It was in one of the last boxes from the storage unit Hubs found in the garage. We’re both still missing specific items, neither of which unfortunately, were in this box. Dang. I’ve long been fascinated with old toys ranging from pedal cars to rattles, and have had oodles of miscellaneous toys over the years. But as we’ve moved and downsized, I’ve have gotten rid of most of them. This little cutie was somehow over looked and sat forlornly on the bottom of the box. I was tickled pink to see it again.

To the babies, this is what nightmares are made of. When I sing…

The ‘pie’ was made by Mattel in 1953, so it’s pretty close to my age. When you wind the little crank, black birds pop up through the holes while it plays the tune to the song. You know when you hear a song from your past if you’re in the mall or your car? The melody or lyrics instantly bring you back to the people, times, feelings and emotions, even smells that single tune meant for you at one time. Sometimes a euphoric feeling, while another song may still cause pain after all these years. Well, Sing a Song of Six Pence did none of that. It did however, make me smile. I don’t even remember where or how long ago I bought this little toy. My guess would be a garage sale with my friend Mary Ellen when we lived in Davenport 30 years ago. Might have paid a buck or 2 for it.

Here I am in 1953 with my Dad. Same time as the pie was produced…

I found the Sing a Song of Six Pence pie in the box about 3 months ago. Since that day, the song tune has been popping in and out of my head. That’s 90 days and counting. One might think this is debilitating. Au contraire. The new tune merely plays havoc with the loud noises already in my head. 24/7. A chain saw on one side and a dentist drill on the other. The song has actually been a nice distraction. But I’m not the one who’s really feeling the pain of that monotonous little ditty so much.

I thought ‘my problem’ with said song had something to do with the dinky town of Dyersville, Iowa. I know that’s just weird, right? When John and I drove through Iowa in September, some of our stops were in the surrounding little towns near Dyersville. We lived amongst the Catholics during the mid-70’s. While I was feeling all nostalgic about some of our former residences, Hubs was determined to visit the movie set from Field of Dreams, which is right outside of Dyersville. If you’ve not seen the movie (what’s wrong with you 2 anyway?) it’s really endearing and worth a couple hours of your time. A magical baseball movie. Kevin Costner, Amy Madigan and one of my favorites, Ray Liotta.

Kevin makes the best baseball movies. Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, For Love of the Game…

The flick came out 25 years ago, yet the movie set remains intact and still visited frequently by passersby. The set looks exactly like it did in the movie. It helped that it was early September and the corn was still very tall and green. I could visualize the long line of cars waiting patiently in the dark to move forward during the movie. And I can hear one of the famous quotes from Shoeless Joe Jackson asking, “is this heaven?” Costner’s character, Ray answers, “no, it’s Iowa!” Wow. I bought a commemorative T-shirt after a few minutes of walking around the baseball diamond, and was ready to move on. But John was dinking around. Yak, yak yak with the clerk at the gift shop about the time we graced their fair city. And the crazy brothers Hubs worked for back in the day. Reflecting back, I think some kind of magical spell was cast over me. Heeby-jeebies. Didn’t think about The Field of Dreams or Sing a Song of Six Pence until we got back to Michigan.

The magic of Field of Dreams, 1989…

There are some problems when one is profoundly deaf, but I can’t really blame my singing ability. I don’t know how I ever made the choir in school or church when I was young. OK, the town was very small and being part of both were almost a requirement. There is that. But I’ve never really been been able to carry a tune or harmonize. Usually when one loses their hearing, most of their ability of carrying a tune leaves the building. I’ve heard folks who sang beautiful solos all their life, and have now lost most of their hearing. They can’t carry a tune anymore. I think they’re flat, but not positive. And I’m hearing impaired. Wonder how they sound to normal eared folks?

My Field of Dreams souvenir last month…

But that has not stopped me at work. Might be the reason everyone else is our room is now sporting ear plugs. Just kidding. I like to sing to the babies. A lot. While I’m giving them a bottle, rocking, or walking them to sleep. The trick is to sing quietly enough so the other caregivers can remain sane, yet the baby can hear me. Another problem is the material. We all know the Grimm brother’s fairy tales are usually just that. Pretty grim. So are the silly songs I sing. So now we have a deaf person, singing off tune, and changing the lyrics along the way so not to cause nightmares. (For the babies and my co-workers). Desperate times folks call for desperate measures.

I knew the first verse plus 2 lines of the second to Sing a Song of Six Pence.

“Sing a song of Six Pence, a pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.” (That alone is chilling)

“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.” (they’re alive and still have their innards intact? Blech).

“Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?”

“The king was in the counting house, counting all his money.

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.”

And this is where I got stuck. Could not remember the next 2 lines. So I looked it up. (My eyes, my eyes)

“The maid was in the garden, hanging up the clothes.

When down swooped a raven and bit off her nose!”

Well holy shit, I couldn’t sing it THAT way. So I just changed it to,

“When down swooped a raven and nipped her on the nose.”

My little off-kilter singing repertoire also includes: “You are my Sunshine,” “Jack & Jill went up a Hill,” “It’s me, it’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer!” “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” “Twinkle, twinkle little star,” and the famous, “Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree.” But Sing a Song of Six Pence remains my favorite. (Much to everyone’s chagrin).

Rocking a baby to sleep while singing to them is my absolute favorite part of the day. Luckily for me this happens several times each day. The baby is on their side, sometimes patting me with their arm that’s underneath. (An unbelievable feeling, almost makes me weep). Or looking at me in disbelief and picking at my shirt or face. Probably trying to claw my face or at the very least, close my mouth. And wondering how it’s humanly possible for me to screech like that? (Plus pleading, “Lord, what did I do to deserve this? Seriously God, why me?”) Such babies.

I’ve been rocking babies for 45 years. Rocking Adam in 1979…

Well the little stinkers went rogue this week. Went in cahoots with each other on my day off (probably with the help of several coworkers) and appointed a spokesman who usually speaks total gibberish. Which, until our little talk, consisted of “ga.” He’s a real charmer alright. Dark brown eyes, a smile that lights up a room and a big dimple. Just in case his eyes weren’t enough to make you melt, he sports 6 inch long black eyelashes for good measure. No lie. Yup, I’m a goner. He told me in no uncertain terms, “you have no magical power, when it comes to putting me or my crew to sleep quickly. None of us want to hurt your feelings, but self preservation won over the masses. It’s your off tune voice!” He concluded, “we have adapted rather quickly and now are able to close our eyes, slow our breathing and limit all movement. Pretending to be asleep. For one very simple reason. SO YOU’LL STOP SINGING. FOR ALL THAT IS SACRED AND HOLY. PLEASE. STOP. SINGING. We love you but it’s just too much. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. But please-keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby. Chop, chop”…

It started before I hit 25. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. And I was a sap about it. Easily wooed, and didn’t realize 40 years later, I would still be unable to change my ways. A habit? An addiction? A sick obsession? How could I let this happen? Year after year, decade after decade? I’m a weakling. So easily swayed. I’m embarrassed by my lack of determination. I suck.

One of my first attempts at changing my boring hair color. Little did I realize how soon boring brown would become gag-worthy-gray, 1967…

At first I tried cheap imitation cover-ups. Sheesh. So lame. I thought I could break this silly habit anytime I wanted. Criminy, I had the gumption to stop smoking in 1990. Surely this couldn’t be as hard. But it has proven to me over and over that it’s nigh on to impossible for this nilly-willy loser. How difficult could this be? I guess I lack intestinal fortitude.

Me sporting a lot of gray at age 26 at Joshua’s 1st birthday, 1976…

I was about 26 when it really became noticeable. Shannon was in first grade. Joshua was a year old. I thought I looked pretty good. Finally lost all the baby weight for the second time. But something was different. Looking much older than I should. I was still smoking which didn’t help, and laying out in the sun any time it was between 55 and 70 degrees. I didn’t care if it was December. If it was sunny and over 55, but not hot enough to where I’d actually sweat, I was getting a tan. Yeah, my body. Not so much of a temple back then.

The only thing brown is my skin. Hair is really gray at age 33…

Seemed like overnight I noticed some gray hair. Actually a lot of gray hair. More than a fair amount on anyone under 30. What to do, what to do? They probably have some fancy name for this procedure these days, but back in the mid-70’s, it was called ‘frosting.’ A dye kit you bought at the store. It came with a rain cap thingy. You put the rain cap on your head, then placed your entire trust in a very good friend. My friend for the job was Jeanene. The rain cap had tiny holes all over it. Wasn’t flawed, it was supposed to have holes. Small holes. It was up to Jeanene to take the razor sharp edge of the accompanying crochet hook and poke my head through some or all of the holes. Give my hair a good twist and pull it through those itty-bitty openings. When Jeanene decided she had just the right amount of my hair painfully yanked through seemingly hundreds of these little hell-holes, the real fun began. She was gonna dye all those little tufts of hair. Yellow. Buttercup yellow. The logic behind this madness is that all my gray hair would no longer be noticeable because it was carefully, seamlessly swirled with my own medium, mundane, cruddy brown hair. Truthfully, Jeanene strayed off the reservation by a few thousand strands when pulling my hair through. Too much. Way too much. Must have been about 75% of my hair sticking through those holes.

Yup, just a little bit overboard with the lemon yellow. With the bed and on my hair, 1976…

Got to give a shout out to Hubs on this one. He never laughed, commented, or refused to walk beside me in the ensuing months. But it was my observant daughter Shannon who pulled no punches on my botched frosted hair job. She never said anything. Heck, she might have thought mommy looked nice. It was close to Mother’s Day and her class was given an assignment to draw a picture of mommy on their own homemade Mother’s Day card. Which she did with the precision of a brain surgeon. I guess there was no mud-puddle shade of brown in her box of crayons. Maybe because the school year was almost over. Whatever the reason, Shannon chose the darkest shade of black for my hair on my picture that year. She got the taxicab yellow spot on. I would sincerely give a hundred dollars to find that card with my picture on it. We have searched high and low, but I think it might have self-destructed after a few years. I’ll give my best description so you can visualize exactly what I looked like. Since Shannon was only 6, I sort of looked like a stick mom. But the hair said it all. Bangs, and 2 perfect (I do mean perfect) sides to my hair. The best checkerboard ever drawn. Black and bright canary yellow in perfect alternating squares. Just freaking awesome. Wish my hair had really looked that good. Sigh.

