I’ve never tried to deceive you. Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town is my personal view of my life stories. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. I’m into details about my stories. Dates, locations, surroundings, people involved. Feelings. I think I’ve succeeded in being honest. Brutally at times. Always used names of those involved. Except for the 4 dubious bosses I encountered while Parish Visitor. Ministers, all.

Looks innocent enough, right?

This story is different. Can’t really say I’m trying to protect anyone because the folks involved have passed away. They have several children and though I’m not in contact with them since I moved, I don’t want to cause any pain or embarrassment. Or to the couple involved, who really were lovely. So there won’t be any pictures in this story.

To anyone who has read more than a few blog posts know I have loved the elderly since I was a little girl. Starting with my neighbor ladies in Rock Valley, to the residents of Valley Manor where my Mom worked for years. Elderly strangers start conversations with me wherever I am. Hubs has called me ‘The Old People Whisperer’ since Cesar Millan started taming yippee-yappy-snarly-snappy pooches on TV.

It was the most rewarding job (calling) I’ve ever had. The folks on my list actually thought they were getting some benefit from my visit. The majority of the time, it was me who was reaping the rewards of that simple stop to see them. Visiting older folks always made me feel better and blessed. The tough part, moving past their declining health and deaths. Just reconcile myself and start processing a death when I’d have to do it all over again. With an aging congregation, this was a monthly occurrence. That was so hard.

I had a method when I visited. Usually picked a section of town so I’d be in one area for the day. Certain days I might drive south about 20 miles, working my way north towards home. Some sections of the city were large enough there might be several couples in their own homes within a 5 mile radius. Or an assisted living or nursing facility where several members now called home. So I didn’t end up driving around aimlessly, instead of visiting.

This was a normal visiting kind of work day for me. Usually didn’t do much visiting in the morning. Older folks just don’t move at the same speed in the mornings like the rest of the world. Often they don’t sleep very well in general, but usually a bit better towards morning. No alarms waking them up for work anymore, so many sleep until 9 or later. For others, getting their engines going had a lot to do with medication. When they took their morning meds, it might take a couple hours before they kicked in. I can’t tell you how many times one of them would observe, “you know Denise, if church started at 2 pm, we could attend most Sundays.” The exception here was nursing homes. Residents are up pretty early, had breakfast, were cleaned up, and dressed for the day by mid-morning. Normally, they don’t get a lot of visitors in the morning, so it was a great time for me to visit. Since nursing home residents tend to have fewer visits, it was counterproductive to show up if they already had company. If a resident’s daughter showed up at 2 pm every Wednesday, guess what? Their mom or dad would be spit shined and ready. I preferred to visit at the more quirky times to see how they looked at 10 in the morning or 5:30 pm. How could I be an advocate unless I got to observe those who no longer had a voice at various times? Sorry, I digress.

It was a beautiful, hot summer day. Nearing the end of my visits for the day when I stopped at this couple’s house. They had been on my list for years and I had seen them at least 50 times. Both in their 90’s, reed thin and slowing down, him a bit more physically, her more confused. One, a member of our church, the spouse was not. But I very much enjoyed visiting both of them. They might get out some old pictures. Talk about their vacation when they hiked through some National Park 40 years ago.

I thought I had taken enough classes and seminars to deal with just about everything involving visiting the elderly. Courses on caregiving, burnout, dementia, sundowners, side affects of geriatric medications, over medication issues, abuse of the elderly from caregivers, palliative care, hospice care. And on and on. But this day I was thrown for a loop and shaken up more than when I was alone with Bob the day he passed away, (Story called Ann & Bob, May, 2015) or the day I found Mildred dead (post called Mildred & Charlie, October, 2014).

After I parked my car in their driveway, I used the side door of the garage. The door to the house was unlocked. I knocked, turned the knob, yelled pretty loud, “hey, it’s Denise, Parish Visitor!” Walking through the kitchen, I could see (let’s just call them Jake and Iris) Jake vigorously and furiously fanning something. What was he doing, swatting bugs or killing a mouse? He was not yet aware I was speaking to him and I was getting concerned for his health and safety. Jake was standing by the edge of the kitchen table, and the countertop and stove were blocking my view. I kept talking and walking. Stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what was underneath the table. Sucked in my breath and sprinted to the other side of the table. With his two hands clasped together, Jake was holding a box full of Kleenex. Swinging it over his head, swooping it downward with all the force of a 6’4″ 140 pound, 95 year old could muster. Repeatedly. Smack dab on the top of Iris’s head. Who was on all fours on the floor. She didn’t cower, or try to protect herself. And said not a word. I tried to shield her, and got smacked a couple of times before he realized he was now swearing and hitting the wrong person. I wouldn’t put my hand on the bible but I’m pretty sure I started with, “stop it. Stop it. Jake, what the hell are you doing?” (Not exactly the right phrasing for a Christian Parish Visitor. Sorry God.) Jake wasn’t really aware of anything yet besides swinging that dang Kleenex box on the top of Iris’s head. Who now sported several red welts I could see through her thin hair. “Stop hitting her,” I screamed! “She won’t listen to a G-damn thing I say,” he screamed, just as loud. I grabbed the box out of his hands and was surprised by his visible rage. “Jake, if you don’t stop hitting her, I’m going to call the police! Sit down. Sit down right now!”

His anger finally subsided and he plopped down in a chair, deflated. I slid back a chair from the table, helped Iris up, got a cold compress for the top of her head, who had still said nothing. At less than 5 feet, maybe 90 pounds soaking wet, I suddenly feared for Iris’s safety in her home for the last 50 plus years. What should I do? Logical thing was to call someone. Cops, family, my boss (ugh)? Nope, boss was out of town. Hmm, that’s 2 out of 3 serious incidents as Parish Visitor where boss was on vacation. What are the odds? Pretty good since all 4 got several weeks a year. Guess I’m still a little bitter. I really need to move past these unhealthy feelings for that group. Maybe next year. Probably should have called the police, but I was reluctant. Then I remembered one of Jake and Iris’s kids came over daily to cook supper, which was about an hour away. I calmly (really, I was anything but calm) talked to both of them. Both of them acted like nothing had happened. Dementia, denial, unaware?

I went home for a few minutes. Sobbed telling John the details. Drove back to their house and was relieved when I saw another car in the driveway. Went in through the garage, knocked on the door and walked in. One of their daughter’s, whom I had met several times was standing by the stove cooking. Jake and Iris were watching a small portable TV by the kitchen table, and seemed not to notice me. I asked the daughter if I could speak to her for a minute in the garage? As gently as I could, explained what I had walked in on a couple of hours prior. She seemed genuinely surprised but it was kind of hard to believe she’d never witnessed anything like that from her dad before. I showed her the crumpled Kleenex box and the red welts on top of mom’s head. Told her I feared for her safety. Daughter was most cooperative and said she would call her sibs, and hold a family meeting very soon. Promised mom and dad would not be left alone until a solution was found. Took my email address to keep me updated. I was still very shaken up. Though I never mentioned calling the authorities, she knew I would follow this through until the situation was remedied.

I’ve second guessed myself on issues dealing with our kids, neighbors, Hubs, my parents, and being a stay at home mom. Before I walked in their house for that routine visit, I had never second guessed myself on anything about my job of Parish Visiting. While it was happening, I was unsure of anything besides stopping it. Made me feel weird because I didn’t know exactly what was the right thing to do. I hate to say I was suspicious of Jake and Iris’s family, but it felt immediately odd that between 4 children, spouses, many grandchildren and great-grandchildren in and out of their house, the person who stops once a month for an hour was the first and only witness to Jake’s dangerous behavior. Was the family in denial too?

I got an email within 48 hours that the search was on to find a place for mom. Within a week, Iris was living in a assisted living facility. Jake was still at home, receiving care from family members. But Jake was not my main concern. Iris got acclimated in her new surroundings, with lots of family visiting and her room chucked full of items from home. Jake moved to the same facility months later. But a couple of hallways away. Jake or Iris were wheeled to the each other’s room for frequent visits. And the facility was made aware of his mental issues so they were never alone. Jake and Iris lived contentedly for many months. Iris occasionally mentioned she was homesick for Jake. Which flooded me with feelings of guilt for separating them at the end of their long married lives. Though I don’t believe Iris realized it was my visit which put in motion their life changing locations. But her safety, and my job as an outside advocate maintained I did the right thing. Maybe not enough. None of the family seemed bitter towards me if we happened to be visiting at the same time. I think they appreciated I didn’t immediately call the police and could spare their family. Pretty sure if an incident came up again though, my first instinct, call the police would be the one I would choose.

Jake and Iris passed away within days of each other. United once again. This time, with their Lord and Savior for eternity…

In many ways, I have a love-hate relationship with the Internet and my smart-ass phone. I don’t try to understand it. My mind just doesn’t work that way. It’s much too complicated. I think it’s magic. Real clouds that store my stuff. I’ve looked up in the sky, but as of today have yet to easily spot Neese’s safe, impenetrable cloud. Shouldn’t my cloud hover over my head? Staying close in case quick retrieval is ever needed?

iPhone may be smarter than me, but lacks sarcasm…

One of the most disturbing aspects of all this magical gobbledygook happened about 5 years ago. Still remains, firmly entrenched and causes a frown every time it resurfaces. I had been shopping in Grand Haven, which is about 15 miles south of North Muskegon. I was on my way home, driving on 31. Late afternoon, 4-lane highway was not busy. I was following a slow moving school bus. It was loaded with students, all who appeared headless from my angle. I moved into the passing lane. (this lane is used for passing, then I moved back into the right lane. Don’t even get me started with # 1 on my very long pet peeve list).

Lori as cheerleader mascot, basketball season, 1959-60…

I glanced sideways a couple of times as I scooted past. Brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Dumb I know, but it still bothers me. No students (pretty sure they were of high school age) were talking to each other that I could see. Not one. All of their heads were either hanging down, which is why I couldn’t see any as I was following them. Or their heads were bobbing up and down. Lost in a world of their own music. In a bus filled with the biggest, fastest talkers, no one was talking out loud. To each other. They were probably texting each other, but not any I glanced at for those few seconds were talking or joking with each other. I found that very troubling. Still do.

Rock Valley school and bus in the 50’s & 60’s…

Living a couple blocks away I never rode the bus back and forth to school. But I did to special events. Mostly away games for basketball or football. We had so much fun on our pep bus. We’d be hoarse by the time we got back to Rock Valley. Laughing, teasing, flirting, singing. I wanted those little bus zombies to experience what I did 50 years ago. The fellowship, goofiness, camaraderie. Do you understand this love-hate thing I got going on?

Getting ready for a pep bus adventure, 1967…

I discovered something huge this week. Monumental. The impact of a hidden piece of my past I didn’t even realize I had. Or was missing. It all started when I got a friend request. OMG. Could it really be her? It’s not like I ever forgot her. She was a big part of my life for 5 years. From 1955 to 1960. In kid time, that’s about 20 years. My family moved from the west edge of Rock Valley (sparse population) to the center of town. Near the business district, close to school and smack dab in the middle of a large neighborhood, filled with families. In my one block, backside and front, there were at least a dozen kids who were my age. The Beumer’s, Van Ort’s, Buckley’s, Miller’s, Klein’s, Hamann’s.

Neese, Cindy and the Schmidt dog, Skippy, 1957…

And the Wayne and Helen Schmidt family in the corner house. They had a daughter named Lori. We were pretty much inseparable. She was a couple years younger than me, but that never mattered. She was sweet, adorable, and cute as a bug. She had 2 older brothers named Gary and Rodney. Rounding out the family was a new baby sister named Cindy. I didn’t remember Cindy’s name until Lori mentioned it from a picture I sent her. I’ll admit, it shook me up. I had to go back and find the story I wrote several months ago. I’ve always remembered my 2 favorite dolly’s names, but didn’t recall if I used their names when I wrote the story. Yes, indeedy, there it was. I called the story, ‘Charmed.’ Mostly about finally unpacking and rediscovering all my old childhood toys after our move to Jackson last fall.

