I recently became a great-grandma. I thought I was a bit young to become a great, yet I eagerly anticipated having a baby in the family again. Our youngest grandson, Graham is 7 already. Jovi Marie, our darling little babe of 2 months has the whole family smitten. She smiles, coos and has a language all her own, which she uses frequently.

Jovi Marie, one month…

Since this is a big deal for me, I’ve been thinking of my grandparents and greats lately. I never heard Dad talk about his grandparents. He was 10 years older than Mom, and I think his grands were long gone by the time I was born. Dad’s parents lived in Rock Valley. There weren’t many days while I was growing up when Dad didn’t stop and see his folks. I actually went along quite often. Dad and his folks would talk about what was going on in town or grandma might say she got a letter from one of Dad’s sibs that day. But we never did grandma-granddaughter stuff together. No baking cookies or tea parties.

Arie, Bessie Gerritson w/Shannon 1975…

Dorothy married Mom’s brother Floyd. After Dorothy retired, she was interested in genealogy. Uncle Floyd passed away in 2003, 10 months before my Mom (strange, Floyd passed right after their 77th birthday, Mom a couple months before their 78th). Whenever I was visiting in Iowa, I’d stop to see her in Sioux Center. Once in a while she’d bring out this huge 4 inch thick binder. All the relatives history on both sides of my Mom and Floyd. I asked her if I could make copies of all the sheets in Sioux Center? She politely but very firmly refused. A few months later, Aunt Dorothy mailed me several copied sheets from her original. I think she felt bad about refusing to let me make copies. Although the 20 sheets are not even one percent, I’m grateful. And fascinated.

Aunt Dorothy and me around 2005…

It’s surprising what can be gleaned from such a small amount of information. Although some of the sheets don’t tell much, recorded are births, deaths, baptisms and marriages. Dorothy managed to pack a lot of extra news about the family. She copied archived articles from the Sioux City Journal and Sioux Center News (called the Nieusblad, Dutch I assume for news). At times not very many words but profound. December 13, 1926, my Mom, Florence Elaine and her twin brother, Floyd Dwayne were born in Sioux Center, Iowa. Here’s an example of an article two days later as it appeared in the Sioux Center paper.

Floyd and Florence, 1928…

Mr. and Mrs. G. Wanningen, Jr. were gladden by the birth of twins, a son and a daughter. (Less than 2 weeks later, this was the following article). Early Monday morning, 27 December, 1926, our hearts were cast into deep sorrow, when we afflicted a heavy blow, that pleased the Father to take away my beloved mate, Coba Wanningen, geb Berghuis at the age of 20 years, after a blessed marriage of two years. Great was our joy when two weeks before, twins were born. But in the counsel of the Father, our joy was of short duration. The Father took the young mother to Himself, after a short serious illness. We don’t understand the Father’s ways, but our ways are not His. We rest our desires in Him, knowing and trusting in His goodness and wisdom. In the name of the sorrowful family of Gerrit Wanningen. P.S. To neighbors and friends, our sincere thanks is assured, for their help and showing sympathy.

My grandma Coba, pregnant with Mom and Floyd, early fall, 1926…

Though finding this horribly sad, the language used to write the obituary is profound, churchy, understanding, Godly, forgiving, compassionate and a bit odd. Hard for me to describe the feelings I have, but I’m really glad I have all these little additions from my past. I can’t believe the first sentence starting with “early Monday” contains 8 commas. Count them, 8!

My grandpa Gerrit (Lakey) about 1915…

But the lady on my mind lately is my paternal great grandma. Her name was Jantje (yon-chee) Frantzen. She was born on December 20, 1867 in Steenwijkerwold, Overijssel, Netherlands. I don’t know what year she immigrated to the US, but she was sponsored (someone in Sioux Center who would help her with housing and find a job). She married my great grandpa Geurt Wanningen, (8 years her senior) in 1889. They lived on 20 acres near Sioux Center. She never learned to speak English and always wore wooden shoes. Jantje and Guert had 2 children, a daughter, Jantje (Jennie) and a son Gerke (Gerrit), my grandpa.

My great grandma Jantje Frantzen Wanningen around age 45…

Jennie married Paul Van Donge in 1915. She must have been about 16. Soon she became pregnant. There were health issues causing complications in Jennie’s pregnancy. My great aunt Lena was barely a teen at the time said Jennie had cancer in her eye, and a bad case of flu right before her due date. Jennie went to a hospital in Sioux City by train and delivered a boy, Peter who was stillborn. Jennie died the next day. What a blow for Paul, Jantje and Guert. Their only daughter and firstborn grandson, both dead. Jennie and Peter returned to Sioux Center by train to a grieving family. For the funeral and burial, Peter was placed in his mother’s arms in the same casket. Life was not easy around 1920. The life expectancy for a woman was 42. Jennie didn’t make half that. Loss was a huge part of life.

Sibs, Jennie and Gerrit around 1915…

Jantje and Guert sold the acreage and decided to build a big house in Sioux Center. Townsfolk thought it a bit odd since Jennie had passed away and Gerrit (my grandpa, nicknamed Lakey) was in his mid-20’s already. In 1924, 28 year old Lakey married Coba Berghuis, 18. She had graduated from high school in May, then attended school in Des Moines for 6 weeks to become a teacher. She taught in a one room school house for 2 years. Coba gave up her teaching position in the fall of 1926 because she was pregnant with Mom and Floyd. Coba died 2 weeks after their birth at the age of 20. Jantje lost her daughter, first grandson and daughter-in-law in a 8 year span.

Florence and Floyd, 1933…

Coba’s Parents, Pieter and Aafje (Effie) Berghuis took care of the twins for about a month but it was decided that Jantje and Guert would raise them after that. Bigger house, more money. The Berghuis’ insisted Jantje hire a nanny, which she did until the twins turned 2. My great grandparents were now raising newborns when Guert was 67 and Jantje was 60. Wow. And I get weary canning a few jars of jam. Mom never said too much about her father when she and Floyd were very young. The Sioux Center Nieusblad did mention a couple months after Coba died that Gerrit and his twins moved in with his mom and dad. Mom always felt her dad blamed her and Floyd for causing their mother’s death. Maybe blame is too strong, but Mom felt he harbored bitterness towards her and Floyd. Gerrit remarried in 1933 to someone with several children and offered to raise the twins who were then 7. They tried it for a short time, but Floyd and Florence were so miserable they soon moved back with Guert and Jantje.

Great grandma Effie Berghuis with Florence & Floyd, 1927…

A few years before Mom passed away I realized the urgency of getting some family history. Mom and I would just be talking about something inconsequential when she’d start reminiscing about her childhood with her grandparents. I’d grab a piece of paper and start writing. One paragraph was about Guert’s driving. Mom claimed he was so bad that Jantje insisted he sell the car after he drove Jantje to town and took a corner on 2 wheels.

My beautiful grandma Coba, 1906-1926…

Jantje was not someone who went to the doctor. One day she was feeding the chickens from a feed bucket and stuck her hand inside and was bit by a rat. She got pretty sick but would not go to the doctor. Another time she had an abscess. She did doctor that time and was unable to care for the twins so you know how serious it was. The twins stayed with their dad and stepmom for a few weeks.

Jantje, Guert, Florence & Floyd by the big house in Sioux Center, 1930…

Every winter Guert would buy a huge wooden barrel filled with fish which he kept in the garage. Northwest Iowa, you know it stayed frozen all winter. This was a mainstay for many suppers. When they were going to have fish, Guert would take a knife and chop the ice to removed chunks of fish. Jantje was always fearful Mom and Floyd were going to choke on fish bones. Funny what parents and grands worry about isn’t it?

My handsome great grandpa Guert Wanningen, about 55…

Guert died in 1938 at the age of 78. I came this close to meeting my great grandma Jantje. She passed away in August of 1950, about 3 months before I was born. The older I get, the more I long for additional snippets about my grands and greats. I know Mom talked about them frequently, especially the most important person in her life. Jantje. I needed to be more steadfast in my listening ability, ask more questions and jot those memories down as she was reminiscing about them for me.

Florence and Floyd around 1995…

Why didn’t I jot down more tidbits surrounding the birth of the twins? I don’t know if Floyd was born first or my Mom. Every time I read something about their birth, it says, a boy and a girl. Does that mean Floyd was the eldest by a few minutes? I can’t believe I never asked, and if I did, why can’t I remember? Or was a son usually mentioned first back then? Argh.

Partial 1923 Sioux Center girls basketball team. My grandma Coba on far right.

One page of miscellaneous stuff I wrote was about glassware I’ve since inherited. When it was given and what was the occasion. Many of the pieces were gifts from people they sponsored after they arrived from The Netherlands. Although the names of the givers mean nothing to me, I smile when I read about these tokens of deep appreciation. But it’s the tiny toothpick holder that makes me cry. It’s textured and shows clusters of grapes, though some of the coloring is gone or faded. Mom always loved it as do I. For the life of me I can’t remember the history on this itty-bitty thing. Every time I walk past it, I’m frustrated because I cannot remember anything significant about it. What I wouldn’t give to ask Mom the history of her favorite little toothpick holder…

Such a petite toothpick holder, but lacking knowledge on its history…

The first time I hit Vegas was 1961, at the ripe old age of 10. I didn’t see the inside of a casino, but I remember the night like it was yesterday. Mom, Dad, plus two renters of 2/3 of our (my) backseat. Squished in our 1958 Chevy Biscayne 2 door. With me. We’d been vacationing in California and were driving home through the desert. With no air. At the time Las Vegas had a population of 64,000. It was getting dark as we drove closer, yet none of us could speak. There ahead, quite narrow but very long was a sprawling, sparkly city of dazzling lights. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

This sign still stands, welcoming all to Sin City…

The city was alive and bustling. And hot. We were all pooped. And hot. Folks finally decided to stop. Mom checked out several motel/hotels. If there was a vacancy sign, she’d get out of the car, stop in the office and ask the price first, then ask to see a room. If the room or surroundings weren’t up to her high standards, (many establishments were not) we’d press on. She had a cleanliness phobia. I know we didn’t stay on the Strip, but the room was clean and obviously within our budget (thus making the grade for our sojourners, the renters hogging my back seat). The small motel had an outdoor POOL. I was beyond excited. The night air had cooled and my swim in the pool felt like warm bath water. Goodness it just didn’t get any better than that. I’d gone swimming in the Pacific but it had been frigid the day we were at the beach. I was ready to stay here a week. I think Dad was hesitant about stopping in Las Vegas, like some bad viral gambling habit was going to hop on board and follow us to Iowa.