Hideous, but both kids still loved their mommy, 1976…

Since I’ve always worn my hair rather short, it really didn’t take many months before the botched frosted look was gone. But my gray hair was back with a vengeance. I blamed Adam for years. He hadn’t exactly been planned. Kind of a hard pregnancy and he was breech to boot. I had a tough time getting him here safely. I think we both were mighty close to not making it, period. And I didn’t bounce back in 6 weeks. Or 6 months. We’re forever grateful we both came through it ok. But it took a toll.

By the time I was 31 my hair was about 50-50, gray and brown. So I started having a rinse applied about every 6 weeks. It was expensive, at least to me. I think it was 11 dollars a pop. Yikes. The rinse looked great though. Covered the gray but kept my own natural blah brown. But my gray hair seemed to have a mind of its own. Strong willed. The more gray I got, the coarser my hair became. It was like a horsetail. After a couple years, my 6 week rinse lasted about a week. All my gray hair would be back, poking up every which way again. My hairdresser finally suggested I either let nature takes its course, or start using permanent hair color dye. And so it began. I decided to ditch the beauty shop and learn how to do this snow job myself every few weeks. An older gal named Jenny who I bowled with at the time suggested a medium brown in L’Oréal (as Cybil Shepherd convinced me, I was, after all, worth it). One would think with this much practice, I would become somewhat of an expert in my monthly ritual of hair dyeing. Over the years though, I can’t count how many times I’ve been in Dorothy’s chair getting my hair cut when she’d start cracking up. “Hey, you missed a spot back here about the size of Delaware!” She was my hairdresser for over 20 years and always a smart ass. Sill miss her since I’ve moved. Haven’t had a good cut either. Or a great reaction to my last dyeing attempt.

Pretty much salt and pepper by my early 30’s. with Mary Jane and Jeannie Lawrence at Mag’s in the mid-70’s…

That friends, was 30 years ago. I’ve experienced so many milestones since then. I thought, when I hit 40, I’m done dyeing my hair. Nope. OK, when I turn 45. Nada. Same came and went when I turned 50, 60 and the biggie last year, 65. Surely I’ll have a hankering to finally go gray. But I’m not ready. I wanna be ready, but I’m not. I admire gals who have beautiful gray hair. I want to emulate them. But I cannot. Not yet. Done blaming Adam. Now I blame me, the quantities buyer. I hardly ever run out of anything. If I feel like baking 40 dozen cookies, or a dozen pies on any given day, I can be semi-sure I have all the necessary ingredients to get the job done without a trip to the grocery store. I do likewise with toilet paper, paper towels, shampoo, eggs. Doesn’t matter, I just don’t run out of stuff. I was the same way when I smoked. I always bought smokes by the carton and would get twitchy when I was down to a couple of packs. Would if we lost power and I couldn’t get the garage door up? In 20 plus years of smoking, I don’t believe I ever ran out of Tareyton’s. John on the other hand, ran out daily. And then would try to mooch some of my smokes to get through the evening. Which he hated but was too lazy to go out or quantity buy like me. Loser.

Even worse. Quickly growing gray and my first and only adult perm accentuated the gray, 1978…

Over the years of at-home-dye-jobs, I’ve lightened up considerably. Experts say as you age, if you color your hair, you need ‘go lighter.’ Darker shades make you look harsh. Since I’m so up to date on this stuff, every decade or so I’ve gone a shade lighter. Thus I have enough #7 Dark Blonde L’Oréal to keep my gray away through 2017. Why can’t I just make up my mind, bite the bullet and let my hair grow out naturally? How many 65 year old women still have brown hair without help from a bottle? Part of me says it’s simply change. I don’t do well with change. I start hyperventilating just thinking about noticeably gray hair growing out on the crown of my head.

Yikes! Blond can be harsh too. With Josh in 1993…

I’m a lot of things. A sarcastic, selfish loner. But I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly vain. I don’t like to dress up or wear much makeup. Pretty sure I look my age and try to act accordingly. Most of the time. (Although I did just buy a pair of denim capris WITH A HOLE ALREADY IN THEM! For shame, I know I’m too old for that shit. But they are cute, fit nice and were on clearance for 5 bucks). I’ll probably only wear them around the house and if anyone should see me in them next summer will assume I got the hole the old fashioned way. Through years of wear and tear). So the problem remains. When will I ever be ready to stop this vicious cycle and let my hair grow out the way God intended?

I’ve been given the bird hundreds of times. This is a good one and the hair shade I’m still using, 2013…

I used to visit a gal who’s husband was declining. When she was young her hair had been jet black, and she just never changed the color. In her early 80’s, she was advised to let her hair grow out. She did. And looked simply stunning when she walked into church. But while she was in the growing out process, she was almost a recluse. Rarely went out and never without a hat. She did let me in the house to visit, but I don’t think very many people saw her those few winter months as her hair grew out. Hate to say, I can kind of see me doing that. When I decide it’s the right time to flaunt my 50 shades of gray…

Wow, she’s about the age when I started this madness!!

How is it possible this happened so long ago? Fifty-eight years to be exact. October 11, 1958. The day my brother died. Doesn’t seem possible. Larry was a happy-go-lucky kid whose death left a gaping hole in my life and my family’s. I was 7 and thought my memories of that tragic day were clear and concise. But 2 years ago when I started writing ‘Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town’ about my life, kids from Rock Valley who are a little older than me have offered their perspective of what happened that fateful day. I’m learning more stories about Larry. Although some new knowledge may be painful at times, ANY tidbits about Larry’s life or the day of his death are welcomed and truly appreciated.

Me & Larry in 1954…

I guess first were the ramifications of his death. Not just our immediate family, but the whole town of Rock Valley. A small rural, predominantly Dutch farming community of about 1,600 folks. No internet, Facebook or cellphones, but I imagine the gruesome news of his death traveled quickly. Twelve year old kid riding a bike, killed when struck by a car on Hiway 18 on a beautiful Saturday morning. I don’t know if Mom and Dad were trying to protect me, or it was too difficult to talk about, but I remember talking very little about the details of the actual accident. I had to get my version somewhere after it happened. Assume it was from my parents. Too late to ask them now. I was wrong about some things and clueless about others. Then again I was only 7, and remain rather clueless to this day.

Larry 6, by the playhouse Dad built when we lived on the west side of Rock Valley, 1952…

My first big misconception was about fault. Yes, it was an accident, but I was always led to believe it was the driver’s fault. That stretch of Hi Way 18 going through our little town had a lip (kind of like a small curb) on both sides. Larry was riding on the shoulder, and I was told the car’s tire caught that weird lip, causing the car to swerve up over that curb. Hitting Larry on his bike.

Larry 11, Denise 6 and Spitzy the dog, 1957…

I never knew until a few months ago that our family doctor was driving on Hi way 18 that day too. Stopped just a few cars behind Larry’s accident. Doc Hegg was returning from seeing patients in a nearby town because Rock Valley did not yet have a hospital. He jumped out of his car, ran to see what happened and if he could help. But there was nothing Doc could do but pronounce Larry dead. He had been killed instantly.

Larry 5-1/2, Mom 24, me 8 months, 1951…

Since Larry was 12 when he died, the kids who were closer to his age or a bit older heard more about the accident than I ever did. Recently, more than once I’ve been told it was Larry’s blue jean’s cuff that got caught in the bicycle chain, causing Larry to swerve in the path of the car. Throughout my life we always talked a lot about Larry, but some of the details I’ve heard in the last couple of years never came up with Mom or Dad. Did they assume I knew everything about the accident or that it really didn’t make a difference in the scheme of things? It was a horrific accident and Larry died as a result. Period.

Newborn Denise with big bro Larry 4-1/2 looking on, early 1951…

John and I just got back from a trip back to northwest Iowa. We meandered slowly once we crossed the mighty Mississippi heading west. Stopped at several spots we lived during our first 20 years of marriage. It was fun, and brought back many fond memories for both of us. Once we got to northwest Iowa there were lots of friends and relatives to visit whom we hadn’t seen in 2 years. The main reason for the trip, however was Hubs’ 50th Class reunion in Rock Valley. I can’t say I knew everyone in town when I was in high school. But I can say with certainty I knew everyone in high school. Freshman through seniors. During the mid to late 60’s the grades at Rock Valley Community were quite small. Maybe 50 kids in each class. Everybody knew everyone else. You might have your own little clique, but you knew every single person in high school. By name. Where they lived. Who was dating and who just broke up. Rumors about a new couple going steady. Who was getting to second base. Who was suspected of buying condoms at a gas station in Hudson, South Dakota. (Back in the Stone Age there were no handy vending machines or schools doling out free contraceptives or condoms for a quarter. You had to ask the pharmacist or a clerk in gas station. Yikes. Out of town so you wouldn’t be seen by someone you knew. Or so I’ve heard. Ok, back to my story. Don’t want my pristine reputation sullied after all these years. Stop laughing. Please). Thus, when it was time for the reunion, I was looking forward to seeing everyone too. These guys were three grades ahead of me and totally cool while I was a no name dork. Scratch that. I think everyone knew this dork’s name too.