Lori, Rodney and Skippy about 1956…

In this particular story, I talked about my favorite baby doll. How much I loved and spoiled her. Rubbing her with real baby lotion. Can you imagine how long that took? Buying real baby clothes at Ben Franklin’s. Changing her diaper after feeding her water from her own baby bottle. Swaddling her like a newborn. She slept next to me every night, along with my menagerie of stuffed animals. But my baby doll always got top billing. Walking her up and down the sidewalk of 15th street in a doll stroller. Covered with a handmade quilt made by my neighbor, Bessie Jacobs. Who loved me a lot.

Quilt made by Bessie about 60 yrs ago…

Playing with Lori in my fabulous backyard playhouse. Swinging on my handmade swing set, both built by Dad. Playing house. Walking our dollies or sometimes her baby sister up and down the sidewalk. It all came flooding back. Not only because Lori somehow (magic?) managed to find and send me a friend request. I don’t even go by my maiden name of Gerritson on Facebook. But because of a name. My baby doll’s name is Lori Jean. Named 60 years ago after my little bestie, Lori Jean Schmidt. Which was not that surprising. I loved Lori Jean Schmidt as much as I loved my favorite doll.

Lori Jean when we became neighbors and besties, 1956…

The part that really surprised me was in a different part in the ‘Charmed’ story. My walking doll, who refused to walk beside me. So I decided to play hairdresser and cut her hair. Much to my Mom’s dismay. She’s always been one of my favorite dolls, although not cuddly like my baby doll. I didn’t remember why I named her until Lori mentioned her sister’s name. I named my walking doll after Lori’s little sister, Cindy. I was completely baby crazy about all things Cindy after we moved to 15th street. Holy smokes, I’ve been impacted by the Schmidt family my whole life.

My walking doll Cindy. Named after baby Cindy Schmidt in 1957…

There is magic in the world. Ok, Internet, I’ll give you that one. No doubt. How is it possible for me to keep discovering so many people from my past? I’m a retired, deaf loner who lives in her own small world. There is no way I would be in contact with at least 60 or more of my Facebook friends without this Internet magic. Too many married names and moves by all of us. I’m in awe and sometimes very afraid of what’s possible with the Internet. Definitely not smitten with all aspects, but the world is very different than when I was a child. I’m forever grateful I was a kid who grew up in the ’50’s and 60’s.

Still my favorite doll, Lori Jean…

I tried to watch a you tube video yesterday. The star was a little boy, not yet 3. Gyrating, lip-syncing this hip-hop song. I was very close to a smile, but after a few seconds I thought, he should not know the words to this song, let alone have it memorized along with the dance moves. Failed to see anything cute about it and turned it off. Why are we in such a hurry to have our kids grow up? I can tell you from this mom’s perspective, my three kid’s childhood flew by way too fast. Now there’s proms with limos after preschool graduation, ears are pierced at age 2, and kids wear grown up clothing. Adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. And time just goes faster and faster. Just for a few days, I long for 1957. My brother Larry is still very much alive. I would thank God for each day and appreciate the time Larry had left on this earth with me so much more. I would again be a happy, carefree, little girl. Living in a town I love, with parents who did their best. Playing with my favorite baby doll and my best friend. Both named Lori Jean…

Lori Jean Schmidt. My first best friend, 1958…

This story started a couple weeks ago. Our 25 year old granddaughter Ariana called and asked if we would host a family picnic? She’s in a serious relationship with this neat guy named Josh. (I know, what are the odds of having 2 Josh’s in a rather small family?) Ari and her Josh will be making me a very young, hip great-grandma around New Year’s, 2017. Josh’s mom and Ari’s mom, our daughter Shannon, have never met. Ari and Josh thought the perfect place might be our house for an informal meal of, “getting to know you, getting to know all about you!”

Josh & Ari, happy in 2016…

I thought this was a splendid idea. Only gonna be about 10 of us. We had to find a date that suited everyone which proved to be the 4th of July. So me and my ever present stash of swiped notepads from every hotel I’ve ever stayed in started making lists. Chores around the house that needed to be done. This was complicated by 10,000 pounds of river rock that had been delivered in the middle of our new driveway last Saturday. John put edging in the front of the house while I was in Italy, but wanted me to choose what kind of stone to use. I did most of the shoveling of rock into the wheel barrow. John dumped and smoothed it out. My arms were shaky, and my legs felt like jello for days, but it’s done. Newly edged rock has nary a shrub, perennial, bonsai, dune grass, or ornamental tree as of yet. But still looks pretty darn good. At least now the driveway can be used for parking and my Jeep is back in the garage. Crossed one item off my list.

Being married forever, it wasn’t necessary to assign tasks. We just know which one of us are doing what. I’m the duster, window washer, mopper, and in charge of most of the food. Hubs is the yard man, vacuum dude, and has a (small) say in the menu. Ah, the menu.

We’re usually on the same page. Sometimes tho, we’re not even reading the same book…

Some kind of meat (undecided) on the grill, and baked beans, John’s department. Potato salad, veggie slaw, fruit salad, and stuffed Rice Krispie Treats are up to me. I thought perhaps boneless pork chops or ribs. John decided on smoked pork butt for pulled pork. And there lies the rub.

I waited until Friday to get groceries, which is late in the week for me. John wanted to buy the pork butt on Saturday so he wouldn’t have to freeze it. As I was reading the newspaper this morning, John was rattling off spices required for his pork rub. Which needed to go on the butt ASAP when he got home. Giving the pork all the time needed to marinate or whatever before heading to the smoker early Monday morning. Since he has this bizarre affliction and is not able to spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge, I decided to help out while he was on the hunt and gather task of finding the perfect hunk of hog. I envisioned my 2 shelves which hold all my spices, all over the counter. Yet John wouldn’t be able to find the half dozen he needed.

I was just trying to help…

With recipe in hand, I got out garlic powder, paprika, onion powder, sea salt, coarse pepper, cayenne pepper and sugar. Please note, I listed sugar last. It’s vitally important to the story. Sigh. Besides these ingredients, measuring spoons, a spoon to stir, a 16 oz. anchor hocking glass bowl with lid. Which had a sticker on the lid written in sharpie pen stating, PORK RUB. Yeah, I did that for him. Measured out the 1/4 C. Sugar, leaving it in the measuring cup, but placed it in the anchor hocking bowl. Why, oh why, didn’t I just mix up the batch myself? I’ll be asking the exact same question for the rest of my life.

All the spices needed for the rub down…

John waltzes in the house, giddy with anticipation. Hauls out the pork butt which is the approximate size of Rhode Island. Did I mention it’s a party of 10 on Monday? When I can tear his eyes away from that big hunk-o-hog, he notices all the appropriate spices, bowl, spoons waiting patiently on the counter. “You got everything out for me? Thanks!” Naturally I didn’t think any more explanation was needed. Our 6 year old grandson, Graham could have had it done in minutes, had he been able to read grandpa’s writing. I walked in not one minute later and Hubs is already furiously stirring spices. IN ANOTHER BOWL. “Um, why are you using a different bowl? Did you see the bowl with the measuring cup and sugar in it already,” I asked incredulously? Still stirring with feeling he says, “the recipe calls for the sugar as the last ingredient. I needed another bowl to put all the other stuff in first!” Just kill me now. Are you fricking kidding me? Apparently not. The counter now looks like Michigan’s sandy shoreline, smattered with spices of all colors. Smells good though.

Hubs gets a little crazy with his measuring…

John unwraps the butt and proceeds to fastidiously pat rub everywhere. I sigh, turn around and walk away. After finishing his task at hand, he shows me the plastic container (containers now number 3 to make a one-cup-bowl-of-rub) holding the leftover. “Where should I store this?” I bite the inside of my cheek (hard) and answer, “why didn’t you use the glass bowl and lid I had on the counter for you?” He comes back with, “it doesn’t have to be stored in glass, does it?” Shaking my head I answer testily, “Well, the plastic container will smell like pork rub through eternity, and I had a big old sticker on the lid stating, pork rub.”

He’s always been a messy cook…

Hubs stashed the spices everywhere but the right shelf (extra credit for his attempt though). In his eyes, a job well done. Next trip to the kitchen I notice a puddle of spices in the sink, along with the original bowl, lid, and his second mixing bowl. The counter where the Rhode Island butt got spanked with spicy rub was pretty clean. The floor underneath this rubbing ceremony now sported 2 T. (yes folks, that’s tablespoons) of pork rub on my gel mat rug. No doubt it would be edible and tasty.

Bare feet feel especially good walking on these spices…

A bit later Hubs announced, “I’m getting hamburger out of the freezer. I’m hungry for chile.” I hear the microwave, cupboard doors banging open and closed. He has not yet asked where the beans, petite diced tomatoes, or V-8 juice are, so I assume he’s getting stuff ready to make tomorrow. Then I hear a fry pan. “Hon, are you making chile tonight? It’s 7:45.” His comeback, “there’s nothing to eat and I’m hungry.” I mentally start (thrashing the snot out of him) going through our fridge. “There’s a big leftover pork chop, beef jerky, and those barbecued little smokies you like. Or make a grilled cheese, Denver or a salad,” I said, now bleeding from a nasty bite wound in my other cheek.

I think this looks self-explanatory…

So here’s the deal. Our house is small. Our kitchen is small. I need to keep them tidy. If there is an errant spoon, grape tomato, bag of chips, or grain of salt setting out, the whole kitchen looks messy. John barbecued these little smokies in a small crockpot 3 days ago. After eating some, he unplugged it, leaving the crockpot on the counter, grabbed the insert with remaining smokies and stuck it in the fridge. Three days later, the crockpot skeleton still lingers, decaying on the counter. While doing dishes, I grabbed the insert out of the fridge, dumped the leftovers in ANOTHER ANCHOR HOCKING BOWL WITH A LID. Washed the crockpot insert and lid and returned them to their natural habitat (the pantry closet shelf). When what to my wondering eyes should appear? The little black crockpot nestled in the crook of John’s arm. On its way back to my kitchen counter. “Why are you getting the crockpot out?” I ventured, hoping I said it without too much venom. He looks at me as though I’ve grown a third eye. “To heat up the little smokies,” he says happily. For real? Yup. You can not make up crap like this…

This is the result of John putting wet tea bags in the garbage…

It’s been two years. Twenty-four months. Give or take a leap, over 730 days. I couldn’t decide between ‘Thanks-a-lot’ or ‘Blame them’ for the title. Blame sounds like such a downer, thus I went with thanks. It’s up to my readers to determine if I got that part right. Where to start, where to start? I guess she’s either a heroine (or a culprit). Her name is Betty. So I’m gonna start with her.

My home town…

Betty grew up in the same Iowa Dutch community, Rock Valley as me. But I didn’t know Betty back in the 50’s and 60’s when we were kids. She’s a bit older than me, so we ran in different circles. Betty must have had a powerful hankering for Rock Valley, or started reminiscing about her childhood. She started a group site and became the administrator. Named it, ‘If you grew up in Rock Valley” about 3 years ago. Posting tidbits about the quaint, somewhat sheltered little town she called home. Invited her Iowa friends and former classmates to join and jot down their own 2 cents worth on posts, or come up with their interpretation of northwest Iowa. Betty’s friends joined her merry band of misfits. They, in turn invited kids (ok, so none of us are kids anymore) they knew, who were also from our beloved town of Rock Valley. So it’s Betty who should be thanked (or cursed) in her endeavor. I want to thank profusely Betty for your thoughtful input and encouragement since I started blogging.

Main Street of Rock Valley in the 60’s…

Enter, stage left, Ray. A classmate of John’s, but Hubs ‘doesn’t do Facebook.’ Somehow Ray and I became friends on Facebook, so I’d see his posts and he’d see mine and we would comment back and forth. Ray was invited to join IYGUIRV, (not gonna write ‘if you grew up in Rock Valley’ 20 times, so from here on out will be IYGUIRV saw-right?) near its inception. Ray then invited me (he’s probably still banging his head against the wall about that wacky decision. Dude, let it go. Done deal). When I pushed the join button, there were about 30 members. The group size zoomed up to 100 in the few weeks that followed. I haven’t checked the group size recently, but I think the numbers have climbed over 600 Rock Valley fan followers as of late. Without Ray’s invitation to join IYGUIRV, I’m convinced I would not be writing a blog. Thanks Ray. Or, it’s your fault.

