to that week, he’d just ask the clerk to hand him a pack of anything. No loyalty what-so-ever. He’d switch from Marlboro to some weird off brand menthol and not think anything of it. What kind of dedicated smoker does that? Freak. Where the heck were his taste buds? Probably dead or smoldering in purgatory after smoking 3 packs a day. Plus he smoked weird. He might be working on a project in the garage and light up a cigarette, only to realize he already had one lit and half gone in the ashtray. Me, on the other hand was more, this is my relaxation time. I made it a point to sit down somewhere, take a load off for ten minutes. And I was true to my brand of Tareyton’s until the day I quit. (I rarely ran out of cigarettes. If a 3 day blizzard was in the forecast 6 months down the pike, I was prepared. With enough Tareyton’s and food in the house for a small army. Although I’d happily cook and share any and all food, just try and snag one of my Tareyton’s and you’d likely be missing several digits off that offensive hand. If for some reason I was running low, I would have stopped at a dozen stores looking for my brand, rather than buy another. There was no switching brands gene in me. Hokey pete, I’d rather fight than switch.

Might have packed on a few pounds, 1997…

I don’t believe we even had a cordless phone yet. Plus my hearing was still spot on and I loved yakking on the phone. If the phone rang, I always wanted to be ready for a possible half hour conversation. Since I was born wearing a flannel shirt, I always kept my pack of Tareyton’s in my pocket. I’d tap my pocket as the phone was ringing to make sure my BFF (Tareyton is better-charcoal is why. I was a big supporter of the coal industry) were where they’re supposed to be for a possible long-haul call. My left boob suffered immeasureably after I quit smoking, getting smacked where my trusty pack of Tareyton’s resided for years. I should have bought a boob-pocket-protector.

We can smile again, 2000…

I calculated I would run out of Tareyton’s around supper time. Didn’t think about John’s numbers, but he sure was smoking a lot that day. Why? Because he cheated. He always smoked 3 cigarettes to my one. He knew he was gonna run out way before me so he snuck to the gas station. What a low down, lousy thing to do. I was so ticked, I could have popped him one in the nose when I realized he had bought another pack. Still, Hubs with a whole pack and me down to my last 5, we ended up running out about the same time. You seeing what I’ve had to deal with for 47 years?

Lip balm folks, not a Tareyton, 2003…

Some form of hell was in store for this mostly happily married couple after our last meal without a smoke for dessert. We were insufferable to each other for a big share of 1990. Insomnia was the worst side effect for me. It lasted for months. It was truly amazing however, how fast my sense of smell returned. Considering I never knew it was gone in the first place. It was like getting a dog’s sensitive nose for the first month. I could smell someone 4 houses away fart and tell you exactly what they had eaten. Kinda gross really. Not the best conversation starter at the block party either that summer. Neighbors all thought I was stalking them because I knew what they ate and if they were gassy, when I hadn’t seen them for 2 weeks. Along with my super sensitive sniffer, my lackluster taste buds started multiplying like backyard bunnies.

Not missing all those cartons of smokes much…

Yowsa, food tasted good after I quit. Everything tasted so good. And I ate it all. All the time. I don’t know if Hubs taste buds were on the same page as mine, although he ate with the same gusto as me. Since he had been a different smoker, he was a different quitter too. He needed something to do after he quit. Kind of a nervous quirk. Chewing gum became his drug of choice. I guess I should be happy he wasn’t chewing tobacco. You know the term ‘hangry?’ I think it’s when you’re hungry and angry at the same time. Or being hungry makes you angry. That was Hubs after he quit. He was hungry like me all the time, but angry too because he couldn’t smoke. He chewed gum (with gusto and very angrily) until the inside of his cheeks looked like raw hamburger. It would take months to break that nasty, painful habit. He even chewed gum when he drank a beer. Yuk. But he never had trouble sleeping at night like I did. So we both gained some unwanted pounds, me about 40 over the next 2 years. Took about that long for John to get rid of his horrible cough too. Still, one of the best things we ever did for ourselves and each other. Never realized how hard quitting would be for either of us. Just don’t see the ramifications when you’re young and dumb and start those deadly, expensive habits.

The year after we quit, we bought a hot tub with the money we would have spent on smokes as a bonus for a job well done. Finally. And we still celebrate our extra anniversary by going out for supper. That date has always been bittersweet for me. One of my dearest friends, Mary Ellen’s birthday was May 5. I did my very best to sweet talk, beg, cajole, tease, and plead with her to stop smoking. But she was never able to give up her life long addiction to smoking and died from lung related issues 4 years ago. I’d like to think she’d be very proud I’ve never fallen off the wagon since quitting that beautiful spring day in early May, 1990. Sadly, Mary Ellen, (biggest diehard Cub fan ever) never had the chance to watch our beloved Cubs win the World Series last November. I’m sure she watched it on the big screen with The Man upstairs. In the smoking section of course…

Mary Ellen about 1990…

I never realized the numerous changes that’s occured in child rearing until I started working in a daycare in 2016. Mind you, I’ve not given birth in closer to 4 decades than I’d like to admit. But still. Some things you know will just NEVER change. Until they’re seen as hopelessly outdated, antiquated and obsolete.

Let’s start with under shirts. As babies, Shannon and Joshua wore 2 different kinds. One was a pullover. All babies hate having anything pulled over their head. The other type was more expensive but easier to use and baby-friendly. It resembled a vest, but with short sleeves. There were usually 3 snaps, one underneath to help keep the shirt in place. Plus 2 with the material that overlapped the bottom snap. Dang that’s hard to explain. Harder to visulize I’m sure. Sorry. Baby under (t) shirts came in a wide range of colors and fabrics, as long as they were white. And cotton. Back in pre-historic times, ALL babies/toddlers/pre-schoolers/elementary kids/even bigger ones wore undershirts at least 6 or 8 months a year growing up in Iowa. Until they hit puberty. Or got their period.

With the modern invention of the onesie, mom’s all over the world now had time for another load of laundry, or whip up an extra course for their supper menu every day. Why? Because 47 minutes per day were saved by not having to tuck babies t-shirts in 153 times! Imagine, a t-shirt that stayed neat and tucked in by itself. Without velcro attached to their hides. I jest. Velcro had not yet been invented. We were still losing 38 minutes re-tying shoes 72 times. More on that in a minute. Adam, my last baby wore onesies. I could not believe how convenient and cute they were. And they came in pastel colors. Mint green, soft yellow, baby blue. Why? Because pregnant women didn’t know if they were having a boy or girl until those little parts were displayed and announced by the doctor. Your layette consisted of pastel, gender friendly one piece sleepers if you had a shower before the baby was born. While you were in the hospital after giving birth, that’s when you got girl or boy clothes. Nursery’s were usually done in soft pastels too.

Under shirts/onesies must not be considered a necessity anymore. Very few babies at daycare wear them, even during the winter. Just doesn’t seem right. I lay a baby down on the changing table (plastic covered foam), unsnap, unzip or tug down their sweats, skinny jeans (so cute) or sleeper. A little gasp escapes me when I spot their bare belly. Don’t they get the shivers? If wearing a shirt and knit pants, the crawler’s bellies are actually cold to the touch because their tummy is on the bare floor much of the time. The other extreme is what I nicknamed double onesie kids. Self-explanatory, they might have a long-sleeved onesie under a long-sleeved onsie. But most wear a sleeper, or just knit shirt and pants. And a diaper, maybe socks in the younger babies sleeper feet.