Larry about 5, 1951…

Hubs reunion was celebrated on 2 nights. There were some folks who came Friday night but had commitments on Saturday or the other way around. Most folks traveling though went to both events like we did. The first night was hard for me because it was held in the basement of a local restaurant. Low ceilings, lots of bodies, loud conversations, laughter and guffaws. Made it very tough for me to hear much. There were several classmates attending for the first time in 50 years! I recognized and could name about 80% of them right off the bat, without glancing at their name tags. Quite a few didn’t recognize me at all. I refer you back to ‘no name dork’ who was 3 years younger. Or I look like an old hag. That’s probably it. Don’t know, didn’t ask. Since it wasn’t my class, I took a lot of pictures, kept my name tag on, and said hi to almost everyone.

Dad 34, me 8 mon. Larry 5, 1951…

So there’s this guy from John’s class named Jack. I hadn’t seen him in decades. He stopped to say hello, then mentioned cryptically, ‘I need to tell you a story when things settle down before you leave this weekend.’ Wondered what that was about, but didn’t think too much about it. Jack was busy making the rounds through 30 plus classmates, spouses and a couple of teachers. Some of whom we would not see again on Saturday.

Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

Saturday night was better for this deaf gal. Bigger room, higher ceilings, room to mill about. No one asked who I was (ok, I was wearing tag again, now including my maiden name). I teased them right back saying I would always be younger than any of them. Ha! Jack walked over to our table. I’m quite certain he was squatting in between us. Sure couldn’t tease him about that as I’ve been unable to perform that little feat of magic for the past decade. He said, “I gotta tell you a story about your brother Larry.” That was a surprise because Jack and John’s class were 2 years younger than Larry’s. Although in a small town, boys around Larry’s age of 12 at the time often played together. Jack continued, “this happened right before Larry died. I had a crummy bike. It was blue, had a basket and even worse, it was a girls bike. Larry had a cool Schwinn, and it was a boy’s bike. Larry asked if I wanted to trade bikes with him? For keeps. Larry wanted me to give him 10 dollars for his Schwinn, plus my old blue girl’s bike. Larry said he wanted my bike for his little sister Denise. I couldn’t believe my luck. An almost new Schwinn for my old bike and 10 bucks? Sweet. This was just a few days before the accident. I’ve always felt guilty about that trade. And I thought you should know.”

Larry Wayne, 1949…

I was thunderstruck. Why would Larry ever do that? I don’t remember getting the old blue girls bike, but since I was only 7, I was probably just learning how to ride. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever wondering what happened to Larry’s bike after he died. Did they know about the trade? Doubt it. Think they would have been upset about it. What I do remember with clarity is the morning of the accident. I was watching Saturday morning cartoons when I noticed Larry riding down our driveway. On my bike. I ran outside as he was heading east on 15th Street. “Why are you taking my bike?” Still pedaling, he turned around and said, “I’m going to grandpa Gerritson’s. I’m borrowing your bike cause I need to use the basket. I’ll give you a dime when I get home and bring you a surprise from town, ok?” Last words Larry ever said to me. He never made it home that day. The first responders found ‘my surprise’ in the ditch by Larry and my crumpled bike that morning. A caramel apple. My payment from him for using my bike. Didn’t realize he didn’t have a bike of his own anymore when he used mine that morning. To this day, I still can’t eat caramel apples.

Dad, Larry & Mom in 1957…

Another little snippet about the last days of my brother’s life. Huge. Really. Huge. How can I ever thank Jack enough for telling me that story? And let him know he need NEVER feel guilty about that trade. Ever. It was God’s call for Larry to go to heaven that October morning. I want Jack to know much this story means to the little kid sister, nicknamed Neese. Whose big brother sacrificed so much on a lousy trade. What 12 year old boy with cool wheels would give that up? Well, he was my brother and his name was Larry…

Larry’s last school picture. Love and miss you still…

Through 47 years of wedded bliss, we’ve belonged to some amazing church congregations. The first was a Reformed church in Sioux City. It was the one dating back the farthest, yet I remember the pastor’s name. Something I can’t seem to retrieve of very many preachers after him. Perhaps because Shannon was instrumental into getting our name well known to the rest of the congregation. She was a little stinker who loved attention, and was not shy how she got it.

You can just see the mischief in her beautiful little mug. Shannon, 1973…

His name was Rev. Wallinga. He had an unusual voice and red hair. I remember very clearly the Sunday morning when our precocious 2 year old Shannon did not return from the children’s sermon. We fretted in our seats as Rev. Wallinga prepared us for a spiritual experience, only to have him bend over, reach under his pulpit and come up holding our toddler. Embarrassed beyond words, I shoved Hubs in the general direction to claim her. A couple weeks later, she would bypass her hiding place under the pulpit, instead stopping at the piano and plunked out a few bars. This time it was me who had to go get her. She was having a good time because folks were laughing at her shenanigans. Everybody but mommy and daddy.

Ready for church with Shannon, 1973…

A few years later, we were part of a fantastic church in Spencer, Iowa. We had some great friends and connections, and were sorry when we had to move to eastern Iowa. Again. Finding a church in a new city was not easy. And this move was very different for us. Not a town like Spencer with 10,000 people, but a humongous, bustling city of Davenport with 100,000 folks. The search was on. I’m surprised we even tried this church the first time.

Hope Reformed in Spencer, Iowa…

It was a seed church. Helped or sponsored by the Reformed Church of America. Started in 1978, we missed being charter members by a few years. We started attending in 1982 or ’83. Right off the bat, it was established by the small congregation that John & Denise were an oddity in Christ’s Family Church. Why? Because we were still married. To each other. With 3 children who all claimed both of us as parents. And we were just starting our 14th year together. Most of the members were singles or divorced. Wow, this was a huge change from small town Reformed churches we were used to. Welcome to a big city congregation.

Joshua 9, Shannon 14, Bix & Adam 5, 1985…

Christ’s Family didn’t have a building yet. Every Sunday morning we met in the conference room of the Holiday Inn in Bettendorf, just a couple miles from where we lived. Although the location was unusual to the young couple from Rock Valley, who had always worshipped in very traditional sanctuaries, we adapted. I honestly can’t remember what they did for Sunday school. We only used one big conference room that I recall. The floor was covered with very loud carpet of browns and oranges. No pews of course, but black straight chairs set up in rows.

Christ’s Family Church had purchased land out in the boonies. The sign announcing the building site could be seen from the interstate. But it was out in the middle of nowhere. We broke ground and a new church facility was under way. As it got closer to completion, there were concerns about how to furnish the insides with all the necessary furniture because we were very short on funds.

We attended through most of their early days…

My Dad actually came to the rescue. I mentioned to my folks we had nothing for the sanctuary. Dad remembered hearing about a church remodel going on in Orange City, about 30 miles from Rock Valley. (Another very Dutch community). He did the leg work, found the church which indeed was getting new pulpit furniture. I don’t know if there’s a term for this stuff or not, so it’s just pulpit furniture to me. He looked at the pieces and called me back. They were all in decent shape, but old, and needed some work. The best part. They were free. John and I talked to our minister. I believe his name was Al, asking if he was interested? To sweeten the deal, Hubs and I offered to drive across Iowa, pick up the pieces, and drag them back to Davenport. Then refinish them. What were we thinking? We might have been a little crazy back then. The answer from Al was a resounding “yes, can you have them back here, completely redone in time for the building dedication?” “Umm, sure we can,” we managed weakly. Gulp.

Christ’s Family with large addition on right…

This is about our trip from hell for the heavenly furniture. We were a family of 5, going back home as usual for Christmas. John had a brand new 1984 Chevy S-10 pickup to carry the furniture. But the 5 of us did not fit in his single cab. My set of wheels at the time were dicey at best. John’s best friend Ron, owned a Japanese Mitsubishi Sapporo which had a blown engine. Hubs, being very handy, bought the car for a few bucks and installed a different engine. By himself. Which didn’t quite fit. But it got me and the kids to all the activities they needed to be driven to and fro around Davenport. This trip we needed to have both vehicles. Our drive to northwest Iowa would prove to be a game changer in our marriage. The weather was absolutely horrible. Frigid temps, snow, howling winds and white outs. And this was BC. Before cellphones. John had Joshua, 9 with him in the truck in the lead. I was lagging behind with Shannon 14 and Adam 5. The Sapporo’s defroster was on full blast trying to keep the windshield clear. The wind gusts were nearly successful in blowing us in the ditch on the 2 lane road. My knuckles were white, and I was shaking like a leaf. I kept reminding God we were doing this for Him and the church. It really was a terrible mistake to endanger our family driving in this kind of weather. I prayed most of the way home that we would arrive safe and sound. Instead of the usual 55 mph, we were putzing along about 40. The trip seemed to take forever. It was Christmas Eve Day.

Just like our ’78 Sapporo. It had some issues…

God saw fit to keep the Van Berkum family, the dicey car and spiffy new truck safe that day. The closer we got to Rock Valley, the easier it was to breathe. We pulled into Jim and Mag’s driveway with time to spare. (My parents didn’t really celebrate Christmas since Larry died, though I did buy them a small artificial tree that Mom put up for several years since our kids were small. Ever since I was a teen dating John, it was always his family who had the big celebration on Christmas Eve). Relaxed while the kids snooped through the presents, shaking this one or guessing what was in that one. Devouring some of grandma Mag’s Christmas goodies as they waited impatiently for all their cousins to arrive. Didn’t happen. One of the brothers called saying the roads were too bad to drive 35 miles. This is a joke, right? We drove through hell for 350 miles, but 35 miles were just too much. I was angry and hurt. We never seemed to be worth the effort sometimes. I looked at Hubs. He looked at me, and in that instant we both knew this was the last year we would be driving home for Christmas. No more trips over ice covered roads. A change was in store. We needed to start our own tradition. When the kids were grown, it was unlikely both sets of grands would still be around. We needed to start our own quirky way of doing Christmas. This was all decided with one phone call, and a look between a husband and wife after 16 years.