My Facebook buddy, Ray…

Right off the bat, I was smitten with the IYGUIRV site. Some of the posts were a bit ahead of my time, others a bit after, but with most, I felt a deep connection to what they wrote. And remembered. Little things I hadn’t thought about in 50 years or more.There was always something that jogged my memory or I remembered it just a titch differently. So I hesitantly started to post some of my childhood memories. But there was something odd about the way I wrote. Almost embarrassing. No, really not almost. Take out the word almost. When I re-read the first 100 miscellaneous posts after I joined, every stinking one I wrote was embarrassing. Mortifying. Not the subject matter. I had pretty good (or painful) memories to share. But the length. Good grief Neese, could you ever just write a one or 2 sentence post? Obviously not. Someone would write a 3 sentence ditty about anything to get the conversation started. Like remembering the day back in the mid-50’s when our local butcher slaughtered cattle at his butcher shop. One happy-go-lucky cow decided he wasn’t ready to die, so promptly ran away. How many hours he was on the loose in town and where he scampered. That’s it. From there, it would be, “I remember he ran through my mom’s garden,” or “we were on the school playground and a cow ran down the street followed by some men in a truck.” And on and on the comments would go until the subject just petered out. I could never just do that. What others could say in a 100 words took me 500.

Rock Valley’s school in the 50’s and 60’s…

The IYGUIRV group was still quite small, I probably knew about 30 of the members. It was around this time I started noticing some of the comments made from this gal named Marlys. A little ding would go off inside my head like, “wow, that sounds awfully familiar. How does she know that?” I think I private messaged her. Do I know you somehow? I went to the Calvin Christian Reformed Church when I was little. Were our parents friends? Yup, her family attended the same church, our parents were friends and invited each other over for coffee and dessert after Sunday night church services. She recalled Larry’s death in detail. Even remembered he had a slight lisp. Her family moved to Michigan after Larry died, and we lost touch with each other. This has been the best surprise and wonderful renewal of a long lost friendship.

Calvin Christian Reformed Church, Rock Valley, 1950’s…

Marlys casually commented something like, “dang you’re a wordy girl, Denise!” I would have been embarrasssed until she continued, “but that’s not a bad thing. I hope you’re at least blogging. You need to write!” Had to admit I had no idea what a blog was. I’m a loner. Got nothing to say. Until I started typing.

I was surprised by some of the comments on my posts on IYGUIRV. I got some awesome exchanges started after I wrote a couple of posts. The best one ever was about Dutch words and phrases used in our home during my childhood. Mom and Dad were Dutch but didn’t speak it very much. I still use some of these crazy words and phrases everyday. (plue-she, a fuzzy off a dark sock on the carpet) When my thinking cap was finally screwed on straight, there were many more words and phrases than I first remembered. Which started an avalanche of comments about kooky words Dutch folks used when we were growing up. Words none of us could spell, or pronounce like the next person. And it seemed every family had a few choice words only used in their immediate family. (Heh-tok, meaning exasperation). I don’t know if it was because they were from a different area of the Netherlands, or they just coined a mixture of words after they’d been in the US for awhile. Hutt-fa-Duttie. (Oh my goodness).

One of the gals who first joined IYGUIRV, wasn’t born in Rock Valley (we love her anyway) but moved to RV years ago, when she married Erwin, a Rock Valley guy. Alma’s actually lived there a heck of a lot longer than I did. Who am I to judge who knows more about Rock Valley? So this happened about two years ago. Iowa’s had a 40 plus year tradition called RAGBRAI, (Des Moines) Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. Rock Valley was chosen to be the starting point for the 2014 bike ride across the state (they pick different routes through the state each year). Alma decided she wanted to join the first day’s ride which would go from Rock Valley to Lake Okoboji. That type of bike ride would require some serious training. She started a blog a couple months before the bike ride’s starting date about her training experience. I followed her hilarious version of getting into shape on her bike in anticipation of riding 75 miles a day with a few thousand other bike riders. This is Alma’s excerpt which contains a 3 sentence description of getting used to riding a bike for extended amount of time. “A word about bike saddles. They do not look like saddles. They are sinister, narrow, razor sharp evil devices designed to do great damage to a person’s basement.” I laughed until I cried over those 3 sentences. For 2 years. I commented and complimented Alma on her terrific sense of humor and ability to write a blog. Something I really wanted to try. She answered immediately and said it Marlys (who’s related to Erwin) who had helped her. The same Marlys who had been a childhood friend and moved to Michigan right after we lost Larry. She now lived 40 miles from me. Fate I tell you, or divine intervention. And you need to start blogging again about anything, Alma. Seriously.

Alma & Erwin on their wedding day, before bike issues…

My son Josh offered to get me started with a blog. But he was 175 miles away, running a company and the mundane chore of trying to get dear old mom to gasp new concepts (to me) and technology was painful for him to even think about. Hats off to Josh because he has helped me on countless occasions (when he’d rather have a root canal) after I got started my blog, and had problems or issues that couldn’t be resolved with his guidance over the phone. Sorry Josh and I love you and appreciate your help.

Joshua, my techie wizard…

One of my oldest friends from Rock Valley, Loie told me after a dozen of my rather lengthy IYGUIRV posts, “Neese, you should write a book about Rock Valley. You remember so much about growing up there.” I really don’t, just the memories burned in my head cause I was getting in trouble for what ever I was doing at the time. To an insecure hopeless writer, you can’t imagine how much those words meant to me Loie. I am going to have my blog made into a book someday. A book for just me. Something for me to carry around when I’m living in a nursing home. Haven’t figured out how to get the comments (best part of writing the blog) included yet. Or when to do it. Thought maybe 100 posts or the one year anniversary. Both of those days are long gone, and here I sit, bookless. Many heartfelt thanks, Loie.

But it was my friend from decades ago, Marlys who convinced me to start writing a blog. She invited me to her house, made lunch and gave me courage and easy to understand instructions I needed to JUST START THE THING. She helped pick out the blue-green dandelion background. It was Marlys who put my bio on the right side, convinced me to be honest, no matter how painful, though she was unaware at the time of my family’s deep issues. I had 3 or 4 working titles for the blog, but couldn’t decide. Marlys made it easy, and it’s perfect: Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town. My life long love and devotion to my little home town from so many years ago. There are no words to let you know how much I appreciate your help and encouragement Marlys. There, you see, at times I can be stumped for words.

The gal who got me started, Marlys. Thanks friend…

My story has been exactly that. The story of me. I really never thought anyone would read it. And I was ok with that. This is my story that needed to be typed out. Maybe a month into writing, Hubs and I were zipping from North Muskegon through Lansing on our way to watch our grandson, Graham. The reason we stopped in Lansing on the way was potato salad, strangely enough. Shannon was hosting her company’s summer picnic and asked me to make a boatload of potato salad. So we stopped in Lansing to give her the full cooler. As I was getting back in the car, Shannon stopped, turned towards me, gave me a hug and said, “I love your blog mom. You write really well.” For the first time in my life, I was speechless. And sobbed all the way to Ann Arbor. Not that far really, a half hour away. But still. Thanks for the kind words, Honey. When I needed them the most.

My amazing daughter, Shannon…

One of my faithful readers/commenters is Cindy. She told me after I started writing to carry a little notebook EVERYWHERE. In case an idea hits me when I’m getting gas (for the car, not me) sitting at a stoplight, or wake up in the middle of the night. Cindy, it works. Countless times I’ve been watching TV, or laying in bed trying to fall asleep when an idea hits me. Hey, I should do a story about that. Another reader, Glenda said, walk around your house, look at your walls. Write what you see. Glenda, it works. I often think, I got nothing. Then I go to my little notebook, or walk through the kitchen, see an old gadget and a story sort of forms itself. To my faithful supporters who never fail to ‘like’ my newest post or make a comment: Jeff, Ray, Alma, Ellie, Marlys, Janice, Wan, Renee, Deb, Betty, Carolyn, Paula, Lois, Kevin, Krissy, Ron, Erwin, Tom, Gayle, Nita, Kathy, California Carol and Cindy. You guys never fail to make me feel better. Even when the story was a complete bust. Or horribly depressing. I write because my head is full and the words need to come out. I write because it’s therapeutic, rewarding, frustrating, painful and gives me an immense amount of satisfaction. I write for me. But I wholeheartedly appreciate every word you write in return.

This is a day before my actual 2 year blog anniversary. Shannon and I are doing something we haven’t done for quite awhile. ROAD TRIP. But no kids this time, and that’s been several years. You’ll be hearing about it soon enough. Until then: Arrivederci…

I was born and raised in a small town in Iowa. It was about the best place in the world to grow up. We had freedom to ride bikes, go to the dump, play in the park, go swimming at the sandpit until Dr. Hegg convinced the townsfolk we needed a modern, cement swimming pool. Our stores downtown were all we ever really needed. Right. That lasted until we got close to our teens.

Rock Valley Park with our spiffy swimming pool in the background about 1960…

Once we experienced big cities (to me) like Sioux Falls and Sioux City, we hungered for more. The restaurants, the amazing shopping took some of the shine off good old Rock Valley. I still loved the town. Heck, almost everyone knew everybody else. You went to the same school with the same kids every year. There was a kind of familiarity that was very comforting. I feel kinda’ bad for kids who don’t get to experience that secure, small town living.

Half of my kindergarten class. I’m top right corner. Went all through school with the same kids…

So what did we do for excitement? Well, there was lots to do in Sioux Falls and Sioux City. The movie theaters seemed as big as Rock Valley’s whole downtown area. Beside Warren’s Cafe, Ray’s Cafe, Green Acres and Manning’s Parkway Drive Inn, plus bowling alley pizza which was fantastic for 60 cents, we were shut out. The big cities had a dozen different restaurants dedicated to just pizza. New to my Dutch taste buds. They also boasted steak joints, Chinese, Italian, even McDonald’s. Which advertised a meal: Shake, hamburger, fries and change back from your dollar. Wow. Then there was the entertainment aspect. Rock Valley had a bowling alley (it was so cute, maybe 6 lanes), a roller rink above our grocery store, The Cue, and a small theater. And that too seemed enough until we hit our teens.

The infamous Roof Garden. One cool spot to be in the 60’s…

My first encounter at Lake Okoboji that I remember is well documented. The year was 1957, I was 6-1/2, Larry 11, Mona was 14. I’m sure Dad had some vacation time coming because he had been working for the Iowa State Hiway Commission about 7 years. But just because he had vacation days did not mean we really could afford a long vacation. We had only been in our house on 15th Street about 2 years. Buying one of the oldest houses in town had its pros and cons. I loved being that close to downtown and school. But the house needed so much work. Dad would just finish a project when a dozen more needed his attention. Not all of the remodeling could be done quickly either. With 3 kids, they had to skimp and save before starting the living room or whatever Mom deemed most important. I believe we went to Lake Okoboji for a day trip. When you’re 6, that 75 miles on 2 lane roads, doing 55, seemed to take a lifetime! We had a great time. Even the folks saw this as a big time event for the Gerritson’s, though none of us would realize the importance of that day until later. We had our family picture taken, right there at Arnold’s Park to commemorate the day. We looked happy. Mom was wearing a dress! The right side of the picture boldly states: Lake Okoboji, 1957. A few short months later, Larry was gone. Killed while riding his bike. Never has a picture meant more me more than the one that was taken that day. Our family of 5, captured in the moment, together and happy.

Larry, Mona, Dad, me & Mom at Okoboji in 1957…

I’m not very knowledgeable about Lake Okoboji. I seem to recall we usually called the area, The Lakes. There was West Okoboji, East Okoboji and Spirit Lake. All of northwest Iowa seemed pretty proud of the whole area. West Okoboji is one of the few (7 rings a bell) true blue lakes in the world. It’s very deep and it freezes so hard during Iowa’s frigid winters that they once moved a house from one side of the lake to the other on the ice when we were kids. Slid that baby across.