There once was a woman/wife/mom with no name (seriously), who never got credit for a pretty fantastic invention. Let’s call her Patience. She was going about her daily chores (cooking/cleaning/laundry/kiddos) when her (pretty famous) husband waltzes in through the door of the tent. “I’m almost done with the boat. The planer broke so the floor boards are full of splinters. Don’t tell me to buy a new one, there’s no time and I’m flat broke. Cost of living, inflation, the exorbitant cost of new power tools, everything’s so expensive. By the way, we have to be ready to go in a couple of days.” This little conversation almost made Patience lose hers. Not one to give Hubby any lip, Patience pondered what on earth she should do. Stuck on a boat for several months-with her flock of kids-(Hubs was not high on birth control either) and those bare little tootsies on that rough floor.

That night a bulb went off as she drifted to sleep. In the morning Patience put everything, packing food and clothes, forwarding their mail on the back burner. She now had one (sole) purpose. Inventing white leather high-top baby shoes before breaking that bottle of champange on the bow of boat. Using only the best leather, she fashioned each one of her kids under 5 custom white high-tops. FYI, 2 of her children would become rather well known in their own rights. Shem joined a vaudeville act after adding a ‘p’ (after his dear mum) at the end of his name. Middle kid started ‘acting out’ in high school, but in a positive light and was deemed ‘the class clown’ or Ham. Patience used white leather because cheap white shoe polish was readily available and she signed an exclusive deal for 20% of the profits for 99 years). Patience was very proud of herself. She wanted to gloat/mass market/advertise/patent (oh good heavens, another light bulb-‘patent’ leather shoes for the Sabbath) but now she was seriously behind with her chores and the clock was ticking. OK, sundial. Whatever.

The skies were definitely clouding up. A frown crossed her brow and she bit her lower lip, deep in thought. Something was troubling Patience. What was it? Bingo. The animals. That’s it! Why did I make the bottoms of the shoes leather? I should have used something grippy like a Vibram sole. Shoot, no time to invent that before the floodgates open. The kids will surely slip and slide through all the pig-horse-cow-zebra-antelope-lion-unicorn-bear-pigeon (I’m gonna stop here, you know where this is going) poop. Another time-sucking trip to Walgreens for stupid white tape that hold bandages in place for big boo-boos. Patience carefully placed white tape strips on the bottoms of her dozen pair of assorted sized white high-top shoes. There, that ought to do it. From what I’ve learned reading this interesting piece of history, Patience’ husband was very impressed with her cleverness. Her hand stitching would have won a blue ribbon at the fair, except for the Weather Channel’s (on the 8’s) forboding indication of impending rain. Heavy at times. And now you Noah the rest of the story.

This was a tried and true tradition for thousands of years. As a new mom, I never gave baby shoes a second thought. Everybody knew when your baby wore white high-tops for the first couple of years, they would certainly be less likely to suffer from foot issues as adults. Duh. Now just a few decades later, white high-tops are not what’s used to help babies master the art of walking. Glimmer, glitz, sparkles, velcro, and Nike are all the rage to adorn your babies feet.

If the babies wear shoes at all. Most don’t. They do wear socks which stay on for about 10 seconds. Lots of problems with babies and their socks. It seems to be their yummiest chew toy. They all like to chew on their own or other baby’s socks. This is a favorite baby past time. We pick up wet, soggy socks off the floor constantly. Plunk them on a heat register to dry, then they’re hard as little bricks from the spit. For the older babies, slipping their socks off helps with self-preservation. As they develop and start trying new things, pulling themselves up, standing, (or clinging to your leg when you’re standing, holding someone, my fave) or start walking around furniture, it’s down right dangerous when they’re wearing socks. Socks cause more slips, slides, spills and splits than you can imagine. Everyday.

The safety of infants is tatamount these days. It’s not that we didn’t care deeply for our children, but raising them was a little more loosey-goosey. Hubs and I were just talking about a trip we took to Minneapolis in 1979. We went with John’s sister Elly and her husband Dewey to antique and see a Viking’s game. Shannon 8, Joshua 4-1/2 stayed with my folks, but Adam was 6 weeks old. And the only baby I nursed. So leaving him was out of the question. Dewey drove a 1972 Chevy Caprice station wagon which is the approximate size of the house we now own. We put our bassinet in the back of the station wagon and Adam slept in it. All the way from Iowa to Minnesota. On his belly. Oh boy. Adam’s our only kid who had a car seat (and I use that term loosely). It reminded me of one of those old time carnival rides. Remember the swing ride? Like a safety swing at the park with a bar across your middle, a rod in between your legs so he wouldn’t slide out. And it had 2 big u-shaped hooks that went over the seat. Of course it went in the middle of the front seat. How else could you keep an eye on him or take him out to feed or change him while Hubs was tooling down the road at 60 or 70? I didn’t think we took any big chances with our kids when they were small. But they rode bikes, skate boards, and roller skates without helmets or pads. They rode in our cars and trucks unemcumbered by any safety measures. Sometimes laying in the back window or the bed of the truck. Amazingly, all three lived through their perilous childhoods and continue to thrive…

For your daily smile. Jovi, 4 months at bath time, just because…

Hubs handed me a purse-sized calendar he got in the mail a few days ago. “You want this or I’m pitching it?” Although I have calendars on my iPhone and iPad, there’s something about glancing at a whole month’s worth of days at one time. On real paper. Like books and magazines, the way God intended. Yes, I’m hopelessly out of touch. Guess I prefer it that way. A FB friend recently put up a thorny post about waiting behind someone in line who was using a debit card. One of the comments was, “I was just behind someone WHO WROTE A CHECK! Are we back in the stone age?” Yup, I still write checks.

Antiquated and obsolete and still used by me…

I might have blushed (in shame) as I was reading his post. It got worse. His next comment was something like, “let me guess, it was a senior citizen?” Geez, guilty as charged. But why do I feel guilt? When reading the news on your tablet noting 42 million people were hacked using their card in Target-what’s the majority of your private information stolen from? Debit cards. Enough on this rant, back to my love of new paper calendars, even if it’s May already.

This free calendar is actually from a worthwhile organization called the DAV, Disabled American Veterans, and I probably should send them a donation. But then I’ll be forever hounded with multiple daily mailings begging for more. Skeptical, callous creature that I am. Calendar oddity # 1, the first month on it is April, 2017. The DAV is up to date on its mailings, I’ll give them that. There’s a row of pretty backyard birds on the bottom of each month, though all the months have the same picture. But it was the small blank rectangular spot randonly placed on each month that caught my eye. And got me reminiscing. On each month’s top were a few words. OK I’m game. Let’s play.

April-“My most memorable childhood friend.” Well, start me off with a no-brainer. Charlene Faye Schelhaas Bay Jackson. What a mouthful! One of the cutest, sweetest, most talented, down-to-earth girls in Rock Valley. She was everything I was not. Coming from a large, happy family. Again, the opposite of me. Normally, I didn’t invite scads of girls to my house. It was just too quiet after Larry died. I preferred going to my friend’s homes because there were sibs, commotion, energy, lots of noisy life. But Char spent quite a bit of time at my house and was included when we went out for supper on Saturday nights, day shopping trips, even vacations. Though their family was much bigger than ours, often times I was included (happily, I’d like to believe) when their family went fishing at Lake Benton, Minnesota. And I was always invited to Char’s house on Sunday nights. There would be about a dozen people around the supper table because Char’s oldest sister, Audrey was married with children and lived a few miles away. I remember Char’s mom, Esther made her mashed potatoes with a mixer, something my Mom never did. Oh, Mom made mashed potatoes, but always used a masher. Just like I do now. But I do remember Esther’s ultra smooth Sunday night potatoes. There wasn’t a lot of dawdling time. The kitchen needed cleaning, dishes had to be done, because we were expected back at church for the evening service. Many of my fondest childhood memories included this wonderful family.