The weather was perfect as we headed to Orange City to pick up Christ’s Family’s new, old pulpit furniture. The church’s new furniture had been installed, and their cast offs were waiting for us, neatly stored by the door. We were dumbfounded. By the old and the new. The new stuff was awful. What were they thinking? Sharp curves, ultra modern. It honestly looked like laminate glued to particle board. Didn’t fit or look very good in their very traditional sanctuary. The old furniture was a surprise too. Wow. Solid oak, full of curlicues appliqués. Stunning. Whispered to John we’d better get the good stuff out before they came to their senses and changed their minds. Loaded it up, covered it with tarps and we headed back to eastern Iowa.

It would be a few months before our church was dedicated, but by the looks of things, this was gonna take us awhile. John and I had refinished many antiques by this time. But it’s always different doing a piece that’s NOT going in your own home. Let’s say a lot less motivational than when I’d find a bargain at a garage sale, then drive Hubs insane until we got it refinished. We had our own method. He’s always been the stripper (don’t go there). His hands never seem to be bothered by that caustic crap. He’s also the repair guru, and the stain guy. But wait. I do have a little part in this assembly line of refinishing antiques. I’m the varnish, tung oil, polyurethane gal. Patience is a virtue during this procedure. John goes too fast and ends up with runs. He just wants to be done.

We start on the furniture. No one has seen it but us. I know patina is sacred in the world of antiques, never to be messed with, but that’s never been the way we roll. I’m not bothered if the value is a bit less because it’s been stripped. I want to see the grain POP. And the pulpit furniture had no POP left. Too dark and foreboding. We stripped it and discovered the beautiful oak grain again. Holy Hanna. Just a quick swipe of walnut stain for 3 seconds, then wipe it off and let it dry. Then my job of giving 2 or 3 coats of preservative. The biggest obstacle? Well there were really 2. First the exquisite Communion table. Inscribed on the front, This Do In Remembrance Of Me. About a half an inch deep in the wood. Which needed to be painted in red. Hubs must have bought 5 different reds. Couldn’t find the right color he wanted. I believe he ended up mixing several shades himself to find the perfect oxblood shade. Which was painstakingly applied with a tiny paintbrush. By John with his big hands. He refused to let me help with the painting part. The other problem was were the 2 pulpit chairs, which needed to be recovered. The leather was worn and cracked. And we didn’t know how to reupholster furniture. We asked around and a member of the church said she could do it when we were done refinishing the wood.

The pulpit that we refinished in 1985…

The congregation was amazed at how beautiful the furniture looked on the stage (is it called a stage in church situations? Maybe holy stage). But from the get-go of this little project, the consensus of the whole congregation was this old furniture would only be used until funds were saved and new furniture could be bought. Fine by us. What’s a couple months work for the Lord anyway?

The pulpit chairs, 2016…

We just returned home from a trip to Iowa. John had his class reunion and we had lots of relatives to visit. Trying to fit everything in, scheduling before hand was part of the planning. Since I started blogging, this reminiscing thing has hit me hard and often. I think about something in my past, and write a story about it. Sometimes it’s easily forgotten, sometimes I dwell on certain stories. I told Hubs I wanted to take a little nostalgic trip on the way to northwest Iowa. We were stopping in Davenport anyway because I stop and play double deck euchre with my good friends.

Basilica St. Francis Xavier, Dyersville, Iowa…

I wanted to stop in Dyersville where Joshua was born, and check out the movie set from Field of Dreams, and go through the Basilica of St. Francis Xavier again. A magnificent Catholic Church. Trot to New Vienna where we were the only non Catholics living in the whole town. On to Worthington, the rental house where all the floors were a bit askew. And then one of my favorite stories called The Farm, outside of Cascade. We could not locate the farm house which was a disappointment. The house in Worthington was almost unrecognizable, but we definitely still saw a slight slant. The hospital where Josh came into the world was very new in 1975. Now it’s had about 3 additions. The little yellow ranch in New Vienna now has a brick front, and we only knew it was the right house, by the home that sits behind it.

How did I not trip on those bell bottoms? The Cascade farm, 1976…

Both of us wanted to drive past Christ’s Family Church. Which is now smack dab in the middle of part residential, part retail area. No longer out in the sticks. The church too has had a big addition. It was early evening, and there were a few cars in the parking lot. A young man got out of his car, so we parked and followed him to the front doors. Which were locked. He was trying to find the gym to play basketball, so we walked along to the side door which was also locked, but there were lights on and activity inside. We knocked. A lady came to the door somewhat warily and asked what we wanted. The ball player was given directions to the other side of the building. We politely ask if we might look inside the sanctuary for a minute. She said, “wait here,” and closed the door. A minute later a guy about our age let us in. We said we had attended in the early days before and while they were building the church. The fond memories we had worshipping with the congregation. And our small part in landing the free pulpit furniture to be used on a temporary basis. He asked where we lived now while he led us up a couple stairways. Walked through the back door of the sanctuary, and flipped on the lights. Holy smoke, this is gonna sound biblical. Not gonna lie, I just stood there and wept. Our beautiful pulpit furniture. Looking exactly like the day we helped haul each piece into the new building, over 30 years ago. I just can’t remember when something like that has affected me so. Maybe the chairs have been reupholstered again, but the pulpit and the Communion Table have not been touched. I ran my hand over all the gorgeous curlicues. John touched the oxblood paint in the lettering. I was literally overcome with emotion. About furniture. Silly. We had often wondered what would have become of the furniture when they were finished with it, and had hoped another seed church would have been the lucky recipient for a spell. We decided those precious pieces couldn’t or shouldn’t ever be cast aside. “This Do In Remebrance Of Me” should always have a church home and never be retired…

It was this piece which brought all the tears, 2016…

I would say the first 18 years of my life were very sheltered. I was raised in a small, Dutch community in northwest Iowa. Probably calling the whole town of Rock Valley-Dutch-isn’t fair. But a very large percentage of that small town was of Dutch descent. The town boasted a beautiful Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran churches, but were highly outnumbered by the amount of Reformed churches. From what I remember, a Calvin, Christian, First, and a Netherlands for sure. So the Dutch outnumbered all the other nationalities by a long ways.

After Sunday night RCYF, the teens marched up to this addition to hear the sermon, mid-1960’s…

I never thought about it when I was young. Kids don’t think like that. It’s just the way I was raised. You don’t wonder, why isn’t there a Synagogue, or a Mosque? But as I got older, I did wonder why all the different versions of Reformed? Was it like 15 Christians fighting with the other 75 in their congregation years ago, getting fed up with some minor detail of their bylaws, then breaking off and starting over with their own little set of rules and beliefs? A couple of the ‘Reformed’ churches pushed their agenda of Christian School education when I was a kid. I don’t know why Mom and Dad didn’t start me off in the local Christian school. They joined the Calvin Christain Reformed when I was about 3. Larry would have been 7, Mona 11. It could have been about money. The folks simply couldn’t afford tuition for 3 kids. Maybe Mona, being the oldest and already attending public school for several years, raised a fuss. But within a few short years of joining Calvin, Larry was dead, Mona was out of school and married. Leaving little Neese the only kid in the church attending public school. Outsider for ever. Had to go to catechism on Tuesday’s after school. Church kids, all from Christian school teased and called me Dennis. Wasn’t very Christian. Begged my folks to switch to a bigger church in town where all my friends went to public school. Mom and Dad caved. I was a brat. Sometimes I feel guilty about this. Calvin was a much smaller, intimate congregation and supported our family with kindness, visits, and food after we lost Larry. Still I was utterly unhappy there. So rather than fight with me, they switched. I was happy. I think they were ok with it too. Dad became very involved, Mom, more of a loner did not. I was part of a huge group of youth and loved it.

Calvin Christian Reformed Church, 1950’s…

So, this Dutchy little town with all the churches. Each sanctuary filled on Sunday mornings, and most again on Sunday nights. With white folks. No African Americans, no Asians, no Jews, no Muslims. Just white Dutch, white Germans, white English, white Scandinavians. Solid white. Hubs folks got in a fight with Refomed church when he was a baby. John was a surprise to his folks, their 5th child. Money was tight for them and the church wanted more. In the Van Berkum house, there was no more. So they stopped going and changed to the United Methodist who didn’t insist on a set amount each week. Just like my folks but for different reasons. Round robin churches, although some were more strict and their congregants were more loyal. The Netherland’s Reformed Church comes to mind. I viewed them from afar in case their loyalty might be catching. Yikes. They allowed no make up, no TV’s, no car insurance. Double yikes. And 3-a-days on Sunday. One service in Dutch! Didn’t want to get too close to that.

To say my life, my church, my town was somewhat sheltered, isolated, filled with idiosyncrasies. This is not a stretch from my point of view looking back. When John was in junior high, his Sunday school class invited a black pastor to visit from Sioux City, because the kids had never seen a black person. Unbelievable. John remembers asking why the insides of his hands were so light? Yup, we were sheltered. Probably not very healthy.

Adore these 2! Tracey and Landon, 2002…

A couple of weeks ago something happened to upset this Dutch grandma. Can’t get this conversation out of my head. It’s on a loop and keeps replaying. Did I handle it well? No, I rarely do. One of my good friends just remarked how much she enjoys a good debate on almost any subject. Geez, not me. I don’t want to confront, argue, debate ANYTHING controversial. Totally not me. No matter how strongly I feel about something, I’m just out of my league. Inept, can’t find the right words to justify my feelings. Not something I was born with. I’m better if I can type it out, but after proofreading and changing words around 15 times, I’m still out of my comfort zone. Usually the knowledge I have on the subject in not kept where I can easily retrieve it either. I know how I believe and feel, and am comfortable in my beliefs, but rarely express it.

So I was invited to a potluck picnic. I was kind of excited about going. It was a reunion with the group I went to Italy with this summer. Yeah, yeah, my story is still in the works about Italy. When I try and piece that one together, it still seems surreal and disjointed. It was an over load of constant 2000 year old architecture that’s simply mind boggling. And art. Art up the wazoo. Just can’t wrap my head around it yet. It’s coming. Anyway, Shannon had declined, but I was up for bringing a bowl of potato salad and cupcakes.