John & I, about 1965. He had no car yet, so we walked on our dates…

Once I hit my teens, Lake Okoboji was IT. Thee place to go in the summer. I suppose you could call it a poor man’s Disneyland. On the south side of Okoboji was Arnold’s Park. Roller coaster, carnival rides, an emporium, junk food eating places. Plus the Roof Garden. Upper level of a building. For concerts. Real concerts with rock bands. Man oh man, it was so cool. Being there made you cool too. Needless to say, I didn’t get there often enough to be cool. But the memories of my day jaunts there remain happy and pretty clear.

Arnold’s Park Tilta-Whirl. One of the few rides I could stomach…

Two trips to Lake Okoboji during my teens really stand out. Both were dates with Hubs, but very different from each other. The first one was a cozy, intimate swimming date. But not at the popular, crowded beach near Arnold’s Park. We went to a secluded place called Gull Point on the west side. We talked a lot, swam, ate, made-out and laid-out. Maybe more. That part is probably not something to be shared. But our glorious day had a gloomy downside. My whole life I’ve tanned easily. Mom used to say, “Denise gets brown as an Indian during the summer.” John, not so much. Towards the end of the day of our neat swimming adventure, he was the color of a gorgeous cooked lobster. Feeling about the same as when the lobster gets dunked in the boiling pot. He couldn’t even drive. Honest, he was delirious. (Maybe part love and lust but I was skeptical) So I drove his 1965, 3-speed on the column, maroon Chevy Impala back to Rock Valley. Poor little shit. He had blisters the size of my palm on his back by the time we got to his house. Called Doc Yates who came over immediately. (He always had a soft spot for John). Brought pain pills and cream, and dressed his burns. He was pretty sick for a couple days. Wuss. I looked fabulous in my little white shorts, brown as an Indian. Just saying.

Pale face Hubs right after we eloped at Channel 4, about 1970…

The second memorable Lake Okoboji trip was all about Arnold’s Park. The rides, carnie food and Roof Garden. Though The Roof Garden part was dicey. I’ve never been much of a ‘ride’ girl. I could stomach the Tilta-Whirl, bumper cars, and maybe a kiddie swing. No roller coasters. Hubs convinced me to go into the Bug House. He probably just wanted to cop a feel and guaranteed the ride was ‘no big deal.’ The Bug House looked innocent enough. A small cabin type building. Kind of reminded me of a rustic cottage. Old fashioned phone sitting on a little table. Decorated cute and quaint. Little windows with curtains. In the middle of the room was a swing. We stepped up just a couple inches to the swing and sat down. There was a bar on top of the swing that ran through the whole cabin. The dude at the controls came in and strapped us in the swing. Gave us a gentle push. We were barely moving. Maybe a foot back and forth. Very relaxing, lulling, pulling me in. Ready for John’s try at his cop-a-feel. Suddenly, my world turned upside down. Certainly not by John’s ‘smooth’ moves. Literally, I was upside down. And turning greener by the minute. Scratching, clawing, trying to keep my equilibrium, and not hurl all over John, which isn’t very impressive on a teenage girl’s date. I screamed, hollered, cried, and begged to die. When the world righted itself, Hubs grabbed my hand and lead me out of that horror show. I was bent over at the waist, walking crooked and had no idea where I was. I don’t remember if John was worried, embarrassed or laughing. He couldn’t have laughed very long if he ever, ever wanted to cop another anything on me. Ever. Geez, it took a couple hours before I could walk in a straight line again and felt somewhat normal.

John snapped this the day we went to the Buckingham’s concert at The Roof Garden, 1967…

That stupid ride. Everything but the swing inside was nailed down. Furniture, phone, curtains. With that cute swing moving so slightly, the whole cabin was turning round and round. I was hanging on for dear life while the building was rotating and I was moving but a few inches. Horrible, horrible ride from hell.

I get woozy just looking at this place…

After I righted me, we did get to The Roof Garden. And danced all night to the Buckingham’s. Kind of a Drag, when your baby don’t love you. We had a ball and we were even. John: sick at Boji, 1, Neese: sick at Boji, 1.

Me & The Hubs about the time we moved to Spencer, 1977…

The Lakes continued to be a part of our lives when we lived in Spencer during the late 70’s. Not so much Arnold’s Park, Gull Point or Okoboji, though we did take the kids there, and took many leisurely car rides through the area. The high point was at least once a month we went out for supper with John’s sister, Elly and brother-in-law, Dewey. A place called Miller’s Bay. They had a fish fry on Friday’s that still makes my mouth water. Big chunks of Cod fried to perfection, Cole slaw, and French fries. Under 3 bucks. Not kidding. The cook/chef had a long, reddish beard, and often came out to talk to customers, even us some nights. We had some of the best times eating that simple fish fry with Elly and Dew. (Usually minus our kids who were about 7 and 3 at the time. Adam wouldn’t join us for another 18 months.) Taking turns driving, talking about the upcoming weekend, which sometimes included an antique road trip somewhere together. Dewey talking about bowling or basketball. He was really good at both sports. We bowled on a couple’s league with them. Where Dewey would make his own little history bowling a 725 series. Good times that went way too fast…

Dewey & Elly, about the time we moved to Spencer in 1977..,

I’m guilty of not giving Mom a fair shake at times. Until I was 10 or 12, I thought the sun rose and set on her. To be fair, her life was not easy from the get-go. She and her twin brother Floyd lost their mom when they were 2 weeks old. Although they had 2 sets of doting grandparents who raised and adored them, Mom always felt her dad blamed her and Floyd for their mother’s death. Her dad left the child rearing to his parents and in-laws. And never was a very involved father. She learned rejection at a very young age.

Maternal grandma Berghuis with Florence and Floyd, 1927…

Mom professed her devotion for both sets of grandparents, yet she seemed awfully eager to be away from them. She was smart and got good grades in school, but married Dad who was 10 years older than her before her 16th birthday. Wow. And she would never, ever admit to that. I had to figure it out on my fingers. It wasn’t like they had my sister 6 months later either. They were married 9 months before Mona was born. I’ve counted it out. Several times. On my fingers. I wasn’t added to the family mix until past their 8th anniversary, and was always lead to believe I was not planned. But they both seemed happy to have me.

Paternal grands, Wanningen’s raising Florence and Floyd, 1931…

I wish I remembered more of the family dynamics before we lost Larry in 1958, but I hadn’t yet reached my 8th birthday when he died. The family pictures I have suggest a pretty normal, happy, well adjusted family of 5. After losing Larry, I don’t remember any of us being very happy. Dad seemed to drift away from family things, Mom grew over zealous in her need to protect me from harm and manipulate my life. Mona was either ignored or picked on. Mom seemed secretive. And so alone.

Mona, Mom and Larry. About 1948…

Not once during her life do I remember Mom going out for lunch with a friend. Ever. I know the neighborhood women had coffee together in the mornings, but I think that was before Larry died. I don’t think it was after we moved to 15th street. She didn’t belong to a circle at church, but for many years either entertained folks from church on Sunday nights or accepted invitations from other church families. This seemed to be the extent of their social life. Sunday night coffee hour.

Mom did have some great friendships with co-workers at different places she worked. Valley Manor and G & H Hatchery. She talked about her co-workers, (usually positive) or cute stories about the residents. She was friendly with many of the neighbor’s to a point. But to this young girl’s memory, Mom usually seemed sad, alone and aloof.

I hit the rebellious stage hard and head on about the age of 12. Mom was pretty domineering and manipulative. Dad was gone most nights, involved with church activities like visiting the sick. Mom loved that I had friends, but didn’t like it when I wanted to go anywhere, especially at night. There was only so much quiet a young teen could take. Most of my friends had noise, brothers and sisters, family chaos in their homes. It was just so quiet in our house. All the time.

The house that held many secrets….

I remember the first time I smoked. I was 8 or 9. Staying at some friends from church overnight. My friend, whose name is just beyond the fringe of my memory and I were playing by the farm house. Her dad was conversing with another guy and as a joke one of them offered each of us a puff from his cigar. My no name friend coughed, sputtered and turned a hideous shade of green. I loved the taste and feeling and wanted more. I’m convinced those 2 measly puffs would lead me to a life of smoking that lasted until I hit 39. Twenty-six years since I stopped and I still get cravings once in a while. Without a doubt, if I took one little puff, I’d be hooked like I never quit. Much like a recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon. I never really cared for the taste of beer or booze, but I certainly was addicted to smoking for 3 plus decades (and 30 lbs, guess that works out to 10 a decade, since I stopped).

1961, pretty close to getting sneaky and rebellious…

After those first couple cigar puffs, I don’t really remember how I started smoking in earnest during my spunky rebellious stage. No one to blame, it was all me. I swear I was already hooked on smoking, emotionally at least. Smoking involved several of my friends and a cousin. Helen, Loie, Patsy, Peggy and a boy named Herm. Many times there would be a several day gap between smokes (yes, I counted the days or hours) but I always knew I’d have another one. Sometime. Dad had quit smoking and drinking (not heavy in either category) after Larry died.

Mom w/ Joshua. She loved and kept her orange kitchen for years…

In our small, narrow orange kitchen was our gas stove. Two burners on each side, a pilot light with a tiny blue flame in the middle, which burned all the time. When one of the burners was turned on (flirty slut) the pilot light was responsible for sending gas to the burner. Sometimes this worked, other times with older stoves, you needed a match to encourage the burner to ignite. (Does this remind anyone else of the 2 bath tub couple commercial?)

Diane, me, Kay and Faye. Think I was the only smoker, 1966…

One day I was home alone, I wandered in the kitchen and noticed a burned up match near the pilot light on the stove. Not unusual if Mom had turned on a burner but it failed to ignite. A second glance spotted something that looked familiar but should not be on our stove top. A tiny pile of ash. A small round cylinder of ash. Like from a cigarette. Close to the pilot light opening on the black section of our stove. Almost unnoticeable. Odd. The only sporadic, infrequent smoker in our house was me! And I was not yet sneaking smokes in my house (though I would be soon enough). And it certainly wasn’t mine, but not a bad idea. Using the pilot to light your smoke. But I never had cigarettes on or with me. Yet. That task went to other kid’s parents who smoked. If there was a pack lying around, their parents wouldn’t notice when a couple disappeared. This was not the only risky part that accompanied smoking as a young teen in a small town. You could safely bet, no matter where you were or what you were doing, someone was watching. Waiting to rat you out to your parents. And this was decades before cell phones with cameras. Can’t tell you how many times, someone (grown ups) saw me sneaking into the theater (movies were forbidden in our house, sigh) or spotted me puffing on a cig. Small Dutch town living.

1963 with my nephew. Hope I didn’t smell like smoke…

But let me get back to that little pile of ash on our gas stove in our smokeless house (except for me). My interest was piqued and I was determined to figure out why it was there, without asking Mom or Dad. I searched the house. Went through the cupboards and drawers. Nada, zip. But I was a sneaky teen, so I delved deeper. I hit pay dirt in the basement. I never went down there. The steps were treacherous and a hazard to anyone’s health. The only things down there was the fuel oil tank for our furnace and a now abandoned wringer washer since the laundromat opened a half block away. Plus a half carton of L & M cigarettes hidden behind some junk. WTH? I was dumbfounded. Further nosing around would reveal matches in Mom’s house dress, single cigarettes in the bottom of her knitting basket, and almost every jacket and coat pocket. Mom was a closet smoker? And nobody knew? What about Dad? I often wondered why she went down the basement so often? Mom and her secrets.

Mom and Dad about 1961…

I think the answers were all about Dad. Mom had slumped to new lows in grief and depression after Larry’s death. Dad had accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior, and was full of fervor. So full of fervor. But quite condescending. He clearly saw how awful Mom was doing, but forbade her from doing any kind of therapy to talk and work through her grief. He told her if she were a stronger Christian, she wouldn’t be depressed. Ugh. I believe after he easily quit smoking and drinking, he asked Mom to stop smoking, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t. So she smoked alone, in secret. Sad really. More rejection.

Larry, Mom and me, 1951…

I might have told the whole world, bratty teen that I was, but I don’t think so or remember blabbing that little secret of Mom’s. It would be years before we admitted to each other that we both smoked. And smoked in front of each other. I then became her enabler.