My twin Kruizenga cousins and me in the freezing California Pacific, 1961…

It would be 35 years before I gave Las Vegas another thought. One of Hubs buddy’s asked if we were interested in going to Vegas for a couple of days? Well sure. Not a memorable trip, but we stayed at the old Tropicana. About 5 years later, the same friend asked if we’d like to go again. By then we had moved to North Muskegon, making the drive much longer to Detroit Metro. So was the stay. Five days equaling 120 hours, or 7,200 long, excruciating minutes. We were leaving very early Monday morning on a plane specifically headed to Vegas. I think they called it a party plane. You know right off the bat, this just isn’t me.

The flight was delayed so most everyone sat around drinking (not me, it was 8 am for pete’s sake). Finally we took off with about 90% of the passengers 3 sheets gone. Just kill me now. Loud, obnoxious and not very funny. Pretty sure I’m the only person who’s gonna remember that flight. One dude sitting close to us asked a stewardess how much beer (quantity) was on the plane? She gave him a figure, he said, “I’ll take it.” She explained that wasn’t fair to the rest of the passengers because there wouldn’t be beer anyone else. (like anyone needed more? Maybe me by this time) He shot back, “I’m buying all of it to give it away!” Oh boy.

One of the casinos when we drove through in 1961…

We finally landed and were shuffled off to our hotels. Hubs and I were staying at the Excalibur. The lines to check in snaked halfway through the lobby. Instantly, the noise bothered me. I’m pretty sure I was either losing my hearing and didn’t realize it, or the Excalibur caused my deafness. Hundreds of one armed bandits being pulled simultaneously, accompanied by those noisy falling coins. Banging, clanging, clunking. I was instantly uncomfortable and twitchy. While John played slots languishing through the long line, I stood and waited, shivering. The casino owners don’t want you nodding off or you’ll wind up in your room sleeping instead of gambling. I’ve found casino floors (not the actual floors, then again I’ve never checked) to be on the chilly side. I had researched temps for Las Vegas in May. Mid-80’s or higher. I brought my swim suit, (laid out every morning by 8:30 before it got hot) shorts, sandals and sleeveless tops. Wrong. I needed fleece and Cuddl Duds. Try finding that in Sin City during May. I did manage to buy some slacks and a couple of long sleeve tops to wear. Looked like a homeless woman all week in my 7 layers, but I was more comfortable.

After Hubs got our room key, he sauntered over carrying a small bucket. Filled with quarters so I could have some fun. Whee. At the end of the week, he glanced at the bucket, 75% full. “You won all this? That’s great. Fun, wasn’t it?” “Umm, no, this is the same bucket of change.” “You mean you lost about a half an inch of quarters? During 5 whole days? And this is what’s still left?” “Yup.”

Part of the Strip in 1961…

I don’t have a problem spending money. I love to shop. (Ok maybe a small problem, just keeping it real) I can buy a top for $75 bucks, wear it twice, then realize it makes my butt look humongous. Toss it in a bag and bring it to Goodwill, and not feel too bad. I might feel stupid for buying the shirt in the first place. Why didn’t I turn around and check the 18 mirrors to see how the sweater looked on my big ass before ringing it up? Not prone to glance at my big butt too often I guess. For some bizarre reason, I can’t put pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters or heaven forbid dollar bills in a slot machine. I equate slot machines to throwing money down a toilet. Just can’t do it.

One of a dozen Kors bags. Yup, I like to shop, not gamble…

I spent most of the long week in a sports lounge. They had several big screen TV’s with every game on imaginable. A diehard Cubs fan, I’d just sit and watch their game. No one knew if I had placed a bet. Good grief, much as I love them, who in their right mind would bet on the Cubs anyway? Though definitely in 2016. Yay Cubbies. I’d head back in our room by 8 or 9 cause all my favorite programs were having their season finales. Ah, the good life. By Wednesday Hubs was up a grand and feeling guilty about not doing much together. We started walking the Strip, ending our walk at Caesars Palace. What a magnificent place (except for the gambling part). A plethora of small shops, we wandered into a Coach store, buying my very first, a navy bag the size of Delaware.

Thursday we rented a car and drove out to Hoover Dam. Not very many tourists, so we got the royal treatment. Our guide took us into the deepest bowels of the dam. He told us though construction started in 1931 (same year they legalized gambling in Las Vegas) the cement was still not dry (some 50 plus years later). I believe it’s about 8 feet thick. For me, Hoover Dam was the best part of our trip, bar none. We watched Mountain Goats climb precariously straight up solid rock, and wander amazingly close to us with absolutely no fear of humans.

Big Horn Sheep roam around Hoover freely…

That trip to Vegas was 20 years ago, and I really never thought about going back. But we just did, twice. We flew to Vegas with the idea of staying one night, renting a car and driving to Yuma. Didn’t realize that our flight was before and during the Super Bowl. John thinks he’s a football fan, but that’s really not accurate. He’s a Minnesota Vikings fan. Once they’re out of it (they were never really in it this year) he’s done. We arrived at Hooters just as the game is headed to overtime. We were tired and hungry. I’d never been to a Hooters before, our ‘goal’ was some of their famous wings and a good nights sleep. Not to be. Every restaurant in Hooters was closed for private super bowl parties. We waited with assurance once the game ended they’d reopen to the public. Forty-five minutes later we were told the cooks had to re-prep and it would be another hour. Now crabby, tired and hungry we walked to the Tropicana and had pasta.

One armed bandit…

After 12 great days in Yuma, (thanks Les, Mary Jane and Marco the dentist) we drove back to Las Vegas on Friday to drop off the rental and hop on a plane Monday morning. At 6 am. Yes, that meant waking up at 2:30. We stayed 2 nights so we could visit our niece Wendy and her family. Which was the best part of this Las Vegas trip. The weather was horrible. Cold, rainy, we never saw the sun or 60 degrees in Nevada. On Sunday we hit the Premium Outlet Mall early for a new Michael Kors bag. (Sorry Coach, you lost me 10 years ago with over-saturating the market with subpar merchandise). We both wanted to go back to the Hoover Dam which they’ve completely redone. Number one, our national treasure was packed. Fantastic to see such a long line of cars. Families with strollers, back packs filled with snacks, hikers hitting the nearby trails. Steady stream of walking traffic in and out of souvenir shops. Never knew the (2010) bypass bridge around Hoover which spans the Colorado River between Nevada and Arizona was dedicated to Pat Tillman. He was a Arizona Cardinals safety from 1998-2001. He quit pro football and joined the Army Rangers in 2002 and was killed in Afghanistan. That bridge bears 2 names, the other is Mike O’Callaghan who I know nothing about. Sorry Mike.

The Pat Tillman By-Pass, opened in 2010…

Back to the Tropicana for our last short night. As I’m walking through the casino I can’t help but feel sorry for the people gambling. Isthat weird? I don’t know any of them and don’t really care if they’re losing money they can ill afford. It seems worse now than 20 years ago. Not bigger numbers, the casinos didn’t seem that busy. But the glazed, lost, hopeless looks on their faces. Now you don’t even have to pull the one arm bandit. There’s a button that you just smack. It reminds me of my former favorite TV program, The Walking Dead. (Dudes, you lost me in the first episode this year, the second Glenn was killed. How could you? Seriously?) There’s a zombie impaled on a wrought iron piece of fence, but until he gets shot, arrowed, macheteed, knifed, hammered, baseball batted or stabbed in the head, he will not die the second time. But he no longer has the strength or smarts to undo his miserable situation. So he keeps making those annoying noises and herky-jerky-itty-bitty movements. Exactly like those slack-faced gamblers. Smacking that bet button. Over and over and over…

It seemed like a most unusual love affair. John’s brother Les is a real Iowan. Loved his state, his job, his town, his home, his life. The least likely candidate to catch a bad case of wanderlust. But that’s exactly what happened. I believe the blame might lie with his better half, my sister-in-law Mary Jane. From here on out be advised, her real name is Mary Jane, but she also answers to Jane, Mary or MJ, so as I’m telling the story, it’s all the same gal, just by whatever I feel like calling her in that sentence.

Les and his famous mustache…

About 10 years ago, Les was having some pretty serious back issues. This just wasn’t his style. He didn’t call in sick, he rarely took vacations. Goodness, he was needed at work, he couldn’t be gone, and he was used to heavy, physical labor. But his back and leg didn’t get better, it got worse. He needed surgery. I believe 2 surgeries were required. Major bummer for a workaholic with a less than average amount of patience. Sorry Les, but after 75 years, somebody had to say it. And as kindly as I could.

So surgery fixed the problem but recovery took it’s time and a toll. He was sick to death of working jigsaw puzzles, and everything and everyone was getting on his last nerve. Mary Jane decided Les needed a change of scenery. They were in the middle of a nasty Iowa winter and getting out, doing things were impossible. MJ suggested they go away for a few days and visit some friends who no longer spent their winters in Iowa. Blasphemy. Well at times Mary (she knows when these times are just right for a subtle push) can be a bit assertive herself. “Les, you’re bored, you’re crabby and we can’t get out to do anything. We’re going away. Period.” Alrighty then.

Called a Prickly Pear, when it blooms the flowers are fluorescent…

They had some friends who spent some of Iowa’s endless winter in Arizona. That sounded like a plan. Les conceded, well maybe a day or 2 would be ok. (Kind of a long ways to go for 48 or 72 hours but you have to take your victories where you can get them when you’re married to a Van Berkum. I should know). They spent a couple days with friends enjoying weather and landscapes as opposite as Iowa’s deep black soil and white winters. Guess what? “Hey Mikey, he liked it!” Not long after Les and Jane got back, their friends called with this enticing tidbit. “There’s a place for sale near our house. “Are ‘ya interested?” Maybe. They flew back to Arizona, looked at several places and bought one a couple days later. But it was already mid-March, that’s when the snowbirds start leaving Arizona, not moving in. So it would be about 9 months before Les and Mary would retreat to their winter retreat.

Aptly named the Hedgehog Cactus…

Les and Jane stayed 7 or 8 weeks that first winter. And the little Iowa boy who seemed the least likely to love winter anywhere but Iowa grew to love the weather in Arizona during the winter. Each year they’d go a little bit earlier and stay a couple weeks longer. Les didn’t miss the blizzards, below zero temps and snow-blowing twice a day at all. He looked forward to the large group of new and old friends they had in Arizona. And one of the things they all had in common-enjoying better weather during the winter.