I was the first to arrive. The daughter of the hostess came out to greet me and help carry in my food contributions. First, the house. Not too pretentious. A long rambling brick ranch on beautifully manicured grounds. Over looking a small lake. Winding drive with measured street lamps leading up to the house. A long wing off the house looked like a big mess hall of a campground. It held their indoor pool. As I entered the front door, just to the right was a lighted cabinet filled with Lladro statutes. Stunning. I have a half dozen and still feel guilty about their cost. She led me to a 3-season room that faced the lake. A lone gentleman stood as we were introduced. He shook my hand and motioned for me to sit. Asked me where I was from, where I lived, and mentioned he was supposed to be on our trip, but was recovering from recent surgery.

I went through a bit of Neese history. Blah, blah, we moved to Jackson from Iowa in 1987, then North Muskegon in 1994 for 21 years. Had just moved back to Jackson to be closer to all our children and grandchildren. Being polite, he asked where our kids lived? Things went south. It’s easier if I repeat the conversation from here on out. I’ll be me, and we’ll call him: A Pillar of The Community, or A Racist, Bigoted Bastard. Your choice.

Shannon & Tracey at Hoover Dam, 2015…

Me: “Our oldest daughter, Shannon is a clinical psychologist in Jackson. You might know her or her husband, who’s lived in Jackson most of his life. He graduated and got his master’s degree from the local college.” (Where ARBB donates)

ARBB: “Oh really? Now who is he?”

Me: “Tracey Lowder.”

ARBB: “Tracey Lowder, Tracey Lowder. Did he go to Jackson? Was he an extraordinary basketball player?”

Me: “Yup that’s Tracey. He’s now a principal in Ann Arbor.”

ARBB: “Did you adopt him?”

Me: (trying to not look totally confused) “um no, he’s my son-in-law. Married to my daughter, Shannon.”

ARBB: “Does your daughter look like you?” (His less than tactful way of inquiring if Shannon was white, black or mixed).

Me: (flushed and getting ticked) “Yes she looks like me. She’s married to a black man, Tracey, whom we love dearly. They have children. Who are mixed. I have mixed grandchildren.”

ARBB: (nonplussed) “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going on all over these days.”

I got up from the couch, marched downstairs (ok limped, one step at a time. Damn leg can’t even support me when I’m thoroughly disgusted). Felt sick for the rest of the night. Ate, gathered my stuff, went out to the car and bawled my eyes out. Called Shannon, who was not surprised at all. She caught some racist remarks from his wife on our trip, which I totally missed. Deafness does have it privileges. Who knew? I never even got to our sons Joshua & Adam. ARBB was so hung up envisioning my life with Shannon and Tracey.

3 of my 4 exquisite grands. Ariana, Landon & Peyton, 2004…

I think this couple feed and nurture each other’s bigotry. What I should have said or done in the moment, I honestly think would have been completely lost on him anyway. But that hasn’t stopped me from feeling like a complete ass and loser over not defending my beloved family better. I suck at picnics. And dealing with racist, bigoted bastards…

I’m relatively new to Facebook. I freely admit, I didn’t know what a meme was. And was never interested enough to look it up. Until this week. Meme definition: An image, video, piece of text that is copied, (often with slight variations) and spread rapidly by Internet users. I knew there are sites my friends follow, then pick and share on their home page. That’s the stuff I see on my newsfeed. What they currently find interesting, newsworthy, thought provoking, or hilarious on Facebook. I don’t do that.

Recently, this one really cracked me up…

Some people follow folksy humor, inspirational quotes or pictures. Animals are very popular with the meme sharing masses. Cute little goats jumping sky high, or an orca whale flying out of the water, narrowly missing someone in a kayak. Yikes. Some friends lean very far left or right and assume their friend’s opinion can be swayed if they put up enough political poop about leftie’s or righty’s. These are my least favorite memes.

I keep this meme for Landon. Don’t want the weight of the world on his handsome shoulders during basketball…

I do follow several people whom I do not know at all, but very rarely share. I’m possessive like that. A sarcastic humorist named Tracy Lorenz. TC writes hilarious stuff while being a top notch cop for the city of Bangor, Maine. I think that’s Stephen King territory. Watch out TC. Nothing in King’s little kingdom ever sleeps at night. And I follow a lot of photographers. I’m hopeless when it comes to taking pictures, so I really appreciate their level of expertise and admire their work. Clark Little, Jeremy Church, William Reek, Dave Sandford, Jennifer Green, Joe Gee (he-he) to name a few.

Nobody does water and waves like Clark Little…

So when I rise, while I’m waiting for my coffee and night to become day, I peruse what my Facebook friends have deemed worthy to share on my newsfeed. I absolutely love it when something makes me laugh out loud. Almost as intriguing is something that really makes me think. Or cry. But not gross medical stuff. I have trouble stomaching that stuff and usually whip past those pictures quickly. Sometimes I save funny photos, or thought provoking quotes. Which leads me to one I saw this week. It hit me like I had been punched in the gut. And I felt Cindy’s deep pain.

This meme that Cindy posted hit me so painfully hard…

My friend Cindy has had a very full plate of late. Diagnosed with breast cancer last December, she’s had surgery and chemo and is doing very well. Just a couple months after she started this journey, her husband Dennis was diagnosed with cancer. When it rains, it pours. I believe he too is doing alright for now. But both their illnesses had nothing to do with the simple meme Cindy shared on her newsfeed. Cindy’s mom, Jean has Alzheimer’s. Up until a couple years ago, Jean was living on her own, in my home town of Rock Valley, Iowa. That proved to be worrisome for Cindy as her mom was getting forgetful and Cindy wasn’t nearby. After weighing their options, Cindy helped get her mom’s house spiffied up, put it on the market, sold it and moved Jean to a care facility near her in South Dakota. Occasionally Cindy posts what’s going on in her mom’s life, pictures of her with the great grandkids, or visiting her sister. I know that Jean’s health has deteriorated and she suffered a broken hip last year. But this simple morning meme on my newsfeed let me know that Cindy is losing her mom.

Jeremy Church photo of Lake Michigan in North Muskegon…

I saw this when I was a Parish Visitor. I’ll share 2 painful experiences. Funny, this gal’s name was Jean too. She had been happily married well over 50 years. They were an outgoing couple who belonged to a square dance group for decades. But Jean’s husband, Dick was quite confused. They went out less and less. Dick couldn’t really be trusted not to wander off anymore, even at the grocery store. Dick didn’t join Jean and I in the living room while we visited anymore. He might recognize my face from month to month, but as his current memories grew dim, he was unsure of himself and rarely said a word, though he walked through the room now and then. It was really Jean who needed my visit, encouragement and empathy. A caregiver is one of the toughest jobs you’ll ever have. You forsake friends, your health, sleep, social events or having any time to yourself. Whatsoever. Because you’re always on duty. Jean and I often discussed she needed to prepare herself for the day when Dick no longer recognized her. She thought she was ready. She was not. Thanks God, for sending me to their house that day. I knocked, Jean answered and as I stepped inside, she wrapped me in a bear hug and started to cry. I lead her to the couch where we sat side by side, holding hands. She said Dick had gone to bed the night before and she was watching TV in the family room. She had the family room door partially closed so she wouldn’t wake him. He was easily confused, and often got his days and nights mixed up. And he hadn’t been sleeping very well. It wasn’t very late when he put his head through the doorway and asked, “have you seen my wife? I can’t find her.” Even though she knew that day was coming, Jean was devastated. And rightly so. Dick was eating, sleeping, and looked like the guy she knew and loved. But he wasn’t really THERE anymore either.

Awesome photographer Dave Sandford catching a wicked wave on Lake Superior, 2015…

Gordy and Barb were another long married couple. Raised 4 daughters, worked hard all their lives, and had been retired for years. You knew something was a little off as they walked into church. Gordon, leading Barb, with her beautiful snow white hair by the hand to their usual pew. As her memory issues got worse, they stopped coming together. He was her primary caregiver but had lots of help from their girls. Still when it got to be too much, Gordon placed Barb in a nearby long term care facility. Gordy went to visit Barb daily, but their life and marriage as they knew it had changed dramatically.

Gordon and Barb, around 2000…

John and I attended the first church service many Sunday’s. This service had perks and flaws about it. It started early, a perk, but the service included no choir, solos, bells, prelude or postlude. A flaw if you love music. The first service pretty much consisted of a couple of hymns, the same scripture and sermon as the late service. Just without all the frills. If we attended the second service, went out to eat afterward, honestly half the day was gone by the time we got home. I know what you’re thinking. Gee, God gives her a whole week, she can’t give Him a half day? True enough. A lame excuse for the early service, but it’s the one we both preferred. Why did I even venture on this long, drawn out sidebar? Probably to delay the sad conversation Gordon and I had together.

Still love anything with a clutch…

Getting back to Gordy’s story. It’s the middle of summer and a beautiful Sunday morning. John and I are walking out of first service, headed somewhere for an omelette before going home. Gordon is walking out behind me and taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and give him a hug. Here’s what he said. “I’m going to stop at the gas station and pick up a Sunday Chronicle. Then head to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and and sausage, egg McMuffin to go. I’m heading down to Lake Michigan (about 5 miles away) and sit on one of the benches along the Channel (deep water channel that often saw 1,000 footers glide through). Read my paper and hope a big ship comes through! Then I’ll go visit Barb and feed her lunch.” I couldn’t help it, my lip quivered and tears filled my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bad for someone as I did for Gordy that Sunday morning. He immediately understood the full meaning of those simple sentences, and why I felt so bad for him. Gordy and Barb should have been going out to eat together after church like Hubs and I. Gordy was a devoted husband, married to the love of his life, but really he was already a widower. His wonderful wife Barb was still alive, but not THERE anymore.