Char, forgotten girl from Canton & me about 1962…

May-“My most memorable time spent with my Mother.” Around 1985 Mom and I went to Chicago for a few days to watch some Cubs games during a long home stand. As I recall, not a cross word was spoken by either of us. Two things instantly popped in my head about the trip. First was a rather foolish decision to ride the El to the end of the line from where we were staying on the Northside, heading south. Way south. At night. We were fine, but it was a little scary at the time. The second was a fabulous afternoon (all Cub games were held in the fabulous afternoons back then) at Wrigley Field. The weather was perfect, the Cubs were winning (think we might have just recently acquired Sandberg, Sutcliffe, Durham, Eckersley, and were almost kinda good). The 2 dudes sitting next to Mom were smoking pot (remember the year here, this was a heinous crime-ha-ha) and she asked me what that funny smell was? OH MY WORD! PRICELESS! She wanted to call the cops. Good times Mom.

Mom looking pretty around 1985…

June-“My favorite summertime memory.” The luxury and blessing of small town living. I could ride my bike anywhere in Rock Valley (except Hi-way 18, where my brother had been struck and killed while riding his bike). That feeling of complete freedom was unsurpassed. Wow.

July-“My favorite place to watch fireworks.” North Muskegon, hands down. We enjoyed the city’s fireworks every 4th of July but for a couple years during the late 90’s, the American Pyrotechnics Association came to town. With a BOOM. We lived on Muskegon Lake. This freaky-lit-up-group would set up on a barge in the lake for several days, right across from our house. Near a park called Heritage Landing. Testing and trying out new complicated pyrotechnic shows. Which we enjoyed. Free. They were supposed to be done by 11 each night, but in the Eastern time zone during July, darkness doesn’t come early, so they always went past the time limit. You’d hear car alarms going off, the windows in our house would shake and rattle. And you’d witness fireworks that made New York envious. The APA wanted to utilize the Muskegon area every year, but the local politicians got involved. One year ‘the city’ wouldn’t issue the APA their needed permit in time, so they went elsewhere and never came back. With them flew hundreds of thousands of dollars in tourist money. So dumb.

Fireworks across Muskegon Lake. See how the lights shimmered right to our backyard…

August-“My favorite way to cool off in the summertime.” The best ‘cee-ment pond’ in the world. The Rock Valley Community Swimming Pool. Doc Hegg was instrumental in city’s process to build a pool, I think it was around 1960. As opposed to the poopy pit (though I remember loving it at the time) we were using. Two diving boards, shallow and deep end, separate baby pool, showers, rental baskets, season pass, snack counter, lifeguards. It was all good. Life guards who seemed to sit so high they almost reached heaven. Once in a while I dared climb the lowest wrung of the life guard’s chair to say ‘hi’ to Tom Manning. He was polite, but really no-nonsense while watching all the patrons in the pool. He was more apt to chat or tease me as he walked when he was done working or on a break.

September-“My most memorable school teacher.” This is a tie. The best teacher was Mrs.Torkelson in junior high (when I still cared about grades). She managed to make the term, ‘conjugating verbs’ fun. Yup, she was a miracle worker. My favorite teacher though was Mrs. Ver Hoef in second grade. Tough year for this little girl after losing Larry. Maybe to her, I was just a kid who needed a bit more attention that year, but to me she was almost a savior. Funny that I should be writing about Myrna on May 2nd. Rock Valley kids celebrated May Day, when about 99% of the population was Dutch. Bringing May Baskets is a Russian tradition but most of Rock Valley’s children in the 50’s and 60’s happily adopted this tradition. May Day of 1959, Mom went out of her way to make and help deliver beautiful, tasty baskets. The object was to deliver by being sneaky. Then you run away without getting caught. Mrs. Ver Hoef ran out of her house, caught me and gave me a big kiss. Highlight of that year.

Myrna Ver Hoef and me in Yuma Arizona, Feb. 2017..

October-“My fondest memory of autumn.” When I was younger, it was going to Halloween parties at school, because they were in the early evening. Bobbing for apples, games with our classmates. After the party, we’d go all over town trick or treating. No pins or razor blades, no x-raying of treats, and most of the treats were homemade. As I got older, it would be the Bonfire, Parade, Homecoming dance and football games.

November-“Favorite place to spend the holidays.” My house, with all the kids and grandkids here for a turkey dinner (Thanksgiving-Christmas-Easter) with all the fixins. Odd as it was, for quite a few years Mom, Dad and I went out for Thanksgiving Dinner in Sioux Falls. And I never thought it was that unusual, but realized not many of the families I knew went to a resataurant for holiday meals.

December-“My most memorable gift.” Have to say my diamond ring. When Hubs and I eloped (with nary a dime in our pockets) we had pretty plain wedding bands that would serve us for about the first 15 years. All the serpentine was wearing off so we brought them to a jeweler to have redone. He butchered them, so we wore nothing for a few years. Around year 20, John sprung for a nice-little-over-a-carat-brilliant-cut-on-a-wide-band which has served me ever since.

Still like yellow gold, one more telling thing on my advancing age…

January-“My most memorable winter activity.” This is a joke right? Nothing. I repeat, nothing. Winter is about as wonderful, well there is nothing wonderful about winter. I didn’t even like it as a kid. Guess winter blizzards got me out of some days at school. Yeah, there was that.

February-“My most memorable Valentine’s Day.” Oh boy. Not going to be something sappy or very romantic, but it was memorable. The year was about 1999. Hubs had a hundred dollar Christmas gift card burning a hole (in my pocket). Adam was about 20 and had a date, so we brought them along to this fancy restaurant called Rafferty’s. It was right on the water, across the Lake from our house. I had made the reservation weeks ahead of time. It was snowing, cold and windy (surprise-surprise) and Friday or Saturday night if memory serves. Should have known better. John drops us off because he has to park far, far away. The place is packed, people milling around waiting to be seated. After we’re seated, and have perused the menu long enough to memorize it, a waiter takes our order. Our object here is to use up as much of the card as we can. I opt for prime rib, John chose the biggest porterhouse on the menu. What the love birds ordered I haven’t a clue. The place is short on help and long on customers. Our order finally arrives. There’s a slight problem. John’s whopper of a porterhouse has a filet part the size of a DIME. And the steak is much too done for his medium rare tastes. He sends it back, hoping for a normal looking rare steak the next time around. The rest of us have about 3 bites left on our plates when Hubs gets his second porterhouse. This time the dime size filet has disappeared completely. John loses it. Completely. Refuses it, says he doesn’t want anything to eat. The waiter takes the non-porterhouse off our bill and we snake our way through the throng of people. Hubs is furious. Luckily for him, the owner (a real Payne-yup that was his name) is running the register. Payne gets an earful on his slow service, less than quality meat, over-booking and possibly the bad weather. Payne too has had his fill of unhappy customers and SWEARS at John. A lot. By now, the waiting room and half the restaurant is privy to this sweet evening’s conversation. To top it off, since there was no big-ass expensive porterhouse on the bill, we still have credit. Payne will not give Hubs the leftover 25 plus dollars, instead issues another gift card. John explains it will be a cold day in hell before he ever steps foot in this shithole again. In a huff, he throws the gift card on the floor and stomps on it. I slink out the door, wisely tugging on John’s arm or someone will need the cops or an ambulance. Or both. Adam and his date follow us. But not before Adam retrieves the gift card off the floor. Another free supper for them.

Holly & Adam…

March-“My fondest memory of springtime.” Winter’s over. Thanks God. Crocus, lily’s of the valley are blooming. My legs are getting brown. Fragrant lilacs which remind me of Larry. It’s what I always brought him at the cemetary when we lived in Iowa…

Larry about 3 in 1949…

As a kid, I honestly thought I’d never pray when I grew up. There was no need, and I was already up to my eyeballs in prayers. After we lost Larry, Dad had a transformation. He accepted Jesus as his Savior, and just as suddenly, his, Mom’s and my life changed. Every facet of Dad’s life now included how to better serve the Lord. Reflecting back, it was quite amazing to witness how different Dad patterned his life after giving it to Jesus. Though I was only 8 years old, it was impossible not to notice.