Eye in the sky, one of many around Yuma. This blimp was grounded when we drove past…

About 8 years ago was when I started hearing stories from MJ about Les and his fascination with ‘the desert.’ He and some of his cronies (ok, let’s just call them his crew) would go exploring. Maybe the desert looked boring to some, but to Les it held all kinds of neat secrets. Places that needed further inspection and examination. Roads not much more than 2-tracks, but took him to caves, old mines, landscapes with different and bizarre cacti, animals, snakes including rattlers. Yikes. He bought books and studied cacti and areas of the desert, always learning and respecting it’s sheer magnitude. Exploring pretty much everything which wasn’t found in Iowa. He loved it! Les learned early you never, and I do mean ever, go to the desert by yourself. Always more than one person in a car, and more importantly, always more than one car. (This after his first ‘desert car’ a Tracker had to be towed 80 miles).

The entrance to my day in the desert, 2017…

Often Les went with his crew, other times the gals would go along. Exploring the surrounding desert got to be a pretty regular occurrence. Les learned when the desert would change and virtually come alive. Usually the month of March, the cacti get kind of show-offy and start blooming like crazy. I’m very disappointed to miss blooming time in the desert. Mary Jane says it’s simply stunning and pictures don’t do it justice. My problem? I really don’t need to be gone from Michigan in March. We have some decent days, snow starts melting, the days get longer and life outside is sometimes bearable. Barely. I need to get away sometime between January 15 and March 1st, which feels like about 6 months. Minimum. Honest. February is the longest, shortest month we have.

Thumb Butte, always around…

After we arrived, Mary Jane (our social director) put things in perspective. Dentist first, everything else to follow. My initial visit with Marco, the Mexican dentist, included 3 hours of prep work, we then had a week to fritter away before the crowns and bridge were ready. What else could we do besides sight see and eat, right? Let’s not forget the Margarita’s. Jane’s an expert concocting those little gems.

I don’t know why I just assumed it would be Les, his crew and John heading out to the desert. Call me dumbfounded when Les looked right at me and asked, “do you want to go out to the desert with us?” My quick wit was warping through my head with the speed of sloth and I nearly blurted, “aren’t we already in the desert?” Luckily I caught my slow self and said “sure” instead. Les talked to some of his neighbors (mostly Canadian couples) and by the time the desert day dawned on me, we had 4 Jeeps heading out to-not even sure where we were going. But I was included.

Little sentries lined up…

Since I hadn’t planned on a day in the desert with Les, I wasn’t prepared. Keen sandals on my feet when everyone else wore socks and shoes. Les’ jeep is a two door and pretty high off the ground. Mary Jane’s had both knees replaced yet she somehow managed to nimbly hop up behind the front seat, snake her way to the other seat, while John noisily hoisted this little heifer with some of his blood, sweat & tears. And some bad words. I might have mooed. And snorted. And swore. It wasn’t pretty.

They seem to multiply like bunnies…

After driving out of Yuma (my built in GPS has not started working yet in Arizona so I have no idea which direction we were going. Plus I give not a shit). Les, leader of the pack, pulled off the hiway and stopped. Everyone got out of their 4-wheel drives. I felt like I was on a cliff, the ground was so far, far away. Hubs finally just grabbed me and set me down. Hard. While Mary Jane patiently waited to spring forth after the clod-me. I looked at the flat, bland surroundings and thought we’d hike a half mile, turn around and drive back to civilization. Everyone smiled at each other, drank a couple sips of water-AND CLIMBED BACK INTO THEIR VEHICLES. We weren’t even close to anywhere yet. Just kill me now. I tripped up the nine endless feet into the back seat and boinked my head on the soft top.

Unknown species to this gal. Pretty…

Our destination was Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. Established in 1939 to protect Desert Bighorn Sheep, it’s part of the Yuma and Sonoran Deserts and includes 1.5 million acres. And yes we covered them all. Kidding, but we did go about 15 miles in on what might be loosely called a road. It did have a gravel base, but pretty big rocks were everywhere. And our jeep rode over everyone of those puppies. I kept track. But Les, our fearless leader did take the road seriously. And pretty slow.

Typical road. Shaking my temporary crowns right out of my mouth!

The first stop ended up being the only one I regretted for the day (besides getting in and out of the dang jeep a half dozen times). It’s called Copper Cup Mine, and you could see all the way through it. I should have just enjoyed the view and not attempted going through. In my defense, I was either the youngest person there or close to it. Couldn’t be embarrassed and choose not to participate. Pride, it’s ugly at times. First off, there were steep little peaks and valleys loaded with slippery rocks just getting to the mine. Sandals were not the right footwear. I slipped and slid to the entrance. Les handed me a flashlight and said he was going first to make sure we didn’t find a napping rattle snake. It was dark, and the floor was full of uneven stones. My balance is wobbly at best, and I found myself grasping for the walls to keep my balance. I didn’t fall, but didn’t come out unscathed either. Lots of little cuts on my hands and wrists.

Les and Brian halfway through Copper Cup Mine. Sharp, jutting sides…

I never knew there are so many mountains around Yuma, when the whole area is virtually surrounded by mountains. It’s quite breathtaking. Throughout our day at Kofa, a constant was this one mountain called Thumb Butte. It remained in our view most of the day on one side of us or another. Les mentioned it several times and I’d have to search until I spotted it again.

Large brown rock like mountains against the cloudy sky…

The variety of cactus was simply amazing. While some species seemed to share real estate, several seemed to claim some acres to themselves. And in that little snippet of desert it would be about the only kind we would see for a spell. Giant Saguaros with limbs and appendages reaching skyward. I believe they don’t start those little growth spurts until they hit puberty which is like 70 in human years.

Limbs a-plenty on this giant Saguaro…

Teddy Bear Chollas cactus, now they’re a trip. They look all fuzzy and warm standing about 3 feet tall. On the ground near every one of them resembles the old woman who lived in a shoe. Dozens of cuddly babies that roll off mama and just sit there on the ground. Waiting. For some wind or maybe few drops of rain to get them rooted where they start their own family.

Sure looks warm and fuzzy. Not…

Then there’s the spindly, lovely green Ocotillo. Kind of bush-like, they grow quite tall. There were a couple Ocotillos we saw that were clearly ahead of schedule, because they were starting to bloom. Just the tips of a few of the tops were turning bright orange with little flowers.

The babies just waiting to put down roots…

The Red Barrel cactus stood out because of his color, but they’re weren’t as many of them in Kofa. Les has one of in his yard. OK, funny side story. This year has been really odd because Yuma’s had so much rain. Usually while Les and Jane winter here, they might encounter one or two rains adding up to about a quarter of an inch. This year Yuma’s had 6 rains. Thus the desert, even the shoulders along the hi ways are a lush green when they’re usually drab brown. But green isn’t always good either. When this low green ground cover dies, it’s a fire hazard which can be very dangerous and deadly. After a couple of rains this winter, Les (or more likely MJ) decided the windows were dusty and dirty and needed washing. Les and his trusty ladder got nominated. Well, Les took a tumble and landed smack dab in his Red Barrel Cactus. Poor little cactus lost 13 of his sweet little quills to Les’ back. So Mary Jane had to remove them because it’s illegal to wear those quills in Arizona. Ok, I’m done with cacti.

Quite a burst of color on the Red Barrel…

I was kind of bummed about the wildlife part of Kofa. The first 2 hours I saw one tiny gecko dart across the road in front of our jeep. But the animals finally showed up after we stopped at the fancy restaurant where the road ended. Really there was no restaurant, but we brought Subway sandwiches, water and pop. Loosely sat in a circle of nice shade and enjoyed a nice hour of visiting.

John, Les, me and Brian during our restful lunch…

Since there’s only one road, we had to return the same way we went in, but you see totally different plants and landscapes because I was looking on the other side of the road. On top of a gnarly tree, I finally spotted a bird. He looked like a Cardinal with that cute tuft on top of his head, but he was completely jet black. After I got home, I looked him up and sure enough, it was a Northern Phainopepla. But the animal angels saved the best for last. We were a couple of miles away from the entrance of Kofa when I yelled, “Les, stop!” Just ahead and to our right was a Big Horn Sheep. Les slammed on the brakes not knowing what was wrong. Then Les, John and Jane noticed him. He took off across the road in front of us. Followed quickly by 2 more Big Horns. They started up a small hill, stopped midway and watched us. Through 9 years of desert days with Les, Mary Jane has never seen a Big Horn. The Sheep stood there for a few minutes, facing uphill, with their butts in our full view. Sorry about that. I asked them to please turn around and pose nicely for the camera. Their response, “kiss my ass.” No matter. A fabulous day. Again. Me, the forever doubting Thomas had the best time ever. It’s been a week since my day in the desert, and I think my left kidney has finally slipped back to where God originally intended it reside, more or Les…

Hard to see, so I zoned in on their butts (the little white specks)…

We’re in Arizona for 2 weeks, visiting Hubs brother Les and sister-in-law Mary Jane. They bought a place in Yuma 9 years ago and have been spending several months a year in this nice warm climate. For those of you who don’t know what an Iowa winter is like, don’t ask. Or worse yet, try one to see how much you enjoy it. Trust me when I say about 99% of Iowans are fiercely loyal to their beloved Hawkeye state, but in order to maintain sanity, keep your fingers and toes intact, most would leave that state in a heartbeat for anywhere warm during their endless winter. We’ve been invited to visit, and decided the time was right. But I’m missing 2 of Landon’s basketball games, and yes I’m feeling the guilt. Counting on Shannon and Tracey to message me through the game.

The Yuma Territorial Prison, 1876. The stone work is beautiful…

Let me get our first day here out of the way. It was long for all of us. It all started with this dang tooth of mine nearly 2 years ago. I don’t have good teeth. If I were a horse, I’d have been put down decades ago. Nobody’s fault. Mom always sent me to my favorite dentist, Doc Schroeder. And I’m a faithful with my brushing, and flossing to the point I drive my family nuts. Every time I eat anything, I have to bush my teeth. Mouth is full of bridges where little particles get stuck and drive my tongue and head to distraction. I faithfully carry toothpaste, brush, dental pick and floss in my purse and lunch bag at work.

The guards tower. There were several escapes, botched and successful…

I had this root canal tooth that broke off at my gum line. Went to the dentist with the idea I’d probably have to sink a couple grand in a new bridge. Not so fast Neese. Bridges are a thing of the past. Not hip or cool. They hurt the integrity of the teeth on either side. (I guess I’m rather short on integrity with my mouth and teeth). Now we do implants. No, not the boob kind, the toothy kind. They did their hard sell this way. You get the tooth pulled and have a bone graft which takes a few months to heal (so you can keep paying). Then they start the implant which takes several months (so you can keep paying). By the time 18 months have passed, you have a beautiful permanent tooth for $4,600.00. (But that’s ok because you’ve had so many months to pay).