Muskegon’s deep channel with 1000 footer almost to Lake Michigan here, 2014…

And that’s the same stab of pain I felt when I saw the meme from Cindy. She’s grieving for her mom, but her mom is still here. But only physically. My parents had a lot of health issues as they started failing. But I didn’t have to experience what Jean, Gordy, Cindy and thousands of others have. It’s painful just to think about. But this meme wasn’t necessarily just about losing a loved one to Alzheimer’s. To countless others, it might be about a losing a true love, or angry, spiteful, words thrown out during an argument in which neither party will ever recover. I’ve experienced that. But when I read this meme, it was Gordy & Barb, Jean & Dick and Cindy’s acute pain on slowly losing her mom which came to mind…

Always a good reminder God is taking care of me…

Hey Sports junkies, I know it’s been awhile. You didn’t expect to hear from me until Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) regular basketball season starts later this fall. But there’s stuff you gotta hear, and I know you’ve been waiting impatiently for an update about our favorite basketball player.

Landon, showing off his pearly whites, 2016…

During the off season, (there never really is an ‘off’ season for Landon) he played in an AAU (Amatuer Athletic Union) for the second year in a row. A conference out of Cleveland (3-1/2 hours away) with some pretty awesome basketball talent. And some mighty big egos. His coach both years had been LeBron James’ coach in junior high. But this year Coach Ken just seemed tired. His heart and head were not in the game. Landon’s dad, our son-in-law Tracey ended up coaching several times, which was great. He’s very good at mentoring kids right along with coaching, and still enjoys all aspects of the game. But the turnover rate on Landon’s team was tremendous. Egomaniac # 1 (of course not my Landon) sincerely thought he was much better than the rest of his team-combined, thus moved up a grade division to the 16U’s (that’s 16 and under, Landon’s team was 15U). Thank heavens. They won more games after he moved on to greener pastures. Honestly he’s not that good. Maybe I’ll be eating these words down the road. We’ll see how he does in college. Anyway he’s not my concern, only fretting about my main man here.

Tracey, one heck of a substitute coach this spring…

One week the team would play great and win the whole tournament. The next week three new players would show up. The team would struggle and be out of sync. Hey, it’s summer, families have plans too. It can’t always be just about basketball. We only saw Landon’s team in 3 tourney’s. It’s WAY different than high school basketball though. Much looser and not nearly as many set plays. For the most part, the team, coaches and fans watching seem to thrive on the spectacular shot. Much more than being a cohesive unit. I’ll admit it is exciting to see a 14, 15 or 16 year-old dunk the ball that rivals the NBA. But for me, meh, I want to watch Landon handle the ball, march it down court, run the floor setting up a play. Probably just the ‘gram’ part showing. After the summer AAU season was over, Landon had a short season with his Pioneer team and lots of basketball camps and showcases.

I think he’s resting his left foot. Ha. 2016…

Around this time Landon’s left foot began to bother him. Again. Very near where he suffered a stress fracture a couple years ago but was not correctly diagnosed until last Christmas. Causing him to miss several weeks of his season (and breaking my heart). This time he went to a specialist at U of M. The doc seems to knows his business and ordered an MRI. We were so relieved when it was not another stress fracture. It is however, a hairline fracture a couple of tootsies away from the old injury. Well shoot. Good news: it happened way before his regular high school season starts. Bad news: it will take about 8 weeks to heal, four of which will be no weight bearing at all. Good news: Landon was ‘this close’ to starting football. Now I don’t have to worry about him for that little injury prone sport. Bad news: specialist wants him to use a machine to help heal the bone, the cost is astronomical. More bad news: according to Landon, he has to wear ‘ugly as crap orthotics, and I am not doing it.’ Good news: it’s only 4 hours a day, so he can fulfill that little obligation in the privacy of his home. Trust me, he will wear it 4 hours if I have to hot glue it to his foot every day. If only Oral Roberts were still around. Anyone remember watching him on TV? He’d smack the afflicted on the forehead and yell, “heal!” I’d better stop ‘spuuting’ (making fun or mocking religion as my folks used to say with their Dutch slang words).

Throwback about 5 years. Landon, front row in the middle. Behind him is Brandon, a year ahead of L and highly recruited by several colleges already…

There are scores of sports ‘experts’ who keep track of how top players are doing in their respective positions. Hard to believe, but I guess these dudes somehow make a living at it, or totally have no life outside of basketball. One would assume by top players, their main concern would be this year’s crop of high school seniors, but that’s not the case at all. They start tracking these kids when they get in junior high. As in seventh grade. Alrighty then, re-read the sentence about having no life outside of watching basketball. And I’m sure this goes for all sports that our kids participate in.

My fave pic of Landon # 3 swishing a 3-pointer during his freshman year on Pioneer’s varsity, 2016…

A couple weeks ago I got a text with an attachment from Shannon. Some kind of basketball list for the class of 2019. I recognized one very familiar name by number 5: Landon Lowder, So (sophomore) PG (point guard). “Wow, that’s amazing,” I texted back. “Who did this, and are all the boys from mid-Michigan?” “Ah no,” she wrote back, “only Landon and number 8 are from the whole state of Michigan. The rest are from all over the country.” Me: “you’re kidding right? This Highschool_stars1 group think Landon is the number 5 point guard in the country for the class of 2019? H.O.L.Y. S.H.I.T.

Wait, it gets better. I know, I’m giddy too. A couple days later an organization called ‘Bank Hoops’ listed Michigan’s top 30 college prospects by position for the class of 2019. Landon’s listed as number 3 for point guard. I wonder if grade point average figures into this equation at all? Landon does very well in his studies. My oh my. Can he live up to all the hype? Well, I think his head is screwed on pretty straight these days. Time will tell. He needs to get serious and be committed about healing his foot. Even if it involves ugly orthotics for a month. Geez. Sometimes he acts like he’s 15. Not for much longer though. His 16th birthday is on Sunday. Another thing for me to stew about. He’ll be driving. Watch over Landon for me God. Keep his head in the game when he’s on the road.

Class of 2019, top 30 top college prospects. Landon’s rated # 3 for point guard…

One last thing. You know Landon was born with allergies up the wazoo. Milk, eggs, chocolate, beef, nuts to name a few. Sounds miserable because most of us are used to eating all these things. (Really, chocolate!) But Landon has never known any different. He loves and devours chicken, turkey, and all cuts of pork. Makes turkey burgers regularly. Eats candy, Skittles, taffy, jelly beans, Mike and Ike, Anise, but nothing with chocolate. Not even tootsie rolls. Sigh. Still, he seems no worse for the wear. Carries an Epi pen, takes Zyrtec from March through December. Shannon and Landon recently had his annual appointment with his allergist. Time for some routine allergy testing. Tests showed no allergic reaction to eggs. To be sure, doc tested him a second time. Nada. This was indeed good news. Shannon dropped Landon off at home and proceeded to go to work. Landon focused on discovering the many ways he could enjoy the incredible, edible egg. Kind of like Bubba’s array of shrimp dishes in Forest Gump. Landon ate them scrambled, poached, and fried. Then hopped on the Internet, found a recipe for Egg Drop soup. Made a quart of that and scarfed it. Shannon came home, found one very full teenager, and nary an egg in the house. Reminded me of one of my favorite movie stars when I was a teen. The movie was Cool Hand Luke, with hunk Paul Newman, during his endless scene of eating hard boiled eggs. Seems these days it’s Landon. Any which way there is to serve an egg, Landon’s gonna make it and eat it. Soon as mom buys some more…

Another hottie, Paul Newman in a scene from Cool Hand Luke…

For my Mom, it was a no brainer. Her mother, my grandma Coba Berghuis Wanningen, died when Mom and her twin brother were just a few days old. Maternal and paternal grands duked it out because their dad wasn’t interested in raising them. Finally conceded paternal grands would do the bulk of rearing the newborns. But the maternals had a big part in doing their fair share with the twins throughout their young lives too. Mom idolized both sets of grandparents, didn’t see much of her father, my grandpa Lakey. He was bitter about losing his young, beautiful wife.

Floyd and Florence Wanningen, 1927…

So Mom and uncle Floyd spent their entire childhood with both sets of 60 plus year old grandparents, living with the Wanningen’s but spending much of their time with the Berghuis’ just a few blocks away. It’s no wonder Mom was always very fond of the elderly.

Mom, her Wanningen grandparents & Floyd, Sioux Center, Iowa, 1935…

More complicated was why on earth have I been drawn to the elderly bunch? My great grands, the Wanningen’s were both gone by the time I was born. I vaguely remember my great grandma Berghuis. Dad’s parents (the Gerritson’s, their longevity well apparent), lived in Rock Valley, but I was not close to either of them. Dad stopped at their house daily, but I rarely went along. Since Dad was a decade older than Mom, his parents always seemed ancient. Never went to town with my grandma. She never taught me how to knit, sew, speak Dutch or cook anything. Grandpa Lakey grew closer to Mom and uncle Floyd after they were adults. He died when I was about 10. We went to his 3 room house in Sioux Center nearly every Sunday afternoon, but I don’t remember him ever talking directly to me. I do recall a beautiful antique oak crank phone hanging on his living room wall I really wish I had. With so few elderly relatives to have a relationship with, I still have trouble wrapping my head around why I’ve always loved older folks.