Dad taught Shannon how to pray by age 2, 1972…

One of the most noticeable changes for me was at the supper table. We always ate together and talked about what happened throughout the day, but much of that stopped after Larry died. Small talk seemed unimportant. In their grief, Mom and Dad remained quiet during meals, and it was up to me to keep the conversation going while we ate. But it was the before and after meal time that really took a 180 in our house.

Dad prayed aloud before we ate. After we were through eating, he’d read us a chapter or 2 from the bible, then pray again. This after supper prayer was much like Oral Roberts prayers at one of his healing Revivals during the 60’s. Or the long prayer after the sermon at my Christian Reformed Church as a kid. And I do mean LONG. At our supper table my mind would wander until I heard the words, “this we ask in Jesus’ name, who taught us, Our Father who art in heaven.” And we’d recite the Lord’s prayer together. Back then we always said, “forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors,” like they did in church. The recent churches I’ve attended say, “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Still, doesn’t sound right to me.

I’ve not been a good sleeper for 20 years. If it’s a work day, my phone alarm is set to an oddball time. I like sequential numbers, so if I have to work at 7, the alarm is set for 4:56. If I have to be there at 6:30, I set it for 4:32. I’m weird, you already know that. The point is, my alarm goes off once about once a month. I’m almost always awake before it goes off. As I start rubbing my eyes, I thank God for letting me wake up for another day here on earth. He’s not done with me yet and I’m grateful. Ah, the legs are working fine, no pain in the knee and I gotta pee. More reasons to give thanks. I pad my way into the kitchen, flip on the coffeemaker, stop in the spare bedroom for my work clothes and bath towel. Cautiously move to our beautiful bathroom and close my eyes halfway. No, not prayers this time. My only mistake in our complete bathroom remodel. There’s a pretty light fixture above the medicine cabinet, plus a light/exhaust on the ceiling. Both lights go on with the flip of one switch, the exhaust fan is separate. I should have asked the contractor for separate switches for each light. It’s just way too bright at 5 a.m. It takes me a minute to adjust. My step in shower is awesome and I squeegy every square inch of the tile and shower doors I can reach when I’m done.

Dad & me in our one trip camper, prayers included, 1962…

I may think it’s keen to wake up before the crack of dawn, but I’m not completely sold on the idea of showering, getting dressed and heading out the door before it’s light. I like getting up, but not necessarily having to be anywhere that early. But I like my hours and prefer getting home by 1:30. A quick prayer (grant me patience Lord) before I walk in the infant room. Very little noise (so far), only 1 or 2 tiny tots. Basically, I ooze patience with the babies. Only time I get a little flustered occurs sometime around noon. Most everyone is hungry and hangry. The noise level is up a couple of notches, the 4 high chairs are full, the younger babies all want their bottles RIGHT NOW. Add a blow out diaper, spit up on the floor, a ding on someone’s head from a rattle, and for a couple minutes, the bottle babies have to wait. None of these little stinkers prayed for patience before Mommy lugged them in the door. I asked.

Dad, Mom, me & pregnant Mona in Canton, SD, 1961…

There’s a strange phenomenon that happens almost daily in the baby room. We call it ‘happy hour,’ though no margaritas are served. Bummer. Sometime during the day, when you least expect it, the room goes completely silent. The babies seem to realize this before we do. They glance around a bit befuddled, a tad anxious. Each one looks accusingly at the tot next to them with this, “what’s up with you? Isn’t it your turn to crank up the noise quotient? Hey you, time to take one for the team!” We’ve timed this over a month period and on average, our heavenly quiet time lasts about 28.3 seconds, (every stinking second, very precious), give or take a errant squawk. We never know when this is going to happen, there’s never any warning, and I find myself devastated if it’s after I’ve gone home. How could they betray me like this?

Looking good Dad, 1973…

Just as amazing is how much adult conversation can be squeezed into 28.3 seconds. You’d think we’d enjoy the silence, and we do, but even more rare is conversation that’s not above 3 babies crying. Those are a combination of written notes, sign language, and reading of lips. During happy hour one day last week, I was recalling the month of April last year. I could hardly walk, my left knee had a goose egg size lump, the cause had not been determined. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had pneumonia, a first for me. I believe it took 5 office visits, 4 prescriptions, breathing treatments, and 6 weeks to stop sounding like Myron Floren’s accordion on Lawrence Welk. The cough, even longer. That’s about the sickest I’ve ever been. So a quick prayer of thanks for my good health of late.

Dad reading a story book to Shannon 2, 1972…

We don’t wear street shoes in the infant room. Just not a good idea. Some of the gals go barefoot, most wear socks or slippers. I bought a pair of soft Sketchers and just leave them in the baby room. So my shoes are on the outside by the door, going into the hallway. After I punch out, slip off my room shoes, close the door, my prayer is one of many thanks for a great day with the babies. Nobody got hurt on my watch. A good day indeed.

Dad, Joshua & Shannon in RV, 1976…

We are a family of drivers. John and I not so much anymore, but the rest of the clan spend a good deal of time in their cars. On I 94. Busy, busy with gobs of semi’s. Thoughout the day, I’m asking God for traveling mercies. Next on my list of worries is someone getting seriously ill. Me, Hubs or a family member. Thankfully, we’ve been very blessed with good health. That prayer usually comes before I fall asleep. So this recent acknowledgement of my daily prayers. How often I talk to God. Really kind of blows me away. Pretty sure it has a lot to do with my age and increasing faith and acceptance of what comes next. I hope I’m not judged by the quantity and length of my prayers like Dad’s or I’m royally screwed. But rather, the frequency and sincerity of our short conversations together during the day. Then I’m in like Flint. Sorry God, I believe this might be considered ‘spuuting’ (Dutch slang for making light or fun of religion and God)…

Think I might be near the finish line resolving an issue that’s been bothering me for 5 years. Quite an amazing feat since my list of irritants rambles on like the side effects of the latest and greatest drug commercial. Twenty seconds how this new wonder drug will cure everything that ails you. Followed by 90 seconds of stern warnings: buyer beware, taking this medication may cause deep depression-or worse. Yikes.

Someone actually got a picture of me by Lake Michigan…

Around 2012, my beloved job as Parish Visitor (visiting the homebound, nursing homes, and assisted living facilities) was starting to taking a toll. The deaths of these dear folks were mounting faster than I could grieve and process them, averaging about one a month. Top it off, I was working for a less than ideal boss, the 4th in a row. Let’s just leave it at that. There might be some issues I’ve yet to work through, but this is progress. See, I’m making great strides.

Charlie & Opal, a couple I visited for years…

John had retired a couple of years before, and I was ready to join the ranks. But that decision brought more questions than answers. The rest of our family were grouped near the eastern side of the state, but Hubs and I were on the west coast of Michigan. In a 2 story home, on a lake. In essence, our house was the only thing holding us there. Easy-peasy, sell the house and move closer to the kids. Hold on there little doggie. This is where the irritant became a full-fledged allergic reaction. Our nice house, on a cool lake, in a snooty town, would not sell.

Three long years. 3. I still don’t know why. We had serious lookers, offers, but deals fell through. After a 6 month hiccup with an awful realtor, we hired Mary Jamison, a go-getter extroadinaire. Can’t fault her for one solitary thing, yet it took 2 more years to find the right buyer. During this time, I grew to hate the house. The nicest house I’ve ever lived in or owned. No longer enjoyed the lake view, the town or area. I just didn’t want to be there anymore. But I was stuck. And miserable.