The Dark Hole. Solitary was horrible in this cage…

There’s just no way I can spend $4,600.00. ON ONE TOOTH. Enter Mary Jane. Since residing in Yuma part time for the last few years, she got acquainted with a fabulous dentist in Mexico, about 20 miles away. A mere pittance compared to American dentistry. And he went to school in Michigan. Well hook me up, Sista. Which is exactly what she did after she heard what I needed done. We crossed the border by 8:30 and I was getting the prep work for a couple of crowns and new bridge by 10. Temporaries are in place until next week. Thanks MJ. Now back to my jail house story.

Room without a view. Each cell housed 6 men in this tiny room…

We started off our second day by meeting a large group for breakfast at a local senior resort park Clubhouse. Those in attendance? All Iowans. What a hoot! About 40 folks showed up. Right here in Yuma. One lady I’ve thought about several times over the years, but hadn’t seen for a half century. She was an elementary grade school teacher of mine when I was very young. Her name is Myrna Ver Hoef.

The crimes they committed. Some were such minor infractions…

Now most of my teachers were never of great importance to me. I was a lazy, do-as-little-as-possible student during my reign of terror school days. The social aspect was vitally important to me, the study part, not so much. One of my many regrets. But Mrs. Ver Hoef played a very important role in my life. She happened to be my second grade teacher, which is the year I lost my 12 year old brother, Larry. Myrna showed me so much love and compassion that year. Way beyond necessary and far above her piddly pay grade I’m sure. It was lovely to see her and we hope to get together again before I leave.

The Yuma Territorial Prison Band. Unbelievable…

After meeting scads of people, enjoying food and fellowship, Les suggested we tour a rather famous prison. The Yuma Territorial Prison is right off the interstate. It looks as though it was carved right out of the rocky hillside. It was. The prison opened in 1876, before Arizona was even a state, thus the Territorial part. The charter members of this exclusive club were especially lucky. They were selected to build the prison that would house themselves. Fun. During the 33 years this facility remained open, about 3,000 men and 29 women would spend some serious time in Yuma Territorial Prison. Although primitive, the prison had many modern conveniences not yet available to the general public, including electricity and forced ventilation system with running fans! The library boasted 2,000 books. There were 2 bathtubs and 3 showers. Everyone got a shower once a week whether they needed it or not. All the modern conveniences. Until you noticed the actual prison part, which was known as the Hell Hole.

Interesting stats they kept…

There was one cell in the side of the rocky hill for serious offenders. Maybe the first solitary confinement. Called the ‘dark cell,’ it was more like a cave. The only light it offered was through a small vent hole in the roof. Unless you well were under 5 feet tall, standing upright was impossible. The occupants (sometimes more than one offender) were fed only bread and water once a day. No bathroom facilities of any kind, the place smelled absolutely horrible. The guards would regularly toss snakes and scorpions down the vent hole for laughs. The prison on a whole was insufferable. The desert heat made it feel like an inferno. The prison was surrounded by rivers, quick sand and the endless desert. Ball and chains were attached to many legs.

Ball and chain, no joke…

The cells were minuscule, and housed 6 guys per unit. The metal bunks looked about 30 inches wide, 3 to a stack. No mattress, just a hard board with about 2 feet in between the other stack of 3. Gravel floor, one little piss pot to do your business. We had to duck to get into the women’s section, which I think housed only 2 gals to a room. The warden and guards seemed quite ill-at-ease with the women prisoners. Like they didn’t quite know what to do with them. One of the ladies, Pearl Hart wound up pregnant during her stint in Yuma and gave birth to a darling baby boy who remained with his mommy for 2 years. I believe the governor pardoned her just to be rid of her. The guards wrote how relieved they were when mom and toddler was released because she was such a trouble maker. Nobody missed Pearl, but everyone missed her little boy!

Pearl Hart looks innocent enough, but she was a piece of work…

Some of the crimes and misdemeanors were almost laughable, unless you’d already been convicted and sentenced for it. One guy was sentenced because he refused to marry the judge’s homely daughter. Adultery, seduction, selling booze to Indians, prize fighting, polygamy. Crazy stuff. The youngest inmate was 14, the oldest 88.

One male lifer, when not visiting The Dark Cell, knit these beauties…

The Yuma Territorial Prison closed in 1909 when a new state prison was erected in Florence, Arizona. Yuma then used the prison from 1910-1914, wait for it-as their local High School. Story goes that Phoenix High School meandered down for a football game during Yuma’s stint of prison turned high school. Yuma was teased unmercifully, especially when Yuma score and went ahead. Phoenix started taunting Yuma, yelling, “Criminals, Criminals! ” Over and over. Well, the joke was on Phoenix. Yuma loved the name and adopted it as their team motto. Kept it over a hundred years now, though usually shortened to just “The Crims!” The high school’s merchandise shop is aptly named, “The Cell Block.” Clever. Go Crims!!

The name stuck since 1910. Love it. Yuma High Criminals…

Who knew all this history lurking near the hi way in Yuma? Certainly not this Iowa/Michigan grandma. I was truly fascinated by our little one hour stop at Yuma’s Territorial Prison. Consider this your history lesson for the day. Next up, a lesson concerning deserts. You’re welcome…

Ha-ha! The Yuma High School 2016 Wrestling Team. Go Crims…

I equate this little blip in the long marriage to Hubs like buying a 3 dollar ticket for a quickie trip aboard the SS Minnow. You know, just a 3 hour tour. Iowa’s economy was in the tank in 1986. About the first time ever we had to consider moving out of the state. We had looked at Minnesota and South Dakota during our first 2 decades of wedded bliss, yet every time John looked for another’s job or was downsized, somehow we always managed to stay in Iowa. Never gave it much thought that we would ever leave. And if we did leave, surely we would return when Iowa’s economy rebounded.

We thought our gig in Michigan would be temporary…

Never in my wildest dreams did I think Michigan would become home ‘home.’ I’m an Iowan, not a Michigander or Michiganian. Those aren’t even real words are they? We had never planted very deep, or long lasting roots, moving around Iowa for about 20 years after we got hitched. Yet, we landed in Jackson, Michigan in February, 1987. Thirty years ago this week. I wanted to stay in Big 10 country. But I never thought it would become our permanent home.

Our first house in Jackson, 1987…

None of us were exactly thrilled with another move. We all loved Davenport, especially Shannon and I. We had the most to lose. Shannon had just turned 16 and gotten her license. She was popular, a cheerleader, taking accelerated classes and had a cool boyfriend. I had a group of friends like I’d never had before or since. Yup, we were both devastated. Joshua was 11, Adam was 7, both were pretty loosey-goosey. John had been working in Michigan for a few months already. He flew back to Iowa every couple weeks or we’d come to Michigan for a long weekend. Staying at the Holiday Inn was a big treat for all of us except John, who was tired of hotel life. The pool, room service, a restaurant, big perks for young boys who were easily impressed. And always hungry.

Adam and Josh right after we moved to Michigan, 1987…

I already told you the story about our house and neighborhood, so I’m not going to rehash that. The rambling ranch was about 25 years old with an acre lot, on the outskirts of Jackson. About a week after we moved (mid-February) my sister-in-law Mary Jane called to see how the unpacking was progressing. We had tons more snow on the ground than Iowa did at the time, but that first weekend after our move, it was sunny and 60 something. Told her that I had plopped my camping cot on the back step and was laying out in the sun. Surrounded by snow and with my socks on. A week later and another 18 inches of snow would curtail this activity for quite a few weeks.

The family when we arrived in Michigan, 1987…

Second grader Adam said one of the the cutest things after moving to Jackson. Must have been in late March or early April. The days and nights were finally getting warmer, and during breakfast one morning he happened to look out of the dining room window and stated incredulously, “Mom, I didn’t know we had grass under all that snow!”

Joshua and Adam in our hot tub on McCain Road, 1990…

With every year that passes, I grow ever closer to the point where I’ve lived more of my life in Michigan than my beloved Iowa. All the deep rooted feelings I have for my home state haven’t garnered the hearts of my kids. When I look at it from their perspective, it’s understandable. But from a mom who remains homesick for her home state, I can’t fathom that Michigan is much more their home than Iowa. Goodness, Adam’s lived here 4 times longer than he did in Iowa. How is that even possible? So how in the world did a 5 year pit stop turn into 30 years? It doesn’t feel like it’s been 30 years. Maybe 10. Father Time always seems to be running fast when I want him to run just a bit behind schedule for a change.

Grandma Mag visiting us in Jackson. With Adam and Josh, 1989…

My granddaughter Ariana just became a mommy. I told her the last month of pregnancy was endless, but afterwards life goes at warp speed. She swore the time was standing still. And it does feel like that when you’re 9 months pregnant and want it over so badly. This week, our little princess Jovi is 3 weeks old already, when it seems like she was born yesterday.

Our newest member, Jovi Marie, 3 weeks old, 2017…

The Michigan adventure has been very good for and to us. It’s pretty unusual for a family with 3 grown children, in laws, 4 grandchildren and 1 great grand living relatively close. We’re all within about 60 miles from each other, but it’s not like we see them constantly. We give them space and they do the same for us. But it’s been really neat to be in the middle of things after living 175 miles west of them for 20 years. Watching Graham in a pinch and working on craft projects, driving Peyton and Landon here and there. Seeing Jovi every few days instead of once a month. Things we couldn’t do when we were in North Muskegon.

I love watching Peyton dance…

I believe if the kids were scattered all over the United States, we certainly would not be spending our retirement in mid-Michigan. And as much as I adore Iowa, their weather leaves much to be desired. I’m not sure that’s where we’d be hanging our hats either. Probably somewhere where 40 degrees is a low, but not too hot either. Moot point. No place on earth we’d rather be than right here.

Nothing better than watching Landon play ball, 2016…

Although our kids have all lived more years in Michigan than Iowa, they certainly aren’t cemented in Michigan. I’m kind of surprised they all stayed here this long. Two of the kids are business owners, so doubtful either would just up and move across the country. Adam is head chef at a fancy restaurant in Ann Arbor. His restaurant is owned by a corporation, he could possibly move just about anywhere. But since our whole family is a stones throw away, so is Sarah’s. They love Graham’s school, just bought a home, and Sarah’s got a great job so I don’t see them moving anytime soon. More than likely Hubs and I will spend the rest of our days in Michigan. If I live long enough where my Iowa/Michigan balance of years lived swings towards the mitten state, (which isn’t that far away-a mere 8 more years) I’m good with that. But my heart will always belong to Rock Valley and the great state of Iowa…

Graham fishing with Adam, 2016…

It’s been 2 weeks and I’ve not been able to stop singing the lyrics from ‘I’m a Believer’ by the Monkees. I might have an issue. And it started long before meeting my brand new great granddaughter Jovi, about the same time. When I laid eyes on her, I immediately thought of the words to this song’s chorus. But this ordeal started 50 years ago when I fell in love with Neil Diamond. Sorry Hubs. The Monkees hit was # 1 for several weeks in 1966. But the song was originally written and sung by Neil.