My grandparents, Arie & Bessie Gerritson. Both passed away in the early-mid 1970’s…

I know it must have started with the neighborhood on 15th Street. I was only 4-1/2 when we moved and was amazed and ecstatic by the number of kids on our block. But every other house was home to an elderly person on our street too. Most of those names are on the tip of my tongue but have escaped during the last 6 decades. Their faces, the insides of the homes, their smiles, still have a place in my heart. I believe there were 2 widows on our block alone, plus an older couple right east of us. Maybe Kooima’s and related to the Ribbons? Before the Gayer’s moved in the house west of us, a widow lived there. She went on our California trip (sharing the backseat of a 2-door un-air conditioned Chevy Biscayne with one of her grandchildren) and me. She unfortunately was not at the top of my list of favorites. Not her fault, think her trip contribution paid for a chunk of ours. Still I was kind of bratty and wanted the backseat to myself for that long haul. Across the street, east of the Beumer’s was another widow, plus the quirky family living on the southwest corner in a haukee (Dutch word for add on, or lean to, really it was a shack) named the Henningfield’s. Behind our house was Mrs. Kuiper, another widow. I visited all these neighbors with regularity, especially my favorite, Bessie Jacobs. I think most were pretty free with cookies, or sweet breads, a glass of pop or milk to wash it down. They all loved to talk and so did I. Across the street west from the Henningfield’s was another older gentleman friend of my Dad’s named John Dodeward (probably messed up the spelling on that Dutch name pretty good. Sorry John). Mom helped some very special friends named Ivor and Frances Dearborn, who lived just a couple blocks away.

John Dodeward & Dad, maybe mid 1970’s…

Even though I was surrounded by these special folks and loved them all, a big part of my life long fascination with the elderly started when Mom got a job at our new nursing home named Valley Manor. An inspiration of several local Rock Valley men with long term vision for our small Dutch, mostly farming community. I’m not sure if Mom was employed by Valley Manor when they first opened in 1963. If not an original, she was one of their first new hires. When the building plans were becoming reality, the committee had the foresight of easy expansion which was needed soon after they opened. Mom took nurse’s aide classes, even learning how to give insulin shots. I remember her practice giving shots on oranges! Yikes. At least it wasn’t on me. And she looked so professional. Bought at least a week’s worth of white uniforms. All dresses, different styles. Kept meticulously pristine white, washed and ironed, hanging neatly in a closet, ready for her next day of nurturing and caring for the elderly.

Uniform like Mom wore to work everyday in the 60’s…

This was about 5 years after my brother Larry had been killed. Our family life was sort of kapoot. Dad had accepted Jesus and spent 6 nights out of 7 a week teaching, preaching, visiting the sick or other church activities as an elder on the Consistory. Didn’t feel the need to be with his downsized family of 2, namely me and Mom. Working at Valley Manor was good for Mom. Mostly a loner, she formed some incredible friendships over the years she worked there. Admired and respected the administrator, Al Porter, and Dorothy Smith, the head RN. Adie Dykstra, Marion De Young were some of her dearest friends.

Al Porter, Valley Manor’s administrator, mid-1960’s…

And me. I was like the mascot of Valley Manor. It was like a magnet, drawing me in. Anyone who frequents nursing homes should be puzzled by this. I still am. Most times these places are difficult places to visit, even if you have a loved one there. I knew no one, but the residents were a hot topic at our supper table each night. Right after getting the lowdown on my day at school, Valley Manor stories would begin. Never anything confidential or health related, but usually a cute quip one of them had said to Mom or a conversation they had that day. Not sure, but believe Doc Hegg took care of the residents after it opened. Hegg Memorial Hospital was on the drawing board, but wouldn’t be built for another 3 or 4 years.

Dr. Hegg making rounds at Valley Manor. I adored him….

In the beginning they’re weren’t many residents in Valley Manor, less than a dozen I think, when I started visiting. Making my way through the wing, stopping in every room. I was 12. Hubs grandpa Van Berkum lived there. (I didn’t know who John was at the time, he was 3 years older than me. Safe bet though, we may have visited Valley Manor at the same time). Mr. Manning was an original too (living there and being a character. Mom adored him as did I). He rarely wore shoes, scooted around in a wheelchair and wore red socks. Now who couldn’t dearly love a guy like that?

Neese as a teen when I frequented Valley Manor, mid1960’s…

As the place filled up, they added wings to Valley Manor. One newcomer was a gal about my Mom’s age, who was in her late 30’s at the time. Her name was Kathy (another butcher job on her Dutch last name, sorry) Boekestine. Mentally challenged, she was thin and didn’t talk much and wasn’t easily understood, at least by me. Still we were great friends. Once a week Mom would buy Kathy a package of Little Debbie’s when she got groceries. Mom let me bring the treat to Kathy when I visited. At times it seemed like the high point of her week. She could sense when I was coming and would be standing at the front door. She’d grab the box, giggle, run (yes she could run) to her room and put them away. Then sprint back to me. Grabbed my hand in hers for the rest of my time that day at Valley Manor. We’d go up and down the hall, wandering in rooms and visit. Kathy, clinging to my hand, smiling and listening to this young teenager talk to old people. Man those are some precious memories I’ve got stored up.

Valley Manor, early 1960’s. Mom and I both loved the place…

A gentleman named Frank Kelly moved into Valley Manor from Alvord. Mom learned through their chats when he was younger he was an artist. She bought some paints, different sized canvases and encouraged him to start painting again. He was really good. After Frank finished several paintings they hung them up somewhere in Valley Manor with a ‘for sale’ ticket attached. Weeks later I don’t believe any paintings had yet sold. Frank was discouraged and disappointed. So Mom bought them all. Yay, Mom! She had them all professionally framed.

A Frank Kelly original, 1977, while living in Valley Manor…

Mom, describing in great detail one of Frank’s paintings…

I immediately claimed I needed, at the bare minimum, at least 2 of them. Mom being the detail person she was, turned my favorite one over, got out an ink pen and wrote on the back. To this day, the painting makes me smile, while what she wrote on the back still makes me cry…

My absolute favorite painting by Frank Kelly who lived in Valley Manor…

Mom was thorough in the details, which brings tears to this day…

I think most families have at least a couple. One of ours was unintentional and started a few years after Hubs and I eloped. We were in the midst of learning the ropes as parents to our adorable firstborn, Shannon. Neither John or I recognized the frequency of these strange phenomenons right away. Wasn’t exactly funny ha-ha, especially if your name was John. At the same time, if you were into dark humor, or goosebumply happenings, it was strangely humorous. No matter how many times we moved while the kids were around, these “incidents” followed us until all the kids flew the coop.

1976, Joshua appears to not know daddy because Shannon is wearing his glasses…

I noticed a pattern by the time Shannon was starting school. She or her baby brother, Joshua would come down with a cold, ear infection diarrhea, croup, or some other childhood malady. Usually happened as one, two, or later 3 kids were on the mend. I’d be doing my happy mom dance. Hallelujah, praise the Lord, amen. At least a couple of the rugrats would be heading back to school. Even if one had to remain home an extra day, there was light at the end of the tunnel. The time slot might be too small for accurate measurements, but there would be a little ‘me time.’ Vitally important for this mom’s sanity.

I hope I’m not alone in this world to what occurred next. Oddly enough, this did not just show up when an illness hit the kids. Too often to be anything but a warped coincidence, it happened often enough when one of them got hurt too. Just as my little clan appeared to be on the mend, sure as the sun comes up in the east, John would come down with whatever the kids were just getting over. Or get hurt. Only much worse than all three put together. Why me God? Having Hubs home sick easily surpassed having all 3 kiddos down and out at the same time. He’s a horrible patient. Those stinking tonsils were a huge part of the problem. Why did he have tonsils anyway? Everybody born during the 40’s through the 60’s had their tonsils and adenoids removed. It was part of being a kid, a rite of passage. Mona and Larry were hauled to Doc Hegg’s office together, given a bit of ether, and got those suckers snipped. At the time, I was too young, but had mine a decade later when I was about 10 after enough sore throats for a dozen kids.

Me about 10 when I got my tonsils out, 1960…

But not John. I don’t know if his sibs had their tonsils out, but John did not and has suffered (making me suffer too) for it numerous times. When Johnny Wayne was little and had a tooth ache his mom or dad would stuff cloves or tobacco in the offending tooth. (Hubs said he never thought either one really helped, but it tasted so bad in your mouth you forgot about the pain). They took care of most ailments the old fashioned way. Poultices and home remedies like their parents and grandparents used. This was not a bad thing. In fact, after the discovery of penicillin, we started using antibiotics so often that many of us built up an immunity to them. They no longer worked when we got sick. The offending germs, bacteria or whatever was making us sick got smarter, bigger and stronger and mutated or something. So we needed stronger drugs to outsmart them. A vicious cycle.

Watch out Daddy, your Christmas might not be so Merry…

Anyway, by the time the kids were old enough to realize what was constantly happening in our house anytime one or all of them got sick, it kind of became a family joke. Sick. Poor John. Not only lagging days behind the kids, but more often sicker than any of the kids. Yet he was in the house with them the least amount of time. Seemed impossible. Still well documented in our home.

No I wasn’t sick, maybe daddy was. Mother’s Day breakfast, 1981…

On the other hand, I rarely got sick. Didn’t catch their flu bugs or upper respiratory infections. I just never felt under the weather. Until I started working with adorable, snot-nosed, rash laden, cough, blow raspberries in my face, stick their drool laden fingers in my mouth, little squirts at the day care. I’m the virtual magnet Queen for poop, having noses wiped on my clothes, spit-up, rashes, coughs, for the entire school. In the last 6 months my illness stats are just a bit better than Johnny Bench during his illustrious career totals. Yes, I’m capable of catching a better game if it’s childhood illnesses you’re pitching my way. So proud.