You remember the story about the gal I grew really close to after her husband passed away in 2005? It’s called, The Name Game, March 2015, if you want to read it, but here’s a short recap. Kent (his real name was Raymond) finally got released from a long stint in a local hospital. The preacher and chaplain visited him there regularly, but when he got home, he was added to my parish visitor list. I was shocked to meet him and his wife Joann, (her real name-Marilyn) because they weren’t much older than me! Sometimes you have a special connection with certain folks, Kent was one of mine. After Kent passed away, Joann and I became really close friends. We both are positive Kent was pleased and proud to be the conduit bringing us together. Jo (not enough to be Joann, alias-Marilyn, then I had to go and shorten her name) and I met 2 or 3 times a week, most often for breakfast, sometimes lunch. She had been Kent’s caregiver for several years and her grief was enormous after 47 years of marriage.

Raymond alias Kent in his prime…

Jo and I met at eating places near my visiting area for the day. Chili’s, Bob Evans, Steak ‘N Egger, Toast ‘N Jams, or we’d pick up Jimmy Johns sandwiches, head down to the Ovals. Watch Lake Michigan waves, one of my favorite things to do. Pretty much became regulars at these restaurants. We frequented Chili’s and Toast ‘N Jams most often because the bulk of folks I visited were in this neighborhood, so we got to know the staff.

I have not gone back very often since we moved away. I was so happy to finish that chapter, that whole section of my life still tasted very bitter. I am able to hold a grudge, real or imagined for eternity it seems. It surely was not the fault of a house, small town, or large area that caused my house to stall when trying to sell. Yet somehow I blamed all 3 for exactly that. Put them in my dislike box.

Hubs was heading up north for the weekend about a month ago. I was planning on taking a Saturday class at Baker College on caregiving for infants. But I procrastinated too long. I called the day before the deadline, but the gal in charge was off. I left a message, stating my class preferences. She, in turn left a message for me the following day. Sorry, the class is already full, try again next year. Shoot. I decided if Jo was not busy for the weekend, I’d go to Muskegon for a visit.

A gorgeous view, but not missing it…

Jo did not have plans and seemed thrilled at the prospect of a weekend freeloader. (She’s really a wonderful friend). I was leaving after work, and needed to stop in Grand Rapids on the way to Muskegon, so warned her it would be at least 7 before I’d show up. If that was too late to go out for supper together, I was fine with stopping somewhere for a quick sandwich, but she assured me it would be great to get a pizza somewhere after I got to town. The destination causing this hold up? Vander Veen’s Dutch Store. Since it’s Dutch, definitely not open on Sunday, the only other time I would be driving through Grand Rapids. A neat little gem of a store. The walls are loaded with Blue Delft pieces, open weaved laces, and bold colored tulip and windmill themed dish towels. Dutch peppermints, licorce, milk chocolate letters, and bobalars line the shelves. Dried beef, assorted meats, cheeses in the meat case. A small stand alone freezer with Almond Patties and Pigs in the Blanket from Casey’s Bakery in Sioux Center, Iowa! Huh? I’ve lived in Michigan 30 years and discovered this place 1 year ago. Woe is me. Look at the time (note: Almond Patties and Dried Beef) I could have been eating regularly.

These little buggers were so hard to find…

But I did not need dried beef or almond patties. The goal of this out-of-my-way-store this time was the lowly pea. Not a snow, snap, fresh, pod, sugar, black eyed, or split. I needed peas. Whole dried peas. Hubs and I were hungry for pea soup, and there was a hunk of ham in the freezer just waiting to simmer and fall off the bone. But I’d been unable to find whole dried peas. Meijer (the store usually able to fill all my baking, canning, cooking needs) only sells split dried peas. I don’t know how anyone else makes pea soup, (or if anyone else does. Not one of my kids will eat it), but in the Gerritson household when I was a kid, Mom used 1 pound of whole, dried peas that she had soaked over night. Added about 3 ounces of split peas, otherwise it got too mushy according to her.

Hard to describe the taste, but I love this hard candy…

Shannon’s answer for this dilema, “buy them online Mom.” I looked, but shipping cost 3 times more than the peas. And no, I don’t have or want Amazon prime because I hardly ever shop online. That’s why God made cars and malls. I might be too tight to pay shipping costs it would seem. So the tasty ham bone got comfy in the freezer while I figured out how and where to find whole dried peas. I was pretty sure The Dutch Store carried them. They did so I bought 6 pounds. I use 2 pounds each time. Westward-ho.

Banana Taffy, my favorite…

After hauling in my stuff from the car, Jo and I headed for Bernio’s Pizza in North Muskegon. A local pizza pub that’s gotten some national recognition for one of their signature pizzas. Neither Jo nor I have ever tried it. We aren’s very adventuresome when it comes to food. Or trying new things. Drove past my old house as it was getting dark and waited for that pang of homesickness to wave over me. That didn’t happen either. I did feel nostalgic and lonesome for a couple of my former neighbors. Pam was recently widowed and I still felt her deep hurt. And I do miss Dale and Carol. They had changed siding on their beautiful home since we moved. How I missed watching them in their yard. They love yard work, which is so not me. Hard to believe there are really people like that in the world. Religiously, diligently tend to their gorgeous perennials. Kind of like watching ‘whack a mole’ through the summer. Bam, another flower group is blooming. Bam, then another. Carol sits on the ground for hours pulling weed culprits out of her lovely groupings. Like spent cartridges flying out of an automatic gun, rat-a-tat-tat. Dale hovering behind her with the waste can picking up all the empty shells. Yup, I really miss watching and visiting them. But not my old house. OK, maybe one thing. Mary Jane just got back to Iowa after wintering in Arizona. Wrote me a note and said she and Les have been using their fireplace every night since they got back. I really miss my wood fireplace. That is all.

Saturday dawns and I’ve got an agenda. But first we hit one of our favorite breakfast spots, Steak ‘N Egger, which Jo informed me has changed hands. Seems Toast ‘N Jams bought the restaurant a few months ago, but maintains the original name. It’s early for a Saturday, about 8:30 and they’re not very busy. We are about to be shown to our booth when a familiar girl comes up to greet us. “Hi guys, it’s so great to see you again. Two over medium, 2 over hard, right? One with sausage patties, well done. Wheat toast, light butter. Two coffees and ice water, right?” For a second, Jo and I just stood there. Looking dumb. (Not as much of a stretch as you might think). It was Carrie, our old (but young) waitress from Toast ‘N Jams. She waited on us for years. She remembered our exact order, even to the point we always shared an order of sausage. Carrie’s son was in the terrible 2’s then. (Now he wants a car). Later Carrie got pregnant with her daughter, who’s now about 10. Carrie (the owner’s daughter) said she was just helping out for a couple of days, gave us each a quick hug and hurried back to her station. A couple minutes later, Carrie wandered back one more time. “You guys crack me up. You’re so cute.” (A BIG stretch) “You even sit in the booth the same way you did years ago!” Well that deserved an explanation. I always slide into a booth with my left ear (the worse one for my profound hearing loss) towards the wall, in hopes I can make out what the waitress is trying to convey on my right. Usually though I give a blank stare and my booth buddy says, “she wants to know how everything tastes?”

Oh the places we will go. McDonald’s Candy for starters. Best taffy (banana for me), Bobalars (Dutch candy, a fraction what The Dutch Store charges, for me and Shannon). Anise candy for Landon, good chocolate for Peyton, some sugar free for the Hubs. Ride around the Lake. It’s very windy, but the waves on the west side are puny. I don’t know if this area has a special name but it’s kind of in back of Dockers Restaurant and those lovely condo units. Nice whitecaps and crazy guys in wetsuits (it’s rainy, windy and cold) are wind surfing and jumping waves like lunatics. They did not venture out very deep, just kept going fast, back and forth along the shoreline. You don’t see this too often on Lake Michigan and I really enjoyed watching. Shopped at The Lakes Mall for a couple hours, then tried to squeeze in the best burger in town at The Station Grill before it got Saturday night busy. Who am I trying to kid? They’re always busy. And my downfall at The Station are their homemade Texas potato chips. We only had to wait a few minutes and the food was scrumptious! A late night of catching up on families with Jo. Soon it was Sunday morning and time for me to head back home. Toast ‘N Jams for breakfast for old times sake before I left.