Which reminded me of the best quotes from one of my favorite movies, What About Bob? Bob (Bill Murray) is a psychiatric patient of Dr. Leo Marvin (Richard Dreyfuss). Doc is getting some history on his new whack job patient, and inquires about Bob’s marital status. This is Bob’s response: “there are 2 types of people in this world. Those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don’t. My ex-wife loves him.” Pretty much sumsup my life for me. I’d be Bob’s ex-wife.

What about Bob? starring Cubs fan, Bill Murray…

I’m a Believer (written by my main squeeze, Neil Diamond)
I thought love was only true in fairy tales,
meant for someone else but not for me.
Love was out to get, that’s the way it seemed,
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

Josh & Erica at an MSU football game, 2013…

This fairy tale started in 2011. Joshua called and said he was bringing someone home to meet us for Christmas. This wasn’t earth shattering news. He was 35 and dated seriously enough over the years to bring home some gals. But this one seemed different even before we met her. He wanted everything to be perfect. Yeah, good luck with that Josh. We’re a normal, messy family. Well, mostly normal besides this freaky Neil Diamond obsession.

Neil, words not necessary here…

Chorus
Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, umm, I’m a believer,
I couldn’t leave her if I tried!

Josh & Erica, a night on the town in Detroit, 2015…

Her name is Erica, and she was close to Josh’s age. Both in their mid-30’s, neither had been married or had children. Odd in this day and age. She was articulate, pretty, funny and smart. Hailing from Pennsylvania and graduating from MSU with a degree in manufacturing engineering. She was a senior engineer at Nissan Corp. in Detroit. Josh had already been a business owner for more than a decade in Detroit. I could see this was serious and special.

They wear happiness well…

Sure enough, a couple months later they were engaged. They knew it and weren’t messing around. They decided on a destination wedding. I never heard of such a thing. Clueless. They originally looked at Cabo, Mexico as their destination, but after checking resorts and flights, started having second thoughts. Not about getting married, no they were hung-ho, but both felt Cabo was kinda pricey. They decided Cancun was less expensive, thus more friends and family could share their day.

Big Spartan fans. Sigh…

The big date was set for November 16, 2012, giving friends and family plenty of time to ‘save the date.’ John and I were really excited about the wedding. We thought Josh was a confirmed bachelor and were happy because he was so happy!

November 16, 2012, Cancun…

Josh and Erica chose an all-inclusive resort called Dreams. Inclusive meaning once you get there, there’s is no reason to ever leave. (So how come I’m no longer there I wonder?) The resort sported several restaurants, 5 rings a bell, ranging from a buffet the size of my house to smaller venues, specializing in seafood or Italian. Plus tiny pub like or tiki bars at 10 foot intervals. A couple of pools, and this amazing body of brilliant blue water called the Caribbean. Wow. Dreams also included a pool where folks could swim with the dolphins. Literally. Landon and Peyton did this. The resort itself was big and included a humongous amount of beach front. End to end, between a quarter to half a mile of sidewalks.

I got this…

The biggest excitement of our fabulous trip happened before we boarded our direct flight to Cancun, which was at 9 am on a Saturday from Detroit Metro. About 200 miles from North Muskegon. Makes for a very early morning, so we decided to stay at a hotel near the airport on Friday night. We were maybe a mile from the airport, the address was Romulus. It’s about 1 am, we’re both sound asleep (I can’t hear squat laying on my good ear and without my hearing aid). John pokes me hard in the ribs and says, “did you just hear gunshots?” Filled with fog I muttered, “ah, no I can’t hear anything. You sure it’s not fireworks?” “No way, I can tell the difference between firecrackers and a 9 millimeter!” He jumps out of bed, strides to the room’s large window (in his undies) and pulls back the drapes. Several thugs are standing by our pickup about 10 feet away, arguing heatedly. He closes the drapes, races over, and starts pulling on clothes. (Hold on there little doggie). The voice of reason (me) convinces him to dial 911 before charging out the door. The 911 dispatcher says cops are already on their way. After breaking up the fight (over girls) most of the group are arrested and hauled away. Somehow sleep would elude us for the rest of the night however. We could have just as well slept in our own bed until 3 and drove to Detroit. Great start for vacation. Next stop, Cancun.

Happy couple in paradise, 11-16-12…

I admit my first morning I was taken aback. I woke at the crack of dawn, waited for light to come and put on my walking duds, headphones and headed outdoors. A big share of the resort was out of doors. Many of the long hallways were not enclosed. Once on the sidewalk but still inside the resort area, I walked until I ran into the last bar. There stood an armed guard in a casual business uniform, hat, walkie-talkie and a gun. He watched me and gave a small nod as I turned around. I saw him say something in the walkie-talkie. As I got closer to the other edge of Dreams, there was another guard with matching paraphernalia. He smiled, nodded and said something into his microphone. Both guards did this every morning, for every lap I walked. Talked back and forth every time I went past. Probably drove them crazy, but made me feel better they were there. I guess there are drug cartels somewhat close, and if you’re gonna pay big bucks to stay at a resort, a nice amenity is to remain safe. And alive.

My favorite shot of Erica in the buffet line, 11-16-12…

Let me share a couple of oddities about this lovely resort. Almost everything that wasn’t sand was covered in beautiful patterns of tile. The long hallways leading to and from different restaurants, pools and bars were not enclosed. They are swept constantly but became slippery when 3 raindrops fell. Pretty sure I can say with certainty, Mexico has no OSHA (Occupational Safety & Health Administration) as part of their government. On these stunning tiled walkways were steps. Randomly placed. You might walk for 30 feet, then encounter 3 small steps going up or down. I cannot remember seeing or using one railing anywhere in the resort. Walk 40 feet and another 2 odd sized steps. To reach the elevator there was about 10 steps before the doors. No railing, but there was a ramp (could have been used for dirt bike trails, it was that steep, causing your rolling suitcase to move at warp speed). None of the steps had any markings whatsoever, which John discovered. By accident. We were on our way for breakfast at the house sized buffet (amazing and delicious, tons of fresh fruit, plus anything else you might want). A couple walking towards us smiled and said hi as they got close. John looked to greet them and missed 2 small steps. Down he went. I believe it was our second day. Sure he cracked a rib, but it could have been worse. But it did hamper some of the things we had planned.

So happy together…

In the huge buffet restaurant there were several beautiful live palm trees. Planted just below the gorgeous tile floor, but without any kind of guard, edge or border. Just went from tile floor to dirt for the tree roots with a 4 inch drop, each about 2 square foot. If you were carrying a plate a food and not watching the floor constantly you were asking for a broken ankle or leg.

Making it legal…

A couple of days before their Friday afternoon wedding, Josh and Erica planned a scuba diving trip. What in heaven’s name ever possessed me to heartily say, “sure I’m in,” I will never know. John said yes too, but after his nasty spill, the 40 pounds of equipment wrapped tight around his chest caused him to back out. Leaving the 3 of us with a young, extremely handsome, professional diver. First we walked out on a very wide, slippery old wooden dock. The water is about 8 feet deep and a very beautiful baby blue this close to shore. This is where we’ll learn how to breathe and maneuver underwater, carrying 40 pounds of oxygen on your back and wearing flippers. Lord, help me here, I might have been a bit hasty in my decision making and thought process. Our handsome hunk guide (forever forward known as HHG) moves from one clueless person to the next. Explaining, encouraging and patiently teaching. Josh seems to ‘get it’ and is doing great, just under the water, moving about gracefully. Jerk. Meanwhile the Beluga whale, also known as Mom, is thrashing hopelessly, helplessly while others are being taught the art of staying alive under water. It’s a beautiful sunny day, with a little wind. Curiously, that bit of wind carries me precariously close to that high, wide dock. Each little wave sends me further from the group. Soon I find myself underneath the dock, very close to our boat which is securely tied about 6 feet away. I try and turn around to see if anyone’s watching Neese disappear or crash into the boat when I glance up. About a foot above my bobbing head, just barely under the dock are spikes. Long, slender nails that keep the dock boards in place. Holy shit. If a wave catches me just right, one of those little puppies could pierce my noggin all the way to my throat. Suddenly I’m sluicing my way backwards to safety by HHG. That was close. Really close. Pretty sure HHG thinks so too. He personally beaches this whale on the boat, takes care of the rest of the divers and crew and away we go.

Water colors were phenomenal…

It’s not a long ride. The water we’re diving in is about 20 feet deep. HHG gently explains we each need to sit on the edge of the boat and fall into 20 foot deep Caribbean Sea. Backwards. Oh my, I surely will never live to tell this tale. But I did. HHG waits until I grab the rope leading us down to the bottom. Erica is right beside me. I never noticed the other paying patrons again except for Josh moving about like a dolphin. Geesh. When Erica and I reached the end of our rope (ha-ha, but did not seem so funny then) HHG grabbed one of my hands and one of Erica’s. He never let go of me. Never. Guess he had a rep to maintain and didn’t want the paperwork involved with my death. (Maybe there would be no paperwork) He cautiously pointed to exquisite fish lazily swimming by, letting go of Erica’s hand for a couple seconds at a time. But never my hand. After the spikes nearly got me, this was a piece of cake. I remember looking up at the water surface and seeing waves ripple by. Which affected the plants swaying. That part was so neat. Loved spotting different fish, the water swaying, the reality that I was walking on the bottom of The Caribbean. (HHG did have to keep pulling me back down. You kinda just start floating up, at least I did or maybe it was part puffer fish panic attack, but I thought I was pretty calm for nearly dying). But it’s not anything I would ever do again. Memorable though. And a good memory.

The Hubs…

One afternoon I was in search of Hubs. He was sitting at a small bar facing the Caribbean, drinking something tinged light green. I sat beside him and he offered me a sip. Most of you know how rarely I drink. Never liked the feeling of not being in control. Or cared for the taste of booze. I took a sip and sputtered, blech, salt. But the drink part was kinda good. John ordered one for me with a sugar rim instead of salt. Tasty. Soon Shannon came and sat beside me. Looked me squarely in the face and queried, “hey mom, are you ok?” “Sure,” I slurred, “I can’t feel my nose.” She grabbed my arm and marched me to our room (oh how times have changed in 30 plus years) where I took a nice, long nap.

Wow…

Of the 45 friends and family vacationing for a wedding, Hubs and I had the nicest room. Best view ever.

The view from our room…

The wedding was lovely, the dinner, and dancing a lot of fun. Two things. I had never before had Tres Leche Cake (milk cake which contains whole, sweetened condensed, evaporated milk and real whipped cream. Delicious doesn’t describe it very well. Or gone into a photo booth wearing goofy garb for silly pictures to capture the moment. I loved both.