For years she was in a tough spot. Since no one in town knew or realized Florence smoked, she couldn’t just zip to Koster’s Market for a carton. Mom’s elaborate cigarette buying techniques still make me feel bad. She would go to such great lengths to purchase a carton without anyone she knew spotting her. No, she was not into disguises, but would drive to Sioux Falls, Sioux City, Rock Rapids, Canton, Le Mars or Worthington. Just to buy a carton of L & M’s without being seen by someone from Rock Valley. She would stop at a huge grocery store in Sioux Falls, grab a cart, wander over to the cartons of cigarettes, grab her brand and high tail it to the checkouts. Eyes darting back and forth, heart pounding, convinced that a member from church was nearby and would see an otherwise empty cart but for that damn carton sitting neatly at the bottom. I told her so often after we both ‘came out’ to each other. Put the carton on the bottom and pile 25 dollars (a cart full back then) worth of groceries on top. No one will ever see the smokes. But she was too nervous to do that. She preferred slinking in, grabbing a carton and high-tailing it out.

This would soon be the room where I’d blow smoke out the window…

I might be mistaken, but as far as I know and remember, only one other person in Rock Valley knew Mom’s secret. Iowa winters are brutal. We had blizzards that lasted for days. Yay, no school. But that put Mom in a tough spot. If she’d run out of cigarettes during a hellacious storm, she was just screwed. Sure Dad could have bought some for her in Sheldon or Canton when he was driving the snowplow, but I think he was unwilling to do that for her. Or she didn’t dare ask him, for fear of being shamed or belittled. I never asked her how this arrangement happened the first time. How in the world she dared to ask someone in town if she could buy some cigarettes from them until the weather cleared? Then she could again drive 50 miles to keep her little secret intact. Mom did what was almost impossible for her personality. She confided and trusted another person to keep her secret. She called our neighbor across the street, asking to buy a pack or 2 to tide her over. Elaine Beumer. I believe Elaine and Paul both smoked. Maybe Elaine told other Rock Valley folks the details of Mom’s little secret, but I doubt that very much. Elaine would not hurt my Mom on purpose. After I was married, living in Sioux City, and heading to Rock Valley, I’d often buy Mom a carton or 2. Yeah, the enabling part. When and if I had money. Geez, sometimes we were so broke I didn’t have the cash, even though Mom always paid me right back. Or I’d get them for her while I was staying at their house. But she’d never let me buy them in town. Never. Somehow she was convinced the clerks would figure out the cigarettes were for her. Florence Gerritson. And why not? My brand was Tareyton…

How well I remember that little white stripe around the filter…

We were just getting used to living in a big city. It was vastly different than the charming town of Spencer, Iowa, population about 10,000. Have to admit though, we all liked it. Miles wise, we had zipped about 300 miles east to the opposite side of the state. Davenport sat on the Mississippi River, a large sprawling city of about 100,000 people. But closely attached (except for that massive body of water) to 3 more cities. In Iowa, Bettendorf, on the Illinois side, Moline and Rock Island. Altogether, aptly named the Quad Cities. Those Iowa-Illinois folks are clever like that.

From left, me, Josh, Shannon with Adam in front. Davenport, 1985…

After living in a rental for a year that was far to small for our growing family, which now boasted 5, we bought a house in an older section of Davenport, much closer to the Mississippi. The year was 1982 I believe, so Hubs was 34, I was 31, Shannon was 11, Joshua 7, and Adam 3. A large brick and stucco 2 story, located on a rather famous boulevard. Although the fame part was still on the rise. The fame of Kirkwood Blvd. deserves its own story, so that will come at another time. A couple of blocks from the junior high and elementary schools Shannon and Josh would be attending. Close to a small business section of hardware and drug stores with a Dairy Queen in the same block. Also included was a great hospital, St. Luke’s. Handy with growing kids which included 2 dare devil boys and one clutzy girl. No joke, she could trip over air.

The house on Kirkwood Blvd. To the right of the shrubs lived crazy Renee…

Initially, I was reluctant to give the kids much freedom. This was the biggest city we had ever lived in, and my hovering, mothering worry mode was in overdrive. But both neighborhoods proved to be quite safe. The crime rate wasn’t very high (except the the 2 murders I wrote about a few months ago which occurred while we lived there. And we were acquainted with both victims). Yikes. Glad that sadistic little oddity never followed us around every time we moved! Since Shannon was in junior high, she kind of sprouted wings, and was allowed to do more and go different places. Josh had a couple of neighbor playmates, and Adam was just too young to be very far from my sight yet. Our back yard was fenced, they kept busy with bikes, hot wheels, and an above ground pool.

Halloween on Kirkwood, 1984. Josh 9, Adam 5, Shannon 13…

Our next door neighbors moved to Colorado soon after we moved in. The couple who bought their house were young and had 2 small boys, Nicholas and Zachary, about Josh and Adam’s age. The marriage lasted just long enough to get their furniture arranged. It wasn’t a happy divorce. One morning, I’m talking crack of dawn, I was looking out my gorgeous, massive oak, beveled glass front door when I spotted Ken, the ex-hubby driving down Kirkwood Boulevard at a snails pace. He stopped a couple houses away in the middle of the street, and rolled down the passenger window. Ever so slowly he cruised by his former house, tossing 4 or 5 eggs at Renee’s (his ex) car. With the precision of a Jake Arrrieta no hitter, I might add. Truth be told, they were both nuts. To this day, I am sorry we didn’t adopt and raise their 2 boys. Honest, it would be a miracle if they both grew up to be decent, normal adults. They had SO much going against them.

Christmas on Kirkwood, Shannon, Josh and Adam, 1983…

After their uncivil divorce, Renee needed money, but paying a sitter, would barely bring home 2 nickels, so she decided to stay home and open a day care. Within weeks she was caring for way more kids that was allowed by the state. This didn’t stop her. She hired 13 year old Shannon to help everyday. Shannon was making big bucks. Nike and Calvin Klein were just becoming popular in the fashion world. With one income and 3 kids I could afford neither brand, but Shannon could. I was envious of her wardrobe. Sad. She worked very hard for her money, taking much better care of the kids than Renee. When Shannon started relaying what was going on in the house next door as she worked, my disbelief and concern grew. To keep parents duped, Renee started hiding kids. She knew which parents would be arriving to pick up their kid. Renee would have Shannon take a half dozen or more kids down the basement while Renee gathered up the belongings of those upstairs, and would send one after another home with their parents. That wasn’t the last straw though. Two things happened that I could no longer live with. Shannon babysat on the weekends for Renee. Party time for the new divorcee. Shannon would watch Nick and Zach and 2 or 3 kids whose parents worked weekends. While Renee was partying hard, Shannon was stuck in a house with several small children. And no food. She’d come over and get our leftovers or a couple of boxes of Mac and cheese. And milk, there was never and milk in their house. Such a pitiful shame. I still feel so bad that I didn’t do something months earlier.

Me, Shannon, Josh, John and Adam on Kirkwood, 1982…

There’s always 1. One little stinker who is part Houdini, part Nic Wallenda. Manages to scale the highest piece of furniture, literally climb the walls to the ceiling, or slip outside unnoticed. With far too many kids to watch, this almost 2 year old needed his own personal caregiver. That couldn’t happen because Shannon was trying to care for a dozen kids by herself. Renee was going through the motions, yakking on the phone, planning her next night out. Shannon came home and told me what Renee was doing to this little guy. I went next door, slipped upstairs, walked into one of several bedrooms housing napping children. There he was. In an old fashioned play pen. Sound asleep, but his arms were tied to the slats so he couldn’t escape. Walked out the door, back to our house and called the Iowa state department of welfare. Shannon lost her job, Renee was shut down (for the moment), all the kids shuffled out. If you can believe it, several parents stood by Renee and continued to leave their children in her care.

Graham 2, explaining the world of dinosaurs, 2011…

Without most of her income though, Renee lost the house and had to move. And I lost track of her little boys. Shannon heard after we moved to Michigan that Nick and Zach were in foster care. From that adorable family of 4 who were so excited to move into that house, to a nasty divorce, the fast decline of a seemingly normal mom into a drinking, drug using party girl, who cared nothing for her own children anymore. Beyond pitiful and sad.

About the time Shannon started earning big bucks at Renee’s, 1984…

Sorry, I got sidetracked with my ever growing list of crazy neighbors during our frequent moves over the years. Anyway, while Shannon was making boo-koo bucks before the crazy gravy train was shut down by me, Shannon was oozing money. One of her favorite places to go (and spend) was the Village of East Davenport. A few blocks of quaint shops and eateries overlooking the mighty Mississippi. Between a 5 and 10 minute bike ride from our house. She and her friends would eat at Rudy’s Tacos, then peruse the expensive shops (Shannon was the only one who could really afford to buy clothes at these places). Many times when they were in the Village, they just had to go visit Isabel Bloom’s studio.

Kids got me this when I retired from Central in 2013…

Isabel was born in 1908. She studied under Grant Wood (of American Gothic painting fame). Isabel’s talent would lie in sculptures. Starting with clay, adding concrete made from mud found under the Mississippi River. She’d sponge it off, adding color and resin. All of Isabel’s inspirations were children or animals. But simple, without much detail. I had never heard of her before we moved to the Quad-Cities. But her iconic colored indoor and outdoor sculptures were gaining popularity. If you remember from stories I’ve already told (Fred), living in this big city awarded me some of my dearest friends I’ve ever had. There were about a dozen of us. We bowled together, played double-deck Euchre, had luncheons, and secret sisters. Of these 12, I was really close to 4 of them. All of these gals, Mary Ellen (Fred) Jeanne, Betty and Pat collected Isabel Bloom sculptures. I, however did not. Though not terribly expensive, I was into collecting antique oak furniture. With fervor. But I did buy Isabel’s as gifts quite often. It wasn’t until we moved to Michigan that I discovered the errors of my ways and started a small collection of my own Isabel’s.

I bought Mary Ellen’s old woman mopping at the auction 3 years ago…

I started by buying a half dozen Isabel Christmas ornaments. Isabel had passed away in 1999, well into her 90’s and the studio had been sold. One of Isabel’s proteges, Donna Young, continued on as head designer, rarely swaying from Isabel’s vision. During one trip to Iowa, I was smitten (more like sucker-punched) when I visited the studio. (There were now about 5 Isabel Bloom stores, most in or near the Quad-Cities, plus one in Des Moines). It was a large angel, quite expensive and I had to have her.

My guardian angel. She’s doing a great job protecting me…

I was still buying sculptures as gifts, slowly teaching the state of Michigan about the iconic artist from Iowa. My friend Rosemary was so taken with Isabel, she went through the catalog before I headed to Iowa. Picked out the pieces she wanted for herself plus 20 or so gifts she instructed me to buy. On that trip I bought a lovely piece for my friend Pat, who was battling cancer along with Rosemary. The sculpture, 2 friends laughing and reminiscing. Just like Pat and I did many times before she passed away. One short month after Rosemary passed away at the young age of 47. Tough, tough losses.

I gave this to my friend Pat a few years before she passed away…

I’m not going through the whole loss of Mary Ellen. Three years have passed and it’s still pretty fresh. After she died, I contacted her family because I wanted some things to remind me how much she meant to me. The family decided they were going to have an auction. So John and I drove to Iowa in February (do not attempt this unless you learned to drive in Iowa during the winter while growing up). If they had not been claimed by family, I wanted 3 or 4 things. An antique oak chalkboard, a very old black and white depiction of a river boat on the Mississippi near Davenport. And a couple Mary Ellen’s Isabel Bloom’s, which were from the 70’s. There was no chalkboard at the auction, the pencil drawing of Davwnport was 3 or 4 hours away from being auctioned, and the weather conditions were deteriorating. But the Isabel Bloom’s were on an old flatbed near the auctioneer.

This piece was Mary Ellen’s for 35 years…

I was too scared and nervous to bid. Told Hubs, no matter the cost, I must have 3 of them. (I wanted a half dozen). Rest assured, I got all 3. The Isabel’s that sat in Mary Ellen’s house for decades, now proudly and prominently displayed in my house. For decades, I hope. I believe Mary Ellen liked Hilda the best. Massive and unbelievably heavy, a girl feeding the birds. But I like the little boy best. On his knees, wearing a winter coat, hat and scarf, he’s busy making snow balls. Don’t know what his real name is, but I call him Freddy, my nickname for Mary Ellen since 1982. The other piece is small, I believe it was either Mary Ellen’s mom’s or her aunts. An old woman, mopping her floors on hands and knees. Always sat behind Fred’s small kitchen TV where we watched the Cubs together. And it kind of reminds me of my Mom. She always did her floors on hands and knees.