One of our favorite spots to enjoy breakfast…

But it was my cute little waitress (with the amazing memory) who made my weekend and altered my negative view of my life in west Michigan for the last few years. She really ‘tipped’ the scales in a positive way. Thanks Carrie…

It’s not something I partake in often. Once Pioneer High School’s basketball season is done, I’m pretty much done too. Landon (Drew-t-t-r-o-t-w) dives head first into AAU ball (Amateur Athletic Union). A traveling basketball league located in many major cities with tournaments almost every weekend. I believe they start around 4th grade, but the group participating in the tourney’s we’ve attended are 15, 16 & 17 year olds.

Landon cleans up nicely for his emcee gig for Black History month…

Distance is one of the main reasons this grandma sits home weekends waiting for texts on how his team is faring. Ok, mostly how Landon’s doing. Money too. Those weekend jaunts are stinking expensive. Not only motels, restaurants, tourney tickets, (thanks BTW Shannon for buying ours this weekend), but most are held very far away, like California far. There are 2 however that are relatively close, one of which was this weekend in Grand Rapids. Probably 75 miles away now. So off we went Friday afternoon.

Warmups with uniform shorts that would fit Goliath. Landon is in the gray t-shirt…

Friday happened to be Peyton’s 13th birthday too. Was she thrilled to be headed for a weekend of watching her brother play endless basketball? Umm, not so much, but mom upped the ante to make it extra-special. Invited PJ’s bestie, Naydia along for a weekend of treats, swimming, shopping and late night slumber parties in the hotel. First stop was in Lansing for mile high frosted cupcakes from Gigi’s. Next Lansing Mall, then Skyzone. Supper after the first game in Grand Rapids at The Melting Pot. A fondue meal. Are you kidding me? That’s still a thing? When Shannon mentioned half these plans to me, I quickly said we were staying at a different hotel. Made me tired just thinking all they manage to squeeze in. (Besides we stayed at a Country Inns and Suites last year which is about a block from the Field House where most of the games are played). Plus the girls made a trip to Rivertown Crossing Mall. They just go and go. Then go some more.

Peyton and Tracey at daddy-daughter dance last month…

Back to basketball. The first couple of games determines where you’ll be seeded in the tourney. Landon’s whole team and coach are new to him. He’s played with most of the same kids and had the same coach for 2 years. So everything was different for him (and us). These games are pretty brutal compared to high school. Not very many fouls are called. A little bit loosey-goosey. The games are 32 minutes long, divided in halves, not quarters. With 3 minute half times. Holy Hannah, let me tell you, they play hard! The first game was a yawner, point wise, but it was kind of like watching an awkward teen couple on their first date. Starting point guard with a new team of kids and a coach who might have heard some good things about you, but really doesn’t know you. (Getting to know you, getting to know all about you). It was interesting to watch the weekend progress. How the coach and Landon became better acquainted with each other, their play style and the rest of the team.

Warmups-again…

So in a little over 40 hours Landon played 7 basketball games, starting at 7:30 Friday night. Each game takes about an hour. Thank heavens we weren’t subjected to any 10:30 p.m. games or the equally obnoxious 8 a.m. ones. Talk about brutal. None of those boys look good at 8 a.m. Not a one. Sorry Landon. (Staying up late, playing video games, goofing off, eating (grazing) constantly probably doesn’t help). Once seeding is done, the tourney starts and it’s one loss and you’re out. The Family played 3 games on Saturday, each from a couple to 4 hours apart. Won all three by about 20 points each time, Landon scoring about 15 per game, but playing more minutes every game. Ah, the coach was paying attention.

Keeping stats in my own unusual style…

The only halfway close game they played was Sunday morning. We won 56-51. Landon played the entire game and scored 18. Not his highest game total for the weekend but maybe his best game. Toss up, I guess. He had 21 points on Saturday morning and played only 22 minutes. He must be a morning person like his Gram.

Tracey was a no-show for most of the weekend. He anticipated being back in Michigan Saturday afternoon. He had a school function which included flying to New Orleans on Thursday to watch Pioneer’s orchestra perform twice on Friday. His weekend peaked when all his flights back home were canceled. Not a happy camper. He did manage to get a flight to Chicago on Sunday morning, then flew into Lansing, where he rented a car, ydrove to Grand Rapids. Just in time to watch Landon play the second half of one game, before the championship game. Which was anticlimactic. And a little bit awkward like that first game (date) Friday night.

Someone convinced John we needed T-shirts…

The championship game was between Landon’s new team, The Family and Ken, his former coach with King James Shooting Stars. Remember how disappointed I was towards the end of last year? Ken was out to lunch the whole last half. Don’t know what was going on in his life but I truly thought he was burned out and needed to retire. Obviously he didn’t and bounced back I guess. I didn’t recognize one player on Ken’s team, so everyone is new. The game wasn’t a blowout, but we were consistently staying ahead by 6 to 10 points for the most part when Landon broke his finger. Bummer. Of course he refused to come out of the game but his shooting was pretty much done. He did keep his team on that ‘even keel’ thing he does when he runs the floor. Since I’ve yet to learn any of his teammates names, I can’t tell you who the kid is, but # 11 for The Family shot the freaking lights out. The final score was 70-60. He must have had 30 points-at least.

Coach w/ trophy, Landon wearing 0 instead of #3 this season…

I’m wondering about the next tournament Gram can attend? Shannon said The Family is playing in a tourney in Detroit this year so that’s close and a must see. Plus the one in Fort Wayne. You should see the size of that field house. Has at least 8 or 10 courts. But I’m also ready for a couple weekends at home.

I’m bushed and glad to be back home. Got to gear up for a new week of a dozen babies. But the rest of the family is still going this Sunday night. Shannon’s taking Landon to the ER to have his crooked finger worked on. John’s driving Tracey to Detroit Metro to pick up his car. Naydia’s back home and Peyton’s ecstatic to be done with basketball for a few days. By game 7 she and her BFF were all out of bubbling enthusiasm. For sure…

We are SO done with this. Peyton & Naydia by Sunday afternoon…

I warned Ariana over and over. Carefully explaining the last month of pregnancy might feel 6 months long, but the second that baby girl made her appearance, life would start moving at warp speed. Still great grandma’s have a tendency to exaggerate, and Ari thought her maternity leave would last a lot longer. Ha-ha I thought, wish it would, but my whole encounter with the early years of motherhood in general went much too fast. Those years flew.

Jovi Marie, 2 months…

Ari and Josh visited the Daycare where I work, filled out paperwork and signed up Jovi. They were hoping to use daycare only 3 days a week. Josh was campaigning his bosses at U of M to work from home one day a week or change his work week to four-10 hour days in order to stay with Jovi on Monday’s. Our daughter Shannon, Jovi’s grandma (that’s still pretty weird for me to say or believe) thought she could care for Jovi most Fridays, therefore needing daycare on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Only to discover a very long waiting list in each of our rooms. It’s kind of a vicious cycle. We can only have 12 babies in our room. (Only-ha!) I believe that’s determined by our square footage. We can keep babies in our room longer than a year, but until they’re at least one year old, each baby must have their own crib to nap in. When they move to the Wonderful Ones, they sleep on tiny cots about 2 inches off the ground. And instead of our low to the ground high chairs, they eat family style, at little tables with tiny chairs. So stinking cute. And it mattered not one whit, this great grandma had absolutely no pull or got preferential treatment.

You wanna fight me???