Josh schmoozing with Shannon, mom and dad…

Seems like yesterday, but November, 2017 will mark J & E’s 5th anniversary. Thanks for all the great memories guys. Let’s do that again…

My favorite shot of the night, J & E, bumping butts, 11-16-12…

After I gave birth the first time, I swore I would never have another kid. Repeated this daily to Hubs. Sorry, this baby factory has been permanently shut down. Out of order. I was too young. It was horribly traumatic and painful. And I stuck with that story for several years. Shannon was beautiful, smart, precocious. Pretty much a perfect kid.

Shannon, 8 months, 1971…

A few years later, just as suddenly every baby I came across was cute again. What was going on? The last month of my pregnancy, which lasted so much longer than a month was slowly forgotten. Ditto for the painful labor. I think God slowly makes you forget all the painful stuff involved with childbearing or none of us would ever have more than one kid. Seriously. One kid per woman. China would not ever have had to restrict family size if women all recalled our last month of pregnancy and giving birth.

Newborn Joshua in New Vienna, 1975…

I thought I might be ready to have another child. But how do you divide your love with this awesome little person who’s already been in your life for years? Would I be able to love another baby like I loved Shannon? Am I the only one who had these thoughts before my second pregnancy? Truth be told I was a little worried. I already loved Joshua, but would it turn out to be equally? Another thing God took care of without even asking. Much like the Grinch, my heart just expanded. There was more than enough love to go around. Oh-self-doubting-Duh-Neese. The same held true after another 4-1/2 years when Adam joined our merry band of misfits. My heart just grew another size.

Adam, Spencer Iowa, 1980…

Twenty years later Shannon became a mom. To the exquisite Ariana in 1991. When you think having a kid is extraordinary (and it is) try expressing your feelings for the first time you hold your kid’s kid. Breathtaking, fragile, miraculous and fulfilling don’t even come close. But there’s some different feelings too. When you’re a mom you worry about illness and accidents as your babies grow, but you don’t dwell constantly on those things. Another God thing, because you would be so consumed with scary scenarios you couldn’t function on a daily basis. I found myself worrying much more about Ari than I ever did about Shannon, Joshua or Adam. That’s grandma worry instead of mom worry. Danger Will Robinson danger, er I mean grandma.

Ariana, 9 months, 1991…

I see this at work too. Everyone I work with in the infant room is younger than me. Some decades, some pretty close to my age. I have the tendency to scamper, scoop up and move a baby to a safer spot much more than anyone else. Often after my day off, someone will say, you should have seen what Lily was trying to do yesterday. One of us mentioned, “Denise would be having a heart attack over that one!” Although I don’t really see myself as a worrisome person, my worry boundary level is much higher than everyone else’s. Keeps me on my toes for sure. The joys of Grandma-hood. I should rap that.

Landon 9 months, 2001…

Along the years, 3 more amazing grandchildren joined us. Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) in 2000, Peyton in 2004 and Graham in 2009. Twenty five years have flown by since Ari, and that’s the only and best way to describe it. Flown past. You could slow that part down just a bit God. How the heck did Ari get to be 25? Remains a mystery. Ari and (her) Josh came over on a warm summer weekend last year to tell us they were expecting. Couple of breaths later I realize that would make my young-ish daughter Shannon a GRANDMA AND ME A GREAT-GRANDMA. Oh my stars. That seems too young for both of us. It was quite surreal for a few weeks.

Peyton 9 months, 2005…

Ari put this app on her phone. A backdrop where she’d stand sideways in front of a wall, smiling. A cute little saying next to her might announce, I’m 13 weeks and the baby is the size of a walnut. Later on, a lemon, grapefruit, cantaloupe, honeydew, summer squash. Finally a watermelon, which is exactly how she looked. Her face still thin, legs and arms too, but her belly absolutely looked like a watermelon was just languishing right there in her middle. She could no sit or sleep comfortably and hadn’t seen her cute feet in days.

Graham 9 months, 2010…

When Ari was born there were quite a few similarities to her having a baby this week. Her uncles Josh and Adam were 16 and 12 when she was born. Twenty-five years later, Ari’s sibs, Uncle Landon is 16 and Aunt Peyton is 12. My Mom had a girl first. Me too, so did Shannon. I knew right away that Ari was having a girl. I would have easily wagered a few bucks that her baby would also be born in the month of December, and on an even date. And she should have been. Due on January 3rd, you could easily understand baby girl’s dilemma. “No, sorry Mommy, I’m unable to proceed with the birthing process. I’m already too big and very comfy right here, so please just continue eating and I’ll be fine & dandy. You and daddy can meet me later. OK?” Ari probably should have had a C-section. Hindsight, good birth control for the future.

A fun weekly update showing the growing signs of Jovi, 2016..

After being induced a week after her due date, enduring a ‘quick’ 24 hours of miserable labor, baby girl made her whopping debut. In this corner, weighing in at 9 pounds, 1 ounce, the lovely yet formidable, Jovi Marie. Ari finally a new mommy, said, “thanks for not waiting any longer Jovi or gaining another ounce.”

A tuckered out Jovi right after being born, 1-11-16…

She wasn’t born on an even, low date of the month either. Jovi joins her daddy, aunts Peyton and Sarah with the uneven dates of 15, 7 and now two 11’s. Although we love them all, I’ll be working out equations until my head spins trying to make this work.

One happy family! Josh, Ari & Jovi Marie…

Great-grandpa and I were not at the hospital when Jovi was born. We thought about going after 16 hours of labor, but Ari was still stuck, dilated to only 4. Plus there were several more important people with her for support. So we waited, worrying and praying everything would be OK.

So much love and emotion. Jovi and Mommy, 1-11-17…

John and I first met Jovi when she’d been on earth for about 12 hours. So hard to put into words. If you can imagine the joy of holding your newborn, multiply several times. Here’s this tiny, exquisite person. Filling out a newborn sleeper perfectly. My kid’s, kid’s kid. As she squirmed, squeaked, frowned and slept contentedly, this is what ran through my head.

Jovi and her great-grandma-me! 1-12-17

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace, of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

Shannon Marie (Gi-gi) with Jovi Marie, 1-12-17…

The Monkees, 1966 (an awesome year BTW)

Jovi & great grandpa John cuddling, 1-12-17…

Welcome to our family, Jovi Marie. I hope you know how much you are loved and adored…

Jovi = perfection, thanks so much God…

There was a short time frame in my life when I thought I was invincible. I don’t mean those teenage years when you think nothing bad can ever happen. I knew better, having lost my only brother when he was 12. No, this short segment of time actually felt like 2 minutes, but it was more like 5 years. I’m here to tell you the sad tale about a gal who thought she had talent. Me.

No fireplace mantle. Bought a curtain rod and hung our stockings on the sliders…

My 5 year stint in infamy started around 1980. My wonderful sister-in-law Elly was more than handy, she was talented and crafty. And really, really into Christmas. Every December she painted her huge dining room window in a different religious Christmas setting. Hark the herald angels sing, the manger scene, Mary and Joseph with Jesus. You get the picture. Ha-ha-a pun. Wish I had one to show you. I think Elly painted the scene backwards so the window looked best to those walking or driving past her house. Amazing. People in Spencer looked forward to what she would paint every Advent. Elly had craft and talent oozing from her pores. My pores have always been clogged.

Elly set the bar unbelievably high. We lived in Spencer from 1977 until 1982, so I was aware of her gifts and my lack there of. She made me a bisque Nativity Set for Christmas in 1979 by hand. I might have given her a set of dish towels. Cringe. Part of it was she was crafty and enjoyed it. Part of it was she really thought a lot of our whole family. Since she’s 18 years older than her baby brother (my Hubs) we didn’t know her and Dewey very well when we got married. But that changed dramatically when we moved to the same town they lived in, Spencer. Their 4 kids were mostly grown, married and having babies of their own by then. Our warm relationship was part-friendship, part antique collectors and maybe a little-mother-son-daughter-thing. Our kids knew Elly and Dewey as aunt and uncle, but really considered them more like another set of grandparents. This closeness lasted long after we moved away.

The following year in 1980, Elly made me a Christmas tree skirt. Woman!! A kit she bought, cutting out different colored stamped felt pieces. Sewing them to the circle skirt. With sequins and pom poms. I was humbled by her talents and great gifts. I needed to up my game and do something awesome for her for a change. Except for those damn plugged pores which enveloped my whole body. I was hopeless. And clogged up.

Nevertheless, I bought a tree skirt kit right after Christmas that year. Probably because Sernett’s had them on clearance. I was determined to make Elly something handmade which conveyed how much she meant to me and prove it was possible to unclog my clumsy-no-talent-pores. The skirt took me the better (ha-who-am-I-trying-to-kid-MISERABLE) part of 1981 (that whole year still gives me the willies) but I got-r-done. And the skirt turned out quite nice. But something happened to me during the process. Even though it was torture, I actually thought I could do crafty projects. As if.

Another friend living in Spencer named Shari, was more artsy-fartsy than Elly. Maybe I ran around with them to keep myself humble. Now I was eating humble pie on a regular basis. Shari convinced me our Christmas tree needed more homemade ornaments. (Just kill me now). She brought over little patterns of semi-easy (but 10 on the difficulty scale for this putz). I bought pieces of felt, cutting out tiny shapes, glueing and sewing eyes, ears and mouths. I didn’t realize there were stores full of craft and sewing needs in the world. When the directions called for a bit of stuffing in the snowman or bear’s belly, I had no idea what to use. I finally ran to the dryer and pulled out the full lint trap. Ta-da, stuffing. It was at this time that I should have realized crafts and Neese had no business doing business together. But foolishly thought I had morphed into a crafty person. Indeed.

The snowman and teddy bear I struggled to make with dryer lint 1980..,

Sadly we moved from Spencer so my two encouraging mentors were no longer available for their uplifting chats. I was on my own in the craft world, which really ended being a form of Dante’s hell. I got the crazy notion our whole family needed handmade felt Christmas stockings. And we numbered 5. Might as well have been 19 & Counting Duggars (without all their weird shit). I bought 5 stocking kits at the end of the year clearance sale. Giving me plenty of time, about 8 weeks each to finish them before December 1st, the following year. Piece of cake. Not.

Each stocking was different. I started on the one I deemed the easiest. But it was also the biggest. Why hadn’t I looked on the package and noticed that one was gigantic? The other 4 were all the same size. Right away, Joshua claims the big one. He thinks more candy and toys will fit in it of course. Smart kid. He was about 9. The kit had all these minuscule parts you have to cut out. Little cheeks, eyeballs, and hands. The parts that didn’t have felt to cut out, you had to stitch in the blushing cheeks or little mouth. Nightmares are easily made of similar things. The pattern on Joshua’s stocking is a little boy and girl coming down the stairs with Santa and his bag of toys at the bottom. The actual stocking had a blue inked pattern where all these tiny parts needed to be sewn. They have to be stitched in exactly the right place or the blue marks show and it looks like ka-ka. Houston, we have ka-ka.