My favorite piece which belonged to Mary Ellen, aka Fred…

I haven’t kept up with the latest Isabel creations. I always stop at one of the stores when I zip through Iowa. Usually pick up a couple of catalogs to look at and share. Shannon, as you can imagine has several statues and vases. This happened about 4 years ago. Our youngest grandson Graham now 6, was 2-1/2. Give me a bible, as God is my witness, Graham was the most amazing toddler. He knew every species of dinosaur that roamed the earth, and could say each name correctly. What they ate, how big their babies were, carnivore or plant eater. He knew it all. At age 2-1/2.

Rosemary loved to feed the birds and bought this piece. Her brother gave it to me after she passed away in 2010…

I was walking through Isabel Bloom in Northpark Mall in Davenport. I stopped suddenly, the air went out of my lungs, and I just stared. On the floor was a new Isabel. A small boy, sitting cross legged, looking at a page of a book with dinosaurs. Underneath his right arm was a purple dinosaur (Stegosaurus). In his left arm was a green dinosaur (Brachiosaurus. Thanks for spelling them Graham) leaning against the boy’s (who am I trying to kid? It’s Graham as sure as if they used him as the original model) tummy. Like a fool, I started to cry. For heaven’s sake, this was my grandson. I didn’t lose my cool though. I drove to a couple of the closest Isabel stores to get the perfect ‘Graham’ sculpture I liked the best. Most of Isabel’s pieces are green with a whitewash. Some are moss colored, others might have painted colored highlights. Like a black and gold scarf on a snowman for an Iowa Hawkeye fan. The finish I prefer is called Weathered Bronze. Underneath the green/whitewash is a faint but very noticeable bronze, sporadic coloring. I had to have Graham with just the right amount of weathered bronze, cause I’m fussy like that when spending big bucks.

This will always be ‘Graham’ to this gram…

Graham is kinda obsessed with all my collections. Some time ago, he asked me what makes a collection? Not really sure how to answer, I said any collection should have 10 to 12 pieces to get the distinction of a collection. Since he accepts this as gospel truth, he now runs around the house, counting my Lladro’s, Isabels’s, Blue Delft and Waterford. Making sure I have enough before he declares it an un-collection. Pluto, I feel your pain.

This matching princess (Peyton) was introduced a couple years after Graham’s statue…

Maybe a month after I got back from the Iowa trip with the little doppelgänger of G, he and Adam came to Muskegon for a couple days. Sarah was in school to become an RN and couldn’t miss during the week. Adam had days off during the week because he worked every weekend. Graham, always quick to spot any changes we might have made since his last visit, immediately noticed the new sculpture in the living room. He plopped down, legs crossed in front of it. Turned to me and asked, “what’s this, grandma?” “Hmmm,” I ventured, “what do you think it is Graham? What does it look like to you”? Shyly he looked up at me and said quietly, “that’s me!” …

Isabel Bloom, still working into her 80’s…

After almost 2 decades of visiting the elderly under the tutelage of 4 subpar bosses, (ministers, et al) I retired in 2013. Except for a 5 month daily stint, helping a wonderful friend named Lois who was recovering before after surgery for compression fractures, I have found retirement quite satisfying.

My dear friend Lois, who lives about an hour away now…

Our move from Muskegon to Jackson took a great deal of work and time. Downsizing a considerable amount of square feet, moving 175 miles east, plus so much work on the house we bought. Gallons of paint, new floors, appliances, knocking out walls, new sidewalk, driveway, light fixtures, garage roof. The list seemed endless. More to do on the outside, but almost done with the inside. Our bathroom is being remodeled as I type. Two plus weeks in, our contractor, Duke has completed the tearing down part to the studs. New window is in, drywall and cement board up, and he’s about done with the tile work. I have a cabinet setting next to my recliner (which is setting askew) that goes above the toilet, and I’m staring at the humongous box which holds our new shower doors. All in my living room. Sigh. Since Duke has some more sanding to do, I keep averting my eyes from my adorable antique oak highchair, which now sports an eighth inch of white dust.

See the fingerprint? What a dusty mess, but almost done and ready to put the house back in order…

While the move has been an incredible amount of work (and not something I hope to repeat ever again) I’ve not been sorry for 1 minute since we moved. No, not even 1 second. Actually ecstatic when I think we’re actually here. Only wish it could have been a couple years sooner, but thanks God, at least we’re here now.

Part of the new driveway and sidewalk, March, 2016…

I started getting twitchy after we settled in for the long Michigan winter. I don’t know very many people and when there’s a foot of snow on the ground, you just don’t stop and chit-chat with the neighbors. Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) basketball games filled a lot of nights, but the days were kind of long. I knew I wanted to work somewhere part time, but I not only was particular on where to seek work, but what kind of hours too. I didn’t want nights, weekends, or holidays, so retail was out. Any type of assisted living work would involve weekends too. Then my good friend suggested a new daycare/preschool/early elementary school which was growing by leaps and bounds and needed help. Are you kidding? Neese, the old people whisperer caring for children who don’t belong to her gene pool?

Landon # 3 freshman, varsity basketball season was superb, 2015-2016…

I applied and passed the background check. For heaven’s sake, don’t act so surprised. Told the director I would feel most comfortable with infants. I have a lot of trouble hearing and understanding little people. On occasion, I pick up my 6 year old grandson, Graham from school. Outside, there’s parents with babies, and toddlers picking up students, all milling around. We walk to the car holding hands because there’s a lot of cars trying to leave the parking lot. I ask G about his day, but he doesn’t talk very loud and his adorable mug is not facing me, so until we get into my Jeep, I miss most of what he says. Dang hearing loss is just the pits. Hearing and responding appropriately to toddlers would be dicey at best. But when a 2, 5 or 8 month old wants your attention, they let you know loud and clear. It may take me a couple seconds to determine where the cry is coming from, but believe me, I hear them all just fine.

Graham 6, with a craft project we did this winter…

I started working in February, so by now I recognize who is crying by their own unique sound. It’s really fascinating how different each baby sounds. One little guy has what I call a hiccup cry. While he’s gearing up to let us know he needs someone’s undivided attention, his little belly kind of hiccups until he really gets his motor running. A sweet blonde 8 month old prefers to make more baby babble while she begs for attention. Yi-yi-yi she cries with her little mouth making perfect circles. A dark haired, dimpled baby boy prefers to kind of meow cry like a kitten. One tiny auburn haired lass is surprisingly loud and boisterous, but often when she’s demanding attention, has a little pout in her lower lip for extra cuteness. Then we have a quality control baby/dude. He’s very helpful keeping our building up to code, safe and in tip-top shape. If any window glass in the whole building is of lower quality, his ear shattering, chalkboard scratching, howling screech will shatter any inferior window glass. I kid you not. He’s adorable, even more so when he’s not working so hard on the job though.

Wouldn’t you know, I’m drawn to every high maintenance baby lugged through the door by their parents. We are up to our limit of 12 babies. The state code is 1 worker for every 4 babies, but we have 4 workers for 12. We will be losing 4 babies very soon. Each has recently turned one and now much of our day is spent rescuing the wee ones from these busy miniature people. Who all seem to find the younger baby’s hair, eyes, ears, and mouths truly the most fascinating place to stick their little fingers. Or try and boink a rattle on their head to hear what sound that might make. The rowdy 4 will move to a room next to us that serves 1 to 2 year olds. And we have a waiting list that will soon bring us back up to a dozen babies again.

I’m surprised at how much I look forward to the days I work. Only working 20 hours a week, but as I’m getting ready, I have to smile because yesterday one of my HM (high maintenance) little dudes had learned to shake his head ‘no’ and pat-a-cake over the weekend. Hiccup dude transferred a toy from one hand to the other. Another little guy is getting up on all 4’s and rocking back and forth. Won’t be long until he’s all over our big room. You know I can’t take any pictures of these adorable little ones for privacy and confidentiality issues. Of course you guys understand. Trust me, everyone of our babies are smart, and cute as a bug.

Going back to work, even 3 days a week has not been without complications. Right after I started we were having an unusually, beautiful warm day. I’m done working at 1, (Neese, ever the early riser wanted early shifts) so I drove home, rested for a few minutes and decided since the snow was gone, it was time to start my daily walk again. Dressed in my walking duds, happily singing along with P!nk, Maroon 5, Kylie Minogue, Pitbull and that little hottie, Enrique Iglesias when I felt a sharp pain behind my left knee. Probably should have stopped walking, turned round and limped home. Of course I did not. Shortened my walk to 1-1/2 miles, but I have paid for that walk for 2 long months now. I did not call in sick, but honestly had trouble getting out of the rocker with a baby for about a week. The pain’s never gone. How about not being a total dumb ass and call the doctor? Well I didn’t have a doctor, but John did. Swallowed my pride trying to work my way through it and set up an appointment about a month after the pain started. Doc was fairly certain it was something called a Baker’s cyst. Usually prompted by some injury to your knee, the knee makes too much fluid and it collects in a cyst behind your knee. Ordered an x-ray and ultrasound, then sent me to an orthopedic specialist. Yup, same dude I took Landon to when he had his stress fracture in January.

Construction zone, formerly known as my living room…

The orthopedic doc is not convinced it’s a cyst. Although a Baker’s cyst can bulge, swell, then recede, he couldn’t feel it. When he asked about my chronic lower back issues for the last 25 years, the numbness and tingling in my leg that started a couple years ago, but comes and goes, he started nodding his head. After further determining a definite weakness and range of motion loss in my leg, he was more inclined to believe I have a pinched nerve. Signed me up for physical therapy. Which I’m about half done with now. Head therapy dude gave me a set of 5 exercises to do at home, 3 times a day. I considered myself gifted to remember 4 of the 5 until I went back to therapy for a second time. I’m using a treadmill (never walked on one before) a semi-recumbent bike, and some kind of electric zappers that attach (no, not my head) to each side of my knee and 2 spots on my butt. Then ice cold wraps under my butt and around my knee. Feels incredible, and from what I’ve experienced, PT usually hurts. A couple days since I’ve started have been completely pain free, other days I limp with every step. A couple more exercises on different machines will be added to gain the strength and mobility. I’m confident and hopeful that soon I’ll be walking pain free again. Even if it’s only a mile or 2, every other day.

But that wasn’t the extent of my complicated start back to the job force. Three weeks ago, a couple days before I left for Nashville with Shannon, Peyton and Landon, I got a tickle in my throat. The obnoxious kind that makes your eyes squirt water for 5 minutes and cough uncontrollably. Just a dry bark, but unfortunately did not disappear during the Nashville trip. Staying in one hotel room with 4 people trying to sleep through my nightly barking. I thought it would just go away, but instead it got worse. But I didn’t feel bad. No sneezing, fever, aches, or sinus headache. Just a cough that steadily got worse. Geez, half the babies have runny noses and are coughing. I can see I’m going to have to build up an immunity to everything those little farts catch. Soon. I tried to tough it out for 10 days after we got back. But after literally coughing 2 solid nights, I’d had enough. Not to mention how weary Hubs was of my constant hacking.

So I called my new primary care doc. I’ll admit I sounded pretty bad. But I still felt fine. It was pneumonia. Never had pneumonia or those accordion sounds coming loudly from my chest before. Sounded like Myron Floren on Lawrence Welk. Got a shot of antibiotics, a packet of decreasing dosage steroids, a prescription for antibiotics, and cough medicine with codeine. Hello, good nights sleep. Finally. Doc wanted to check me again last Friday to make sure I shouldn’t be in the hospital for the weekend. Oxygen level was still low, especially after I meandered slowly (but as quick as I could) down the crowded hallway, fast-as-accordion-chest-music-maker-grandma-with-a-bad-leg-butt-and-knee-issues-could-lumber-along. I’ll admit, I looked pretty hopeless, and sounded worse. She ordered a breathing treatment (also a first in my life) which took a few minutes, made me kind of shakey and cough like there was no tomorrow. But after a couple hours I did feel somewhat better, breathing wise.