So this vicious cycle. My boss Tracy explained it really isn’t going to get much better until the regular school year is over in our building. And I don’t know all the technical terms for the classrooms, but here’s the gist of it. When the kindergarten readiness class is moving to regular kindergarten, the 4 year olds move to readiness, the 3’s move to preschool, the 2’s to whatever that’s called, (pre-preschool?) and the Wonderful Ones move to Toddlers. Which gives openings for our babies to move to the Ones. By the end of summer there will be about 10 of our babies who will have turned 1 and should be moving. Not to worry, the waiting list to get in our room is long and every week or so some pregnant mom-to-be walks through. There seems to be no shortage of newborns clamoring to get in. Duh, we’re the best.

I love P!nk…

So the weeks of Ari-Jovi bonding non-stop were clipping right along with no real solution becoming crystal clear. Finally a call, there was an opening in the infant room. Wait for it. One. Measly. Day. A. Week. Only available day is Wednesday, so Josh and Ari grabbed it. At least they got their (Jovi’s adorable little) foot in the door. But what to do about Tuesday-Thursday? Not giving it a second thought, John under the tutelage of the great Mighty Mouse, ‘here-I-am-to-save-the-day’ pipes up and casually blurts, “I’ll take care of Jovi those 2 days a week until there’s an opening for her!” Oh, just blow me away Hubs.

It’s not that John wasn’t a great father when our kids were small. He was. He did stuff with them I had no interest in. Like carving pumpkins, dyeing Easter eggs, sledding, ice skating, fishing. Crap I was horrible at, even in my lame attempts to become a more well rounded mother at times. Never worked. But it’s been many years since Hubs really, really took care of a baby. He did spend a lot of time with Ari when she was young, but that too was 25 years ago. Still there was no hesitation and never once did he lament in the weeks leading up to Jovi-great-grandpa days, “why in heaven’s name did I ever offer to do this? What was I thinking?” Nope, never crossed his mind.

Might be a little spoiled…

In the last 20 years childcare has changed a lot. Since I started working in the infant room over a year ago, I’ve taken several classes and gone to 2 hours of instruction every month, keeping up to date with all the state licensing rules. Safe sleep, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, mandatory reporting of any signs of abuse or neglect. Protecting and advocating for those who cannot yet protect themselves. Feeding, burping, no blankets or toys in their cribs, no sleeping anywhere but in their crib, no swaddling. The list goes on and on. All of which I rattled off at different times leading up to his first Jovi-Day. One of the toughest to wrap our heads around has been babies sleeping on their backs. Goes against everything doctors taught us 45 yeas ago when we were having babies. Would if they spit up, won’t they choke if they’re on their backs? Though I did not make him take the online class, I vividly remember and relayed the stats. In the last 20 plus years since doctors have been advocating young babies sleeping only on their backs, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome has dropped from 15 babies per thousand to 8 per thousand. Think about that for a minute. Still losing babies but the rate has dropped almost in half. Hubs the engineer, understands statistics. Ok, he was on board. Ari wrote down approximate feeding times and naps, and just as suddenly, she was heading back to work and dropping off 9 week old Jovi with her great grandpa. Normally I get Tuesday’s off which would leave John only Thursday’s for her care until I get home at 1, but work hasn’t been normal. I gave up Tuesday’s off for a few weeks, then offered to work until 3 everyday. (What was I thinking? What a difference 2 hours makes! Getting home at 3:20 instead of 1:20. Too late to start the crockpot unless we want to eat at 8 or later. Not. This is why great grandma’s don’t work full time. Yikes Louise, I was bushed).

I’ve been told there were some very serious discussions between Jovi and GG during their first couple days. # 1 on his to-do or not-do-list was waiting to poop until grandma got home. (Jovi, not GG, I think) Which the little stinker completely agreed with until the last day of week 3. Only to discover it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought. Yet I’ve heard every detail-thrice. Dude, I get that privilege several times everyday at work. You’re preaching to the choir. And it’s not a big deal.

John always carved pumpkins with the kids, 1984…

Jovi and GG seem to have a rhythm for their days together. Watching the birdies at the feeder by the sliding glass doors. Ogling my brightly colored round glass ornaments hanging in the living room bay window. Sitting for a few minutes together in grandma’s chair in the living room so she can talk to the lamp. Yup, the lamp. It sparkles and glistens when the sun’s shining. I explained to Jovi one day after I got home. Now she realizes of course it’s sparkly, it’s Waterford.

I gotta have a boppy pillow wherever I go…

Everything has gone fairly smooth. I put a beach towel on the spare bed for a changing table. We have some incredibly useful equipment at work that we lack here at home. Time to go shopping. Bought a boppy pillow (amazing). Very helpful when otherwise Jovi would be flat on the floor. Hubs just got a new Lazy Boy recliner. Seems they spend most of their day together. In it. He holds her. She sleeps. He doesn’t eat, pee or move. Oy vey. I’ve tried to reason with both of them, sternly, this isn’t the best idea in the world. Much as she is idolized, she cannot be held 8 hours a day. Can’t happen at daycare, 12 babies, 5 caregivers. Do the math. Sometimes babies fuss for a couple minutes. There seems to be some kind of secret look (code) that passes between them, but then he nods and says, “yeah, you’re right, I’ll lay her down.” So we went shopping again. Bought a bouncy seat. Jovi’s off the ground and this is the way they watch TV together. (No screen time EVER at Daycare). They’ve tried all kinds of programs, each finding their favorites. Disney jr, Sesame Street, but for some reason The Curse of Oak Island, Gold Rush (yes, they both prefer and root for Parker in his quest for 4,000 ounces of gold this year) and lastly, ghastly, that Lame Tuna Fishing fiasco. We will fix this little flaw at a later date.

Sometimes I just need my binky. Baths are hard…

A week ago, Shannon calls to see if we are home. She has something for us. Two gifts actually. One is an extra base of Jovi’s car seat. That way when she’s at Daycare and I’m done working, I can plop her in my car and bring her to our house for a couple hours until Ari gets here. Couple of problems I’ve encountered with that scenario. How on earth do young mothers carry the baby, that heavy ass car seat, the diaper bag, plus my stuff? I guess ‘young’ is the biggest part I lack. I can’t believe how heavy the car seat is with Jovi in it. Honestly I’d have to stop 2 or 3 times, making my way through the parking lot. I’ve never parked close wherever I’ve worked. So I first brought out the diaper bag, lunch bag, left over bottles, everything but the seat and kid. Moved my car as close to the back door as possible. This is not a popular time of day so I shouldn’t get in trouble. Kids are still in school, moms are still working. By this time, my coworker, Sabrina has Jovi snugged up in her car seat. She just had her first grandson and actually takes him places. By herself. Of course she’s 38. Another great gal, Ninfa gets out of work the same time as I do, scoops up the carrier with Jovi like it weighs a couple of pounds. Out the door, into my nearby car, and snaps it into the base. Voila! Jovi did manage to remind great grandma it was past her lunch time and her ‘binky’ was in my coat pocket. About a dozen times for the 4 mile trip. Sorry Jovi, I’m learning. And I’m slow. And old.

The second gift Shannon lugged in was a Pack N Play. Awesome combination play pen, portable crib. On 2 levels. While Jovi is little, we can use ‘the top floor’ of the play pen. Like the highest level of a crib. Easier to pick her up without bending down to the floor. As she gets bigger, we will use the lower setting. The Pack N Play however is the approximate size of our living room. A slight exaggeration. I guess there is still room to walk around. Sideways. With my gut sucked in. Shannon realized this too. She handed her father a business card. An architect’s blueprints for us. A ‘Jovi room’ will be added soon. Kidding, but the house has gotten cozy with all her paraphernalia setting around. Makes me smile. Wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe slow down time for a bit.