My stitches are big, uneven and blue ink marks are on the side of his face. Sigh…

Remember now, we’ve moved from Spencer to Davenport so I’m not only new in town, I’m alone and 350 miles away. Long distance phone calls are expensive and not to be wasted on silly craft projects when one is not crafty. I had already bravely walked into 30 Lanes and gotten on a bowling team and league. These gals would soon become some of my dearest friends (still) and wouldn’t ‘ya know, some of them had the craft gene. One perfectionist named Mary Lou (not to be confused with my bestie, Mary Ellen aka-Fred) noticed Joshua’s stocking, I had barely started on it, but definitely showing some blue ink where there shouldn’t be. She literally gasped and choked. Started clucking her tongue and shaking her head. Not pleased. This would not do. At all. Asked what in the world was I trying to accomplish? Gulping, I tried to explain. Stuck her hand up and out (no explanation can fix this Denise) grabbed all 5 kits as she left my house. (Thank you God).

Hubs and my stocking done professionally by Mary Lou, 1984…

Mary Lou might have finished them the following day by the end of business. Oh I jest, but they did not take her very long, maybe a month, tops. You did see ‘perfectionist’ by her name, right? I don’t remember what all I did for Mary Lou. Gave her some money and did some baking (take that Mary Lou, she didn’t really like cooking or baking, yay me) for the next few months. And my family had some exquisite Christmas stockings. I did manage to add each name on the tops of their own stocking, using leftover sequins. I think Shannon might have helped me with one or 2. And the small bubble burst and I realized no more crafts cause I just wasn’t capable. My little world was happy until there was no cute stocking for the very exquisite Ariana. My first grandchild. I had heart palpitations for 6 months after she was born, worrying about her lack of a Christmas stocking. While I hemmed and hawed on this new (wonderful) dilemma I got her a store bought stocking and hung my head in shame.

Lame store bought cheap stockings while I figured out who could make me more…

Another move and we’re in North Muskegon. I started working in the kitchen at McDonald’s. Great job, best boss. Ever. Not too long after I started, Mark the owner hired a gal my age named Carol. She had ‘crafty’ tattooed on her forehead, so spotting her was easy. Ari was now about 5 (yes, 5 years of shame for her lame stocking). I bought a cute stocking kit for her and Carol whipped up that puppy in nothing flat. Raggedy Ann and Andy, both with orange hair. Too stinking adorable. A couple years later, Shannon married Tracey, so Carol stitched one for him. Two years later, Landon (come on say it with me, “Drew to the rest of the world”) made his basketball appearance and Carol made a stocking for him. And yes, the name Landon will forever be on his stocking.

After a few years, I left McDonald’s and Carol moved. We would have a short respite until our little ballerina Peyton danced her way into my life. I was without a crafty person again. Dang it, how can it be so hard to keep these peeps in my ordinary life? At the time I was Parish Visitor and thought maybe one of my ‘gals’ could make a stocking. Now it’s been 20 years since I first bought felt stocking kits. The ones Carol made looked nothing like the ones from the mid-’80’s. Bling. They have sequins up the wa-zoo, and the patterns are so detailed. Not an inch on the stocking is without some decoration. Some of my little ladies could have done it a decade before but not anymore.

I had a part-time job cooking 2 nights a week at an assisted living facility. I use the term ‘cooking’ loosely but that’s a blog for another day. I asked around and a co-worker offered to make a stocking for 40 bucks with the promise it would be done by Christmas Eve. Oh boy. Why didn’t I ask for references? She stopped me in the hallway a couple days before Christmas. “I’m not going to be done with the stocking. It’s so hard. Everything takes too long. Sorry.”

My beautiful fairy ballerina, Peyton, 12, 2016…

About 6 weeks later, the gal at work handed me a bag. I gave her the money and eagerly reached for the stocking. There are not words to describe what was in front of me. I just stood there and cried. Out of frustration and anger. Let me show you a Christmas ornament that Ari made in Montessori preschool when she was 3. Yes, 3. The little beige doodle bug shows more talent than my ruined 15 dollar kit plus the money I just doled out. I honestly don’t know how anyone could hand that monstrosity to me. I would have lied and said my house burned down. Sorry I’m homeless. I threw it back in the bag and begged God that John would forget about the stocking and not ask to see it. Wrong. Sorry God, no more frivolous praying for dumb stuff. He (John not God, though God for sure was dumbstruck about the stocking too).

Top left center, beige doodle bug ornament made with more expertise by Ari, 3, 1994..;

Back to the drawing board. I had recently bought an old handmade quilt top. Why, I haven’t a clue. My friend had inherited it and didn’t want it. The quilt top was twin size, made of small squares of very loud 1940-ish cotton. I wanted to have it finished, but the right way. Of course I was having trouble finding the right person for this job. Everyone who looked at the quilt top wanted to do 2 things. Machine quilt it and fold all the darling zig-zag edge pieces down. Ugh. No, I waited because it would have been hand quilted had it been finished 60 years ago. And the most unique part of the quilt top was the edge. An amazing talented gal named Sue from my church came to my rescue. She belongs to at least one quilt club, maybe several. Her work is unbelievable. I literally drool when I see her quilts. Which ticks her off because of the dry cleaning bill. Sue finished my quilt perfectly, hand quilting it and leaving the cute edges.

Neat quilt that Sue completed. The bottom black edge is the cutest part, 2009…

Light bulb revelation. Maybe Sue was the crafty person missing in my life. She was!! I brought over a couple stocking kits and the pitifully sad sack stocking (so Sue would feel sorry for me). After her disbelief mumbling about the hack job, she squealed “Ohh, this looks like fun.” (Are you for real?) For the most part (except for the quilt and Christmas tree skirts later) Sue refused monetary payment. Lucky for this loser, she didn’t enjoy cooking and seemed to like mine. And loved my canned goods. Every time I made something special, I brought over a meal, a basket, or dessert to Sue’s and Bill’s house. Sue made Peyton’s, Graham’s, Sarah’s, and Erica’s stockings. Then she whipped up 4 Christmas tree skirts one year for Shannon, Joshua, Adam and Ari’s big gift.

To be on the safe side Sue stitched 2 spare Christmas stockings for our family, which continues to grow. Thanks God. Those two have been languishing in my antique blanket chest. I got them out hoping Ari might become a new mommy by Christmas. But our little baby girl was not quite ready to celebrate Christmas with us in 2016. Graham, grandpa and I got into a heated discussion about which stocking was perfect for her of the 2, so I invited Ari over to choose. (Ha-she chose the one I picked out. Maybe not as much ‘bling’ but it’s a little snow angel. Duh, easy choice) Then I tucked it back in the blanket chest and will stitch her little sequin name for 2017. I offered to stitch Josh’s name on the blingy one this Christmas. “Not yet gram. Wait until he proposes!” Smart girl. Gotcha….

For Josh if he ever proposes…

It all started at The Canary, a bar in North Muskegon. Unlikely location for this non-drinker, as I’ve been in the joint maybe 3 times in the 20 plus years we lived there. It was Hubs. He’d stop after work for a beer a couple times a week, along with the cronies he’d meet there. Shooting the shit about everything from work, hunting, guns, to cars and on certain rare (I hope) occasions, his better half-me.

The Canary Bar, North Muskegon…

His name was Ken. I guess you’d call him a fringe friend. Ken was at The Canary on a regular basis. I don’t really know how ‘bar talk’ works. A group of guys sitting in the general vicinity of each other, joining in conversations now and then. So that’s how Hubs met Ken. I really don’t remember meeting him the first time. Most likely John came home with stories about this guy or that couple, so by the time I actually met Ken, it felt like I already knew him.

Something Hubs might bring to The Canary. Salsa & chips to share…

John would occasionally bring canned goods to the bar to share. Sometimes our super hot pickled asparagus. He would open a quart and pass it around, accepting the ‘oohs and ahhs’ on my behalf. Other times I’d pack a box with a couple dozen jars of miscellaneous canned goods, pickles, beets and jams. The guys who happened to be there that day would divide the jars up and take home. Ken admired me (not in a weird way) I guess from the things John said (they never mentioned anything derogatory to my face) over the years. My job as Parish Visitor, visiting the elderly, homebound people from the church. I always brought folks some baked or canned goodies. That wasn’t part of my job, it was just part of me. I couldn’t visit anyone without bringing them something to eat.

My usual basket of goodies when I went visiting…

Several years ago, Ken called and asked if he could buy and bring over the fixings for a Thanksgiving dinner. Would I see that a needy family get his and Karen’s gift? No problem. I’d relay the offer to our pastor. If no one in our congregation needed the meal, he’d pass the offer to an appropriate agency. I’d get the food box from Ken, bring it to church a few days before Thanksgiving. The pastor would do the rest. I never knew where it went, but think I received a thank you a couple of times, and passed that along to Ken, who seemed somewhat embarrassed. Every year until we moved Ken did this good deed.

Much of the bar conversations involved old cars. This is in Le Mars, Iowa, the day John (with Les) bought our 1964 Corvette, 1992…

The same year the food gift box tradition started, Ken had called me in October. “Hey Denise, would you like some of our grapes? It’s been a bumper crop. We have way too many.” Though I never worked with grapes before, I blurted out, “wow, sure Ken, thanks!” Oh my goodness, what had I done? When I walked out the front door the next morning for my walk, there on the deck were 2 bushels of grapes. Unless you’re a canner or winemaker, you have no idea how many fricking grapes that is. Got out my trusty canning books to learn the art of making grape jelly. Although I got Ken’s grapes every year for a good decade, they were never again placed at my feet, on the front porch, so to speak. Ken would call John, ask to speak to me, tell me the grapes were ready anytime in the next few days. “Better bring a couple of boxes and scissors along when you come to pick grapes.” Some years there were tons, other years the crop was lean for one reason or another. Since I keep a journal of my canning exploits, I believe that first year yielded 500 ounces, about 4 gallons. Yes, that’s 4 gallons of grape juice. Way to break me in Ken. During that winter and spring, I never left the house without a few jars of grape jelly to give away. Bumper crop indeed.