Good grief, more pills than I’ve taken in a decade…

Construction guy Duke finally said the words we longed to hear but dreaded. “The toilet’s gotta go. Can’t start tiling the floor until it’s out.” Well we could go stay at Shannon’s since they were all going to gone for the weekend. They were headed to Fort Wayne, one of the biggest basketball tourney’s of the season. Almost 250 teams competing in different age brackets. We’ve gone several times when we lived in Muskegon, which was about 5 hours away. From Jackson, it’s only a hundred miles. We just decided to spend the weekend down there instead of driving back and forth. Loved the basketball, but weather, health, walking wise, was a huge mistake. It was rainy, cold, windy, we had no hotel room to start our fun weekend away from home. If you can imagine, 250 teams, say a dozen kids on each team, plus parents, coaches, and college scouts. No room at the inn-anywhere. We drove a few miles out of the city, found a dive. I’ve already sort of blocked out this little incident out of my mind. Like hard labor during a difficult birth. I was past the point of doing anything constructive besides coughing and limping. I slept intermittently on top of the covers in my sweats on while wondering why on earth the hotel’s interior decorator chose to paint a wall orange right next to the red and navy striped drapes that adorned the window. At least the window was covered so I didn’t have to tally which rooms rented by the hour. Kidding. Long night. Tracey went to bat for us, and found a room for Saturday night. What luxury. A small suite, king size bed, fireplace. Heaven. Made up for the hard bleachers, impossible parking, constant cold drizzle which wasn’t doing any of my sick and sore old parts much good.

Construction dude, Duke cutting tile. Not his favorite chore…

Landon’s team, King James (LeBron) Shooting Stars had a tough tourney. Their version of the twin towers, 2 tall, painfully thin guys, both got hurt. One pulled a calf muscle (Tracey questioned this, as the kid’s leg is so skinny, T said it was impossible to have a muscle there), the other either sprained or broke his ankle, yet both still tried to play. But neither could jump, run, or rebound after those injuries. Yet running, jumping and rebounding are still needed if you want to continue winning games. (Any Hawkeye fans remember Iowa’s twin towers, Greg Stokes and that hunk Michael Payne from the mid-to-late 80’s?). KJS Stars lost after winning the first 2 games of the tourney on the second day. Bummer. But Landon had some good games. He’s my fave, you know. FYI Iowa fans, I also watched Iowa’s coach, Fran McCaffrey’s 15 year old son, Patrick play. I believe he’s the young man who had a pretty serious bout with cancer a couple years ago. His older brother, Connor (who has already committed to Iowa) was also playing in the 17u division, but I never caught any of his games. There was actually quite a crowd from Iowa in Fort Wayne for the weekend. Iowa State girls softball team were in town. Don’t know if it ever got dry enough for them to play. You know those Iowans. They support their kid’s teams. Tons of cars with Iowa plates. All getting better parking places much closer than this gimpy gram.

King James SS. Landon sitting on the right…

Well, I’ve got some good news. Had to be rechecked for a third time on Monday. No, I did not tell her what I had been up to during the weekend. I’ve been up or down graded to bronchitis because my lungs sound great again. Yay. To be safe, one more round of antibiotics and some weird cough ‘pearls’ to use when my little coughing fits hits during the day. These pills won’t put me to sleep along with the babies. Just got back from PT and next week more strength and endurance exercises will be added. Think I might be on the right track on both fronts.

And lastly, the babies. I think every high school student (boys and girls) should be required to spend a couple hours, or days in my infant room. And maybe every young couple in love or lust too. For the middle to upper teens, there is no better form of birth control than to be in a room with 12 beautiful, cuddly babies. Which, at any given minute, at least 6, usually more are vying and crying for undivided attention. No holes barred. And will not be silenced until they are individually soothed. Or to the couple contemplating becoming parents. Once they gaze into our little auburn haired, blue eyed, petite fire ball, complete with her turquoise head band, bottom lip pouting just enough to be irresistible, plus her keen intelligence at all the things she observes, will hustle out of there, head for home and start a family immediately…

I was looking for a recipe the other day. Specifically, Banana Bars. Delicious, easy and a great way to use a couple of over ripe bananas. Most of my recipes are typed, though some are still handwritten. Neatly held in this cute little Longaberger Recipe basket. I started thinking about my friends and family who have shared their recipes with me. Some have been in my life for decades, others zipped through quickly, usually because we moved.

The recipe box with all my favorites…

To me, asking for one of my recipes is the highest form of flattery. How can anyone be offended by this? Incomprehensible and downright snotty. I’ve heard of family favorite dishes being lost forever because no one ever wrote down how great grandma made it, or she couldn’t be pinned down to give the one secret ingredient that no one else can figure out which made the dish so special. I have a tendency to be quite the opposite. Delve into such intricate detail the nuances of the recipe, their eyes glaze over, and I can literally see their expression suggest, (I’m not ever making that crap even though it tastes great. Are you kidding me? 48 steps, it’s a stinking cracker you nut case).

My own little assembly line of assorted sized Apple Pies…

Those who know me are probably shaking their heads by now. How could Neese possibly write a story about recipes? The only thing she’s admitted was knowing how to heat water. And that was in a baby bottle sterilizer in 1971. Wait, I know I’m the first to admit being slow on the uptake in the cooking department. I don’t think it was a lack of interest, but truthfully, Mom never took the time to teach me. So I plunged into wedded bliss head first without knowing how to cook anything. Really. Zip, nada. But by year 5, I was embracing the finer things about baking. Making great fruit pies, breads, bars, cakes and cinnamon rolls. Cooking supper was a little tougher, but I cooked almost every night. Nothing fancy, but I was honing my skills and getting better.

A Dutch delicacy, Saucijzebroodjes. Pigs in the Blanket…

My mother-in-law Mag was my first real cooking teacher. She had a lot of patience, and was an excellent cook and baker. But it took patience on my part too while I was learning. Because Mag had very few recipes written down. Most of what she made was from scratch, and in her head. She rarely measured anything. Which goes against anything a rookie cook depended on. I needed concrete, precise amounts, and guidance on the steps in order to make a dish.

Bread N Butter Pickles. One of my most treasured recipes from Diane…

That was never Mag’s style. Truth be told, I’m probably a better cook and baker having learned some of her loosey-goosey methods. But at the time, I found it pretty frustrating. It would have been so much easier and concise had she said, 2 T. of yellow mustard. Instead, she just turned that yellow plastic container upside down, (all the while yakking 100 miles an hour) squeezed really hard, and squirted a yellow blob on top of the humongous pile of Miracle Whip (never mayo in Mag’s potato salad). This was fine and dandy, assuming the next time I tried this by myself, I was making a similar sized bowl of her famous potato salad. It didn’t take too long before I realized while mixing the Miracle Whip, sugar, mustard, salt and pepper, it actually had to be a ‘certain’ color to taste really good. Yup, that shade was just right, so the amount of mustard was spot on. I guess I’m as bad as Mag. I learned how to make potato salad over 40 years ago, yet it wasn’t until my daughter-in-law Erica asked for the recipe a couple years ago that I actually measured the amounts as I made a bowl so I could write it down for her. The first time Erica made it, she texted something like, good grief, that’s a lot of work (ok, she might have been a lot more explicit in her language). Mag always used lots of crunchy veggies in her salad, so of course I do too. Since Erica needed a good sized bowl for the crowd she was serving, so the green onions, celery, radishes and sweet pickles took forever to dice.

Mag’s Potato Salad. So good…

Another favorite recipe is cutout cookies. We were living near Dyersville, Iowa, 1974-1977. Jerry was a coworker of John, so both of those lucky guys got to work for the 5 crazy brothers. Jerry and his wife Joann were a bit older than us, and had a bigger family. Maybe 3 or 4 kids when we met. Shannon was 4 and I was pregnant with Joshua. Joann gave me her cookie dough recipe for Christmas cutout cookies. First time I had ever tried something like that. I was hooked. Soon I bought cookie cutters for every holiday. While the kids were small (ok, when they were bigger too) I made cutout cookies about 8 times a year. Never went bonkers like some gals do in the frosting decorating department. Just good old fashioned buttercream. Made extra special because of my Kitchenaid Mixer. (I’m now on my 4th Kitchenaid. No they don’t wear out, they just keep making newer souped up models I can’t live without). I never take credit for my frosting, it’s always been my great mixer that gets the honors. Now I’m down to cutout cookies about 3 times a year, Easter, Halloween and Christmas. Yet every time I get that recipe out, I immediately think fondly of Joann for giving me such a great recipe and making me a better baker.

Cutout cookie recipe from Joann many years go…

Most of my recipes from Mom are baked goods and candies. Not too much of a surprise because we both had huge sweet tooths. Sweet teeth can’t be right, is it? Banana and Coconut Cream pies. Her homemade German Chocolate Cake frosting recipe. Mom’s suppers consisted of roasts with carrots and potatoes or pork chops. Simple fare. I do make several of the same casseroles she used to make though. But it was Mom’s grandma Berghuis’ special Fudge and Penuche recipes that have meant the most to me. Seems like in the olden days, not many ingredients were used or needed to make something taste incredible. Believe me, I’ve tried other recipes, with enough expensive ingredients forcing me into getting a second mortgage. Still Grandma Berghuis’ simple recipe tastes the best. Not the easiest to make perfectly every time, but for taste, there’s not a better recipe.

My great grandma’s Fudge recipe made perfect (this time)…

Mom and I shopped in Sheldon quite often when I was young. On such a trip, we ate at a small cafe downtown on the corner. Can’t remember the name of the place anymore. I always ordered a hamburger and fries. Mom, however would order a bowl of homemade soup and a salad (this was before there was even such a thing as soup and salad combo). They had several soup choices, making Mom’s decision tough. But she never wavered in her salad choice. She always got Pea Salad. One of those tiny 6 oz. sauce dishes piled high with ice cold Pea Salad. Disgusting. I could barely look at it. When I finally grew up, I asked for Mom’s Pea Salad recipe, and still make it all the time.

Mom’s recipe for German Chocolate Cake Frosting…

When I became curious (as opposed to obsessed) about home canning, the first thing I wanted to can was pickled beets. The store bought ones don’t have very much flavor or zip. This was about 25 years ago. I mentioned to Mag I wanted to try my hand canning pickled beets. She tried to explain how to make them. Then she reached over, grabbed a scrap of paper, and wrote it down for me. She was about 80 then. Later I stopped at my sister-in-law Mary Jane’s house and mentioned Mag had given me the lowdown on pickled beets. Mary glanced at the recipe and said, “sorry Denise, Mag’s got the wrong amounts and she’s missing an ingredient.” I jotted down Mary Jane’s recipe, and have been making the best pickled beets ever since. But I’ve never been able to toss that precious, badly stained, handwritten envelope recipe which Mag took the time to write for me. It’s been nestled in my recipe box all these years. By the way, I need to thank Mary Jane for the best 1000 Island Dressing Recipe in the world. It’s the only highly guarded secret recipe I own. Which totally contradicts my whole theory on sharing recipes. That’s do as I say, not as I do.

Mag’s handwritten version of pickled beets, circa 1989…

My good friend Diane gave me her recipe for canned Bread N Butter Pickles about the same time as I was learning how to pickle my beets. It’s been one of my yearly staples every canning year. They are the best pickles. Absolutely the best. No kidding. The other recipe I got from Diane was a fluke. We were having them over for a barbecue. Diane said she would bring dessert. Diane walks in with a flower pot full of tulips. I thought to myself, how in the world does this centerpiece help me? Now what can I conjure up for dessert? Little did I know. This clever friend of mine made dirt. I had never heard of such a thing. She had a special flower pot filled with silk flowers. But the dirt was a surprise. Made of layers of a vanilla pudding concoction, with crushed Oreos in between. Which really resembles dirt. She even brought over a small spade used to serve the dirt. Complete with gummy worms throughout. Cutest dessert I’ve ever seen. She sure had me fooled.