Got my last surprise for the week. I had just gotten home from work and was rocking Jovi while she carried on a rousing conversation with the Waterford lamp. Grandpa finally had his chance to use the bathroom, eat some lunch, and go out for the mail. A package for me. I hadn’t ordered anything. Inside was a beautiful, handmade, soft, flannel baby blanket. Crocheted pink edging. From my friend, Janice Stellingwerf who grew up in Rock Valley with me. She does not know Ariana, never met her and probably won’t. Has never laid eyes on adorable little Jovi either. But took the time out of her busy schedule to handcraft an heirloom for me, Ari and Jovi. I was stunned. Didn’t unwrap the blanket cause I wanted Ari to have that honor. When Ariana walked in, I handed the blanket to her. Explained who Janice is. Ari started to cry. What in the world makes people do such extraordinary things? For people they don’t even know? There are really no words. Thanks so much Jan. From great grandma, mommy and gorgeous little blanket lover, Jovi…

I loves my new blankie and Michigan State…

Well Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) sophomore season of basketball at Pioneer is done. It went much too fast and I’m not ready to give it up yet. Probably my feelings of guilt because I missed 2 games while on vacation. Some grandma I turned out to be. Slacker. Should be taking vacations during the summer like normal people. I’ve never been normal and I detest winter with a passion. Living in Michigan doesn’t help. Long winters. Very long.

Landon taking a shot, 2017…

The season had it’s ups and downs. On a whole, his freshman year was better with more wins. But he’s matured a lot this year. He never started last year, averaging about 16 minutes a game. Going in each quarter about the 3-4 minute mark and playing until the buzzer. Landon started every game he played this season, averaging about 28 minutes a game. Not very many minutes when he wasn’t running the floor.

Does that new hair color job make him jump higher?

That doesn’t mean there weren’t a few hiccups this year. He got hurt a couple of times. And almost always at practice. Landon was hit in the side of his face/neck/shoulder, knocking him out. He couldn’t break his fall thus hit his head on the court. He didn’t regain consciousness for several minutes, so a road trip to U of M Hospital via ambulance commenced. (I may have to wear a disguise during next seasons practice to find out just how rough they get. Who was that punk anyway?) Diagnosis was a concussion. Although Landon did his best after a couple of days to convince everyone he was fine, Michigan law states (and wisely so) a concussion warrants a week off, minimum.

Awesome shot Landon…

Plus a couple of allergy issues, so there were a couple games when he didn’t play at all. I was lost when he wasn’t on the floor. So was Pioneer. They lost every game he didn’t play in. Not saying they won all the games he did play in, but they definitely did better when Landon was playing and running the court.

His left foot foot has been troubling him again at times. Geez-oh-Pete that stinking foot. (Quite literally after a game-whew). Specialist thinks it a haywire nerve imbedded in scar tissue. Brought on by the 2 stress fractures, or did the nerve cause Landon to adjust his gait causing stress fractures? It’s not getting any worse, so the plan is getting this little issue fixed in June. Once and for all I hope.

No problems snaking past most defenders…

With starting, playing more minutes, his point averages have been higher too. I’m still keeping Landon’s stats in my little magnetic journal like I did last year. Now I’m afraid to make a change and use some new fangled professional stat sheet. Don’t want to jinx anything. Got to keep up my own quirky way of keeping reliable information at hand. If I get caught up in an exciting game, I may miss a foul (he doesn’t tend to foul much, but guards so close he often causes turnovers-Dude you rock!), or forget to jot down a missed shot (hate to chart those anyway, but I gotta) but I rarely (and I do mean rarely) ever miss one of his baskets or free throws. Heck, I’ve read Coach Rex’s after game summaries and he’s been wrong more often on Landon’s point total than I have. Rex dude, not rocking it.

I’ll have to wait until after the winters sports banquet when all of Landon’s stats are on a spread sheet to see just how accurate I was this year. (They’re almost impossible for this gram to read and figure out). According to Gram (ATG) I have this year’s game point average about 14. One of his best games (I didn’t know it then) that’s stuck with me all winter was kind of strange. A conference away game and about the farthest we have to travel. Maybe a little over an hour for us from our house. A farming community named Bedford-complete opposite of hip Ann Arbor. Home of the ‘Kicking Mules.’ I kid you not.

High scorer again. Way to go Landon, 2017…

I like arriving at games rather early, get my popcorn and pop out of the way so’s not to disrupt my efficient bookkeeping tasks. Both teams are on the floor warming up with about 10 minutes to tipoff. Coaches on either side are watching players, discussing strategy or deciding where to have a beer afterward the game. Landon jogs to the center court with a ball. Using the center court line, he dribbles between his legs, spinning, stops, pivots, twists, dribbling behind his back very fast. When he gets close to out of bounds, he repeats the same thing-but backwards. Sometimes dribbling at warp speed and bouncing the ball about an inch off the ground. So cool to watch. Reminds me of something that was said about what a fabulous dancer Fred Astaire was-leading up to the great comeback about Ginger Rogers-yeah, well, she did the same thing in heels-backwards.

Move along folks. I got this…

How come I’m so slow on the draw to record these moments? My phone is just idling away while I watch this super talented athlete. A cardinal sin for sure. Better yet, I should have used the camera to tape the 2 Kicking Mules coaches on the sidelines. They stopped talking, started watching and were absolutely mesmerized. Both their jaws unhinged and drop to the court with a clunk. They were unable to tear their gaze away from this ball handler extraordinaire. Yeah, I’d pay money to have that little video go viral. Ha. Landon, unfazed and unaware stopped after 2 or 3 back and forths, dribbled to the 3 point line and tossed in 4 in a row. Oh my.

My shy little introvert…

Ann Arbor won 77-73. Landon had 24, nearly one third of the point total. His game and year has been pretty good. Pioneer made it to the Regional finals this year-a surprise for many. Goes to show when your teams clicking, underdogs win. There was a write up about the 4 teams playing that night by Prep Hoops. It gave me a huge lump and made me cry.

Pioneer may have the best 2019 point guard in the state in Drew Lowder…

What’s in store? AAU (Amateur Athletic Union) is starting soon and changes there too. Landon will probably play for Detroit (his nemesis for the last few years) and not out of Cleveland (saving a lot of travel time for him and dad). He’s also toying with the idea and being a 2 sport athlete. Something the orthopedic doc recommended. Do another sport to use different muscles. He’s mulling baseball. Oh my stars!!

Lots of talent in this kid…

I hope I haven’t made Landon sound like he’s a perfect player. He’s not. He does possess this uncanny ability to ‘see’ the court differently than many players. Almost like a chess game and Landon has the vision of the next 6 moves. But since not all players have this unearthly blip, he can become impatient with his teammates while they catch up to move 4 when he’s already on move 8. My hope is he continues to grow, mature, learn more and hone his skills. He’s got some God given talent, no doubt about it.

Landon dribbled right by him…

The Iowa Hawkeyes did not make it to the big dance this year. They’re very young and will be loads better for the next couple years. It’s no secret I’d love for Landon to play for Iowa, or pretty much anyone in the Big 10. We were watching the Hawks play in the NIT tourney last weekend when I saw something very odd on the court. The game was at Carver-Hawkeye Arena, and a Hawkeye was shooting free throws. On the floor in front of the Hawks bench was a large painted sign on the floor. All it said was ‘Pioneer.’ Coincidence? Nah. Very subtle. Trying to woo my boy to Iowa. Well played Fran. Well played.

Such a subtle way to woo Landon to Iowa…

Will Landon be good enough to play for a big time college? Don’t know, but certainly praying he will be. I hope when his high school sports career is over he is remembered fondly as a superb athlete-with a lot of heart. Admired and respected by the kids he played with and against. This picture pretty much sums it up. Until then, I’ll be in the stands, magnetic journal in hand, phone camera no where to be found, rooting for this amazing ball player…

Showing support and good sportsmanship. Great job Landon….