The lowly little Concord grape…

About the cheapest product (ok, not counting Ramen Noodles) in the grocery store is grape jelly. A staple for school lunches across America. Since the grapes were free, I could compete. I still needed boatloads of sugar, pectin, jars and lids. But I never realized how much work is involved with grapes. Ken’s grapes were a little different too. He actually grew 3 varieties. The Concord accounted for about 90%, but there was a reddish grape and a green grape in the mix. I am convinced that’s what made my grape jelly so stinking good. Just added a little zip with those 2 other grape varieties. But grapes are messy. You’ve got to wash, de-stem, and smash them, keeping the skins and seeds. Throw them in a huge pot with a bit of water and simmer for a few minutes. The house smells incredible at this point. But the work has just begun.

Concords before I start working on them…

After simmering, the grapes are now juice, but still have all the seeds, some pulp and skins in the pot. Carefully I ladle this hot mess in a colander covered with a damp, doubled cheesecloth. You have to be patient here because this step can’t be rushed. I don’t want to squeeze the grapes or force the juice through the cheesecloth too fast. This makes my jelly cloudy. There goes competing with the grocery store. After a couple hours of dripping juice, I toss the skins and pulp. But I’m still not ready for jelly. I must be out of my freaking mind. Sigh. I pour this beautiful purple juice in plastic jugs and plop them in the fridge overnight. The simple grape produces something after they’ve been cooked. Just my luck. Why not? It’s called a tartrate crystal. Actually pretty but another way to ruin the looks of my jelly (or wine I think). The crystals look like maroon sequins. They adhere to the sides and bottom of the plastic jugs. So I carefully pour (again) the cold juice through another damp cheesecloth, leaving the empty jugs holding the sequin crystals. I know, isn’t it easier to spend $1.99 on 2 pounds of Welch’s? Maybe, but I’m convinced my jelly has superior taste. And I love to can. Yeah, there’s that.

Such a slow process for one of the easiest things I can…

When Ken started giving me grapes, Landon was 6 or 7, Peyton was about 3 and in Montessori preschool. The kids thought it would be fun to come over and make grape jelly with grandma. Shannon brought some fancy shaped jelly jars for their teacher’s Christmas gifts. Landon and Peyton were not content to just help with jelly part. To them, the real fun was in the smashing part. So they’d come for the weekend because we had to wait for the tartrate crystals to form overnight, then rid the juice of those little buggars before we could start making jelly.

Cute jar of grape jelly…

Picture, if you will, (I sound like Rod Serling don’t I?) 2 kids, 2 step-stools, 2 potato mashers, 2 tubs of sticky purple grapes. Landon and Peyton each wore old t-shirts over their clothes as the grape juice squirted. I mean squirted like a super water gun on steroids. Everywhere. Really. Each year they came to make jelly, there were grape stains. ON MY KITCHEN CEILING. I kid you not. Still some of my best memories and times with those 2. Luckily they grew weary of the smashing part after a few minutes. Shannon and I would finish, cook, strain and clean up the kitchen. Landon and Peyton would watch a movie with grandpa. Usually, Shannon and I would make a dozen apple pies to split after the kids went to bed. The next day we’d make a couple batches of jelly. I’d wait to can the rest after they went back to Jackson. Landon and I would studiously go over the steps of jelly making, so he could convince his teacher he made the jelly himself as a gift for her. That little family tradition lasted about 5 happy years. I really miss making jelly with them. Hadn’t thought about that for years. Change. Everything always changes.

Peyton 3, Ari 15, Landon 7, the era of family jelly making…

Funny how I never equated Ken, the fringe friend, good hearted, grape guy with the impact he had on my life, (and the grandkids). How Ken probably overheard a simple conversation about John’s-elderly-visiting-canning-wife and was compelled to get involved and offer his own gifts. Ken called and asked me if I wanted his grapes last year. But we had just moved here and still had boxes everywhere. So I apologized and sadly declined. This is the first year I’ve ever had to buy grapes to make jelly. Ouch. Not sure I’m competitive with Meijer prices anymore. But it was fun and I’d like to think my grape jelly is still better than store bought. Thanks for all those years of grapes, Ken. And the marvelous memories, my fringe friend…

The dastardly tartrate crystals…

Just a titch over a year. Wow, it’s gone really fast. I equate the 3 years prior like an uncomfortable, never ending 9th month of pregnancy. With the baby still snuggly inside and perched on your bladder. Kneading their tiny toes in it from all angles. Just testing your mettle to see if you could make it to the bathroom in time. Honing their skills with sharp elbows, knees, and feet, trying to earn a black belt in karate before the day of their birth. That one month lasts exactly 1,453 days. Hubs and I were so anxious to be gone from Muskegon. I feel kinda bad about that. We lived there for 21 years, but were ready to move after 18 years. For reasons I still don’t understand, we were literally stuck in North Muskegon for another 3 years. A dead zone.

Wish my belly would have looked this good for any of my 3 pregnancies. As if. Where are the stretch marks?

Nobody’s fault. We just couldn’t get out of Muskegon. We had a lovely home with a lovely yard, on a lovely lake. That I grew to dislike. Which is the part that makes me feel bad. That home was part of us for the biggest chunk of our marriage so far. Adam was a sophomore when we moved, Josh was at Michigan State, Shannon was in her mid-20’s. A single mom to toddler Ari, they came often to visit on the weekends. But none of the kids ever felt that real tug of attachment to our lake house. That part of family life in a home with 3 growing children belonged to Spencer, Davenport and Jackson. That’s where we made the scratch marks on the doorways to show how much each of them had grown during the previous year. Heck, everyone but Adam was done growing by the time we called North Muskegon home. Ok, tiny fib. Fess up time. I wasn’t finished growing outwards, but I was done with the upwards part. Sigh.

We did little else but drive across the state for one reason or another. Oh we wanted to do the things the drive required. Watch a middle school basketball game of Landon’s. Accept the invitation from Peyton to enjoy a program for (name a holiday). And we watched our youngest grandson, Graham, then a toddler at least once a month, sometimes every other week. Plus visits to Josh and Erica in Detroit or spend time with our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. But all these dear family members lived between 150 and 175 miles east of us. Every one of them.

Graham 3, ready for trick or treating, 2012…

I want to be able to look back, and reminisce about the years in North Muskegon without these negative feelings I still have about living there. Waiting for that stuff to pass. We had some great years there, but by the time Uber-realtor Mary finally hooked up the SOLD sign, we were so far past being weepy or sad about leaving. We just wanted to get the heck out of Dodge. My hope is after awhile the memories I conjure up will be of more happy times. Family get togethers, working at McDonald’s, visiting the elderly and enjoying our nice lake home. But those warm fuzzy feelings haven’t hit me yet. Still, better than lamenting an unwanted move and being miserable about it.

Which brings me to the present and our little house. I guess the reason the year went so darn fast is because we didn’t stop working on the joint for 2 minutes. Just so much to do, before and after we moved in. We knew several years ago if and when we ever moved, we were gonna do a smaller house on one level. I really wanted a condo but Hubs was not yet ready to give up all that fun stuff I call yard work. Crazy goofball. Well, if it was going to be a house, then the yard had to be smaller and easier to take care of. Living on a lake was quite a bit of work. In and out with the dock every spring and fall, upkeep on the sea wall, hard water rust stains, sprinkler heads needing to be replaced. Constant care to maintain green grass (John is anal about his lawn with nary a weed) on 4 inches of topsoil over sand, sand and more sand. With just as many spiders as grains of sand. The spiders never bothered me too much as long as they were smalller than the bottom of my shoe. Once in a while it was hard to tell as they often wrapped all 8 adorable legs around the sides of my shoe as I squished them hard enough to crack the cement driveway.

Steel toed shoes were a must when the spiders threatened to over power me…

So we bought a small ranch in a quiet neighborhood just east of Jackson. It’s very close to where we wanted to be. I would have preferred to be another 15-20 miles east, but I swear every mile east from here is another 10 grand per hundred square feet. Insane. Ann Arbor is one of the most expensive cities to live in or near. We got a lot more house the closer we stayed to Jackson. Since we lived in Jackson from 1987 to 1994 before we moved to North Muskegon, we knew the area and have friends here. It was a good choice and fit.

My little ballerina in the early years. Peyton, 2008…

But it was our second choice. We bid on another house a few miles away first and both really wanted it. It needed about as much work as the one we got. The yard was about twice the size as this place, which made me hesitant for all the work that part would entail. For John. Made it clear decades ago, I don’t do yard work, unless I’m forced. I don’t know how to start the lawn tractor or the snow blower. Never used either one and I’m fine with that. Actually kind of smug about that strange fact. I do a lot of stuff inside the house. If I’m outside, you can safely ascertain, I’m not working.

Mot my idea of fun times. Back yard with leaves-r-us, 2016…

I liked the layout of the the other ranch better when we were bidding. Since we’ve lived here for a year, I may have changed my mind. The other house had a bigger living room. But no family room. After living in our lake home for 2 decades and virtually using the formal living room only during Christmas season, I thought I was ready to give up that seldom used space. The house we bought has a living room and and a family room. I’m kinda surprised to find myself spending some time each day in the little antique filled living room. I read the morning paper, blog, take a power nap after work in it. After supper I’m in the family room with John. It seems to work for us.

You ever put on an old shirt you wore several years ago? Sometimes it’s kind of an uncomfortable feeling. The back across your shoulder blades seems unusually tight. You keep wanting to pull the sleeves down a little, they’re just not long enough anymore. You tug at the front of the shirt because your unattractive muffin-top shows off the rolls of your belly that you swear weren’t there just a few months ago. That feeling is similar to one I experience once in a while about our house. I’m gonna burst out of this house completely because it’s just not quite big enough. I want the bedroom to be a couple of feet bigger. More walking around room because I’m selfish and have insisted on keeping too many antiques. Plus I’m still missing the one antique I swore would fit at the end of our bed. Well it doesn’t, unless I want to climb over the bed to get out of the door. The kitchen can drive me a bit batty when I’m in the middle of a baking or canning spree. There is literally no more room. I cannot find one square inch to put another baking sheet of cookies or 7 jars from the canner. If the family room was just another 2 foot longer, or wider, the humongous flat screen would appear less domineering (that’s my job). It’s like Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. Busting out of his little Bill Bixby denim shirt.

Hulk-less and not quite so green. Bill Bixby…

But those ‘wearing a shirt that’s too stinking tight’ are rare occasions. For the most part, I smile everyday and thank the good Lord the house in North Muskegon finally sold and we are here. Close to the family. We can watch Peyton in choir, volleyball or ballet. She’s dancing in The Nutcracker in a couple weeks. Enjoy Landon’s sporting events. His first basketball game is in early December. Not to worry, I’ll keep you posted. I’m giddy with anticipation. Or I can hop in the car for 30 minutes and be at Adam, Graham and Sarah’s house. A bit longer and we’re at Josh & Erica’s new place. Here. Right here. It’s a smaller world after all. And I’m loving it…