Has Daddy had the pox before? Shannon, 1979…

Why? How? I’m fastidious about washing my hands, especially at work. Yesterday I sported smeared avocado on my shoulder, and a very noticeable snot stain on my blue capris. We had a 4 hour CPR/First aid course after work. I arrived about 10 minutes before it started wearing nice, clean clothes since I had been home for several hours in between work and the training. I was early so walked into ‘my’ baby room. One little sweetie was waiting momentarily for her mom. She honestly squealed with delight when she saw me. A word about this misconception of having favorites. I’ve talked about it before, saying I seem to be drawn to all the ‘high maintenance’ little farts. After working another couple months with pretty much the same ‘bunch ‘o babes’ I no longer believe this to be true. I don’t think I have favorites. But I do believe with my whole heart that certain babies are drawn to us. Some more than others. While some seem not to care one whit which of us is giving them undivided attention, several babies definitely seem to have favorites. If something’s not quite right for them, they are happy when anyone tries to figure out how to make their little world better for the moment. But after a couple of seconds, especially if they’ve taken a spill, they want to be conforted by their favorite caregiver. Sometimes it’s the only way they can be consoled. So to me, it’s been the babies picking us more than me picking the baby. Anyway, I walked up to her while she was sitting on someone’s lap. She literally jumped in my arms, squealing, wiggling and hugging me. And promptly spit up all over my new top. Really. Boy did I smell good in the un-airconditioned gym filled with co-workers and highly trained EMT’s. No wonder I had trouble finding a partner for mouth to mouth. Kidding. The dummy was just fine with me and my lingering spit up smell.

Josh on the farm, but no Hoof & Mouth there, just chocolate mouth, not contagious, 1976…

I’ve managed to avoid any serious lung issues for 65 years. That’s nothing to sneeze at folks. It’s downright impressive. By the time I had worked with the babies for 2 months, I was in the middle of a very dangerous case of pneumonia. Yeah, me. That cough lasted 2 months. Soon after it finally went away, I got another scratchy throat, tickle in my throat making my eyes squirt water and a cough for 2 weeks. This time I got better on my own.

No, not Hand, Foot & Mouth. Adam with Oreo Mouth & Hand, 1980…

I can’t blame the babies for my knee issue which started right after I began working, but was unrelated. Lugging babies probably didn’t help and perhaps hindered a better time line for healing, but the little stinkers were not responsible. Last week however, I woke up with a thick, scratchy throat again. Tickle in my throat making water from my eyes squirt for the third time in 6 months. Seriously. If only they weren’t so adorable. I thought I was doing an OK job of fighting off the crud myself, but the cough was getting worse. Keeping me up several hours a night. Maybe I’m just paranoid after that horrible bout in April and May. After all I did manage to avoid catching hand, foot and mouth disease that zipped through the preschool a couple weeks ago. Yes, you read that right. Hand, foot, and mouth. Never even heard of it before. And my kids caught most of that stuff at one time or another. H F & M is kinda tricky. By the time you sport a fever or rash, you’re no longer contagious. So there’s really no symptoms until it’s too late. I guess it’s quite hard for an adult to catch it, but my luck hasn’t been all that great lately. But maybe my luck had changed.

John might be smiling, but if Shannon was sick, he soon would be too…

Until I got up a couple of days ago. Slept awful because of the cough, but wasn’t done trying to duke it out myself. Laid in bed for a few minutes after waking up because it was my day off. Still super early but grateful for another day on earth. Stretched and rubbed my face. Eyes were gritty and crusty. Oh dear Lord, please don’t let me have something else. I’m working very hard trying to fight off this upper chest pox crap. Limped (leg continues to improve though, thanks God) to the bathroom, turned on the light and could see nothing but red in my eyes. Are you fricking kidding me? P!nk eye! Oh hells bells. Waited until the doctor’s office opened, lamented my woes, and got in to see someone today.

Doc walks in, immediately says, “What’s going on today Denise? You look well. Wow, except for your eyes.” Sadly said I thought I had P!nk eye. “Good grief, your voice sounds terrible! When did that start?” Hanging my head in shame, I went on, “I seem to catch everything those babies throw my way. I’ve been fighting this sore throat and cough for a week.” She listened to my lungs and determined, “This has gone on long enough since you just recovered from being very sick. We’ll get some drops for the eye business, and something for that upper respiratory thing. If you don’t feel much better by the end of the week, I want to see you again. You should be building up immunities to most of these illnesses you’re catching after a year or so. How long have you worked there?” Ticking off the months, I said, “Six months, but I’ve only been sick for 3 of them!” “Halfway there,” she laughed, handing me my chart and walked out the door…

Yup, it was all about to start. Poor Hubs…

It’s not all that unusual for him to call. He’s never been obsessed with the phone, but since getting an iPad, he does FaceTime me now and then. So I was excited when my 6 year old grandson Graham called. He asked for my address. “I need it for a school project we’re working on grandma. Something I will mail to you,” was all he would say. Hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about? Not my birthday and Mother’s Day was still weeks away.

My son Adam and grandson, Graham. This picture-there are no words…

Several days later a letter arrived. Seems Graham’s 1st grade class was reading a book titled, Flat Stanley. (And you think some of my blog post titles are strange). Poor Stanley got smashed by a bulletin board. Yes Flat Stanley, life is tough. He wanted to go on a trip, so his family folded him up (ouch) and mailed him to California. (As if being smashed, folded and mailed wasn’t harsh enough. Sorry, California Carol)

Graham and his winning catch. Supper…

Well Graham mailed me his Flat Stanley. My instructions were to do some interesting things with Flat Stanley, then write Graham about our week long adventure. Sigh. Accompanying pictures were welcomed, (not more than 5, however) along with postcards and brochures. Oh boy.

Making a snake out of rice crispy treats, 2015…

Along with the letter and pictures, I was to fold up poor Flat Stanley and mail him back to Graham at school. Naturally, Graham would share Flat Stanley’s week stay at grandma’s house with the rest of his class. I was reluctant to give Flat Stanley the grim news. There wasn’t a lot going on during my week while he was visiting. And the stuff I had planned hardly resembled a vacation. But I was stuck with him through thick and thin.

–

Sarah, Graham & Adam, 2015…

Flat Stanley and I had some close calls during his week stay here. A couple of the incidents did not make Graham’s letter. Grandpa took him outside to watch a friend of ours take down a big tree. I reminded grandpa to be careful with Flat Stanley and keep a close eye on him. Flat Stanley managed to have a huge branch land on him, pinning him in mud and a couple inches of snow. When grandpa brought him back in the house, I swear he was even flatter, and his backside was muddy. I gently washed him, got out my seldom used blow dryer, clothes pinned FS and Great Scott, now he was wrinkly and not at all flat. So I plopped him on the ironing board which brought on some whining. He promptly stopped when he noticed me plugging in the iron.

Graham making Annual Christmas slush, 2015…

I take full responsibility for losing (almost permanently) Flat Stanley the very next day. We were having great fun baking cookies. Still mysterious how he managed to fly off the counter and land in the oven! Luckily he screamed so loud as I was closing the door which saved his hiney from being scorched. His hair was a couple shades darker, but I don’t think Graham ever noticed. I was a wreck trying to keep Flat Stanley in one piece for a week. We made it and here were the experiences I could share with Graham.

Dear Graham,

This is your friend, Flat Stanley reporting on my week at your grandma’s house. It was an unusual week. Your grandma called it a working vacation. I didn’t know what that meant. I do now. I would have liked it better if she would have left off the working part. But I did learn lots of new things. And I liked helping your grandparents. They’re kinda old and need help.

It took grandma a couple minutes to spot me here…

Some of our plans had to be changed because of the weather. Grandpa wanted me to help put up a new front yard light and plant grass seed where they had taken down a big tree. But it rained or snowed everyday. Grandma said that always used to happen to her too when your daddy was in school and had spring break. Not such great weather for playing or doing outdoor projects. Your grandma was writing something called a blog and let me type some words. That was fun. She was writing a story about your cousin Peyton.

You should have seen how fast I could type, Graham…

When I got up in the morning, after we had breakfast we drove to a restaurant in Mexicantown. That’s in Detroit. There were lots of different restaurants, but grandpa knew exactly where the best one was. It sure smelled good. And I got my own glass of pop with a straw. Please don’t tell your mom. I didn’t know if I would like tacos, tostadas, or burritos so grandma shared her lunch with me. I loved the food, Graham. We’ll have to ask mom and dad to take us to a Mexican restaurant in town. But I don’t think the food will taste as good as Mexicantown.

Ha, I’m standing right in the middle of 2 flags, United States and Canada…

Not very far away from the restaurant was a business your grandparents wanted to visit. It was called Disenos Ornamental Iron. Isn’t that a big word? I thought so too. Grandpa and grandma want to buy new railings for their front porch. Like the ones at your house. So this pretty lady brought out a big book with lots of different designs to choose from. I was bored, so I climbed up and down all the different railings in the hallway. That was fun, but grandma thought I might fall and get hurt. All week she said, “be careful Flat Stanley. I don’t want to send you back to Graham if you’re hurt.” Does she say that to you too? She was worried about me. That made me feel safe and good. But it bugged me too. She worries a lot.

This was the fence I liked the best…

The next day grandma took me to work with her. Since you haven’t been there yet, I’ll tell you about it. It’s a daycare, pre-school and regular school all together. Grandma works in the baby room (she called them infants) but they’re really just babies. I got to try out all their toys and play equipment. A funny tilted seat which she strapped me in so I wouldn’t fall out.

Yawn, a little flat guy could fall asleep in here…

A 3 legged wooden toy which had little toys hanging from it. Grandma said it helps babies when they grab the toys. But my arms were too short. A little slide that’s a foam cushion. That was fun. There were gates and doors to keep the babies safe in their room, but since I’m small and flat, I slid under the door and snuck into the hallway. I climbed up a great big display that said, Welcome Spring and found some pretty pussy willows to climb. That’s where grandma spotted me and carried me back to the baby room. It was very noisy in there sometimes. Babies cry a lot. They want to be held all the time. Your grandma likes the babies very much. Even when they cry.

I tried so hard to wiggle the toys, but I’m just too flat…

On my last night, we went to a birthday party at Peyton’s house. She turned 12 today. She got lots of presents. We sang Happy Birthday and had cake. It was the most fun this week. I love cake. I thanked grandma and grandpa for taking good care of me. And I liked doing new things with them. But I am awfully glad to come back home to you.

Boy was this cake good…

Your friend,

Flat Stanley…