Another Mag recipe. Pecan Tassies…

About 10 years ago, Joshua decided he wanted to make a banana cream pie. He called and asked for the recipe. “Just email it to me ma.” Well, I was fairly new to the computer world, and something about emailing that recipe just rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was Mag’s recipe written on the envelope. Emailing it just didn’t feel right. I bought him a recipe box, and wrote by hand several of our family’s favorites. Like Taverns and fudge. I wanted him to have them in my half cursive, half printing scrawl. Something real to remember that I took the time to do for him. I did the same thing for my granddaughter, Ari. Bought a Longaberger Recipe Basket, filled it with my sloppy handwritten favorite recipes. She cried when I gave it to her. So did I. I imagine I’ll do the same thing with the rest of the grands as they grow up. If they want some recipes. So, many thanks to all the gals who have shared their favorite recipes with me over the years. Or asked me for one of mine…

Mom’s Banana Cream Pie recipe…

So this business of storytelling. The folks reading my blog posts for almost 2 years now, know I write about every facet of my life. Every facet. Growing up in Rock Valley, Iowa, eloping at 18, motherhood, marriage, my life long love of the elderly. The complicated relationships with my Mom, Dad and sister. Not much has been off limits in baring ‘all of Neese’ in my bizarre little life. Until my stunning, beautiful, smart, sassy, talented, soon-to-be-12-year-old granddaughter, Peyton put the brakes on my writing. Have I mentioned she’s a bit assertive? Wonder who in the world she inherited that trait from?

Peyton, my little Ballerina, 2005…

Ok, Peyton’s granted me plenty of leeway on most subjects. Doesn’t care when I appear dumb, foolish, or write about things which should forever remain untold. Rolls her eyes at my silly subject matter, poor grammar, probably many of the pictures I use. And she truly cares not one whit about my writing. As long as it’s not about her! Technically, she did not forbid me not to write about her. She merely insisted she would read, edit, have complete control and authority over every word I write about her before I hit publish. Yup, that’s my power-tripping, pre-teen, fabulous granddaughter.

Lovely, graceful Peyton, 5 in 2009…

The reason for these strong feelings and opinions in writing about Peyton stems from one silly, stupid sentence I wrote! Can you believe it? If you’re curious about what messed her up so badly, go back to the story I wrote in December of 2014. Aptly named, Landon Andrew. See if you can discover the horrible incident which is now the reason I’m edited by an 11 year old. Sigh. But before we get into Peyton’s story, you need to understand a very real, concrete theory which concerns our family. When we get to PJ’s part, if it’s only a sentence or 2, you’ll know why. I’ve been hog-tied.

Peyton’s smile lights up the world, 2008…

First, let me explain our numbering system. Months and years don’t count here, only the actual dates. We had a good pattern working in our little family. For decades. I was born on the 2nd. Hubs was born on the 4th. Nice, low even numbers. The way God intended. Shannon Marie was first to join our unit, born on the 4th. Evenly spacing our kids a good 4 plus years apart, Joshua joined our merry crew with his entrance on the 2nd. Are you detecting a pattern here?

Mutual admiration society, Ariana 15, PJ, 2, 2006…

Adam proved to be a bit dicey. His due date was on the 7th. Yikes. But as a breech baby, with only 2 tiny feet pressing in my birth canal, he was in no big hurry to make his appearance just yet. The 7th came and went. Ugh, because I was overdue, whew, because he missed the 7th. He also missed the 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th. Do I have to tell you how incredibly sick I was about still being pregnant? And worried? With some serious concerns for his healthy birth? I thought not. Adam came into our world feet first and shakey on the 12th. But wait, all was right with our little Adam, his birth date and our numbers world. If you add John’s, Shannon’s, Joshua’s and my birthdate numbers, it totals 12. Ta-da.

Nearly 9 months pregnant with Adam, 1979…

Our next extra special numbers addition was our first grand child. Ariana wiggled her way into our hearts and lives on the 8th. We gained our son-in-law Tracey, who was born on the 10th. My totally amazing grandson Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) popped in on the 4th. Timing is impeccable with that kid.

Peyton with Ari at first Ballet recital, 2007…

So now we’re up to my blog post title holder. My beautiful granddaughter Peyton was due on 04-04-04. How clever is that? And she has proven to be a lot more than just clever. But she was a no-show on the 4th. Ditto with the 5th and 6th. We were nearing panic mode, but Shannon and I decided she would certainly wait until the 8th and share that date with her big sis, Ari. The moment they laid eyes on each other, they have been devoted, despite their age difference of 13 years. Have I told you how fiercely independent Peyton has been her whole (short little) life?

Cute as a bug, Peyton 6 months, 2004…

Shannon called when she was in labor, but said things were moving slowly and assured me she wouldn’t be giving birth until past midnight. I drove to Jackson because I will be taking care of Ariana and Landon, almost 4. I made a quick stop at the hospital to say hi to Shannon and Tracey. I walked into the birthing room, noticed the mid-wife and continued to walk towards Shannon. Guess who beat me to the bed before I got there? Miss Peyton Jada! We still had 6 hours to go before midnight. Hmmm. Peyton decided to make her own Lowder/Van Berkum timetable. Odd. The date was definitely still the 7th. She was extraordinaryly beautiful. And tiny, weighing 6 pounds even. Wouldn’t you know, she didn’t have any odd ounces, just an odd birthdate. But Shannon felt great. Life was good. This was Wednesday night.

Peyton 11, taking a break from keyboard practice, 2015…

Landon has many allergies. To name a few, beef, chocolate, eggs, nuts and milk. Around this time, he was obsessed with fried chicken. My fried chicken. But only legs. Not thighs, wings, white meat, just drumsticks. Of course we had to have a meal of fried chicken while I was there. So I was frying a mess (meaning many, and yes, very messy) of legs on Thursday night. Tracey was leaving the hospital in his car, John was leaving in another to have supper with us. Shannon’s good friend, Colleen was at the hospital, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over exquisite Peyton. About 2 blocks from the hospital, Tracey was T-boned by a lady running a red light cause she needed some smokes. John passed the accident before the ambulance, realizing it was Tracey, turned around and went back to the hospital. Since Tracey was not yet at the ER, John went to Shannon’s room. He started with, “Shannon, I’m sorry. Tracey never made it home from the hospital. He was in an accident!” As Shannon has said for 12 years: Worst. News. Delivery. Ever! She thought T was dead.

Peyton loves Ballet, and it shows, 2016…

When they brought Tracey to the ER, he was wearing a bracelet from the mother/baby ward. The ER folks couldn’t figure out why this guy was already wearing a band from their own hospital. Tracey hurt his neck and shoulder, but it wasn’t life-threatening.

Peyton looking very fetching, 2011…

Shannon and Peyton were doing terrific. Nursing was going smoothly, so mom and babe went home on Friday. I stayed until Saturday, then went back to Muskegon to get ready for Easter. But Shannon was doing poorly by Sunday. Shannon fed Peyton, then asked Ari to watch the baby for a little while so she could rest. Tracey went to the bedroom to check on Shannon a couple hours later, and found her under a pile of blankets, almost delirious. Ariana watched Landon, (yes, I believe he was still called Landon at this point, but it wouldn’t be long before he changed to his signature logo, Drew, for the rest of the world except me). Tracey loaded up sick mommy, PJ and headed to the hospital. By the time they arrived and parked, Shannon was unable to walk. After the car accident 2 days prior, still very stiff and sore, Tracey grabbed the carrier with 6 pound Peyton in one arm, and not quite close to 6 pound Shannon in the other arm.

I love, love this serious pose. Peyton, 2005…

Without getting too graphic, the ER doc thought a piece of placenta had broken off, (somewhat common) causing Shannon’s high fever. This was not the case though. She had a serious, unknown infection. Shannon suggested (see the assertive trait here) IV home therapy and they would be on their way. The doc was pretty blunt. “It’s Easter Sunday. There is no home IV therapy. You have to be admitted. Or you’re going to die.” (To this day, Shannon believes this was the same infection her great-grandma Wanningen suffered and died from at age 22 after my Mom and her twin brother were born in 1926. Unfortunately, back then there were no antibiotics to fight this killer infection). The hospital would not however, re-admit Peyton. Shannon called me, sobbing and so very sick.

PJ must chew pearls when solving the worlds problems, 2004…

I packed another suitcase, hopped in the car and tried to prepare myself for taking care of tiny newborn, Peyton. Little did I know. Tracey would not let that baby out of his sight, except when he came home after a long day running errands and staying at the hospital. Shannon was not only dangerously ill, she was devastated. Their pediatrician told Shannon she wouldn’t be able to nurse Peyton while on such strong antibiotics because it causes deafness in newborns. Now Tracey had to encourage PJ to take formula-from a bottle. Shannon was determined to keep milk production up so they could resume nursing when she was better. Unfortunately for Shannon, she had been admitted to the pediatric ward. Every time she heard a baby cry, her milk let down. Fortunately for Peyton, this would serve her well in the future when they were back home together. So Shannon pumped-dumped-and-cried, while Tracey took care of Peyton. I watched Ari and Landon during the week, which happened to be spring break. Tracey would drop Peyton off at the hospital for a few hours during the day. The doctors and nurses pretended not to notice a extra little person sharing Shannon’s room. When friends stopped by to visit, they were assigned feeding Peyton formula. If Shannon tried to feed PJ, she absolutely would not take the bottle. It’s that whole/mommy/smell/bond/nuzzle/thingy.

One of our favorite things we do together, make fudge, 2014…

By Wednesday after Easter, Shannon was feeling much better, but still on antibiotics. Happily for both of them, after 3 long, gut-wrenching, emotional weeks, Peyton went right back to nursing without a hiccup. And her superb hearing was never an issue. I’ve always been careful of what I said about my Mom after I moved to Michigan in 1987. She could honestly hear what I said about her. And she lived in Iowa, about 800 miles away. Yeah, Peyton has that kind of hearing.

Cutie pie Peyton, 6 mo, 2004…

As she did with Landon, Shannon took an extended maternity leave after Peyton for about 5 months. Plenty of time to bond. And move on to the next big step in her career. Decided not to go back to her job as foster care supervisor with the state, but begin a 4 year program to acquire her Ph.D. Those kids of mine, so smart and ambitious. Tracey, always supportive (and a little envious) of Shannon, stepped it up several notches. Since Shannon would be driving to Detroit daily, much of the day to day childcare duties, hauling them here and there would be up to him. And he took the reins like the champ he is.

Peyton 3, with daddy behind her, 2007…

Peyton went to day care in a home until Shannon enrolled her in Montessori pre-school/daycare. PJ grew and thrived into a brilliant toddler. Artsy-fartsy, loved drawing, coloring, and was introduced to Ballet by the time she was 3. Her first dance recital was incredible. The dance studio always has the youngest dancers do their routine first, because they have the interest span of a gnat. The teachers lead the half dozen 3 year olds on stage and stood them on their respective marks. The music started, and one little darling dancer moved with the music. Yup, Peyton. The others stood-awestruck. Did Peyton continue the routine by herself? Well yes, sort of. In between moves, she’d scoot to another statue (awestruck toddler) and literally twirl the next moves with her. Talk about a born leader. It was endearing and hilarious. What a hoot.

Life is serious. Peyton and Ariana, 2015…

PJ inherited her mom’s (and grandma’s) love of books. Another voracious reader. I don’t believe she’s ever come over to our house without vast amounts of reading material. Doesn’t matter if the visit is 2 hours or a week. She sets very high goals for herself in her school work. I believe she was reading at 11 grade level when she was in 4th grade.

One of my favorites of PJ, 2006…

Still dancing. An exquisite Ballet dancer, now also enjoys Contemporary and Jazz. Peyton has taken voice and piano lessons for several years. She’s in the Honor’s Choir as one of the few 6th graders at school. Likes to compete in singing competitions. Dreamed of trying out on American Idol, but that dream has been dashed as this is their last season. Not to forget her studies, she also competes in her school’s academic games. With dad at 6′ 4″ and some height on our side of the family, PJ will be closer to 6 foot than 5 when she’s done growing. She does not care for basketball, preferring to read during Landon’s basketball games. She does enjoy playing volleyball.

Peyton’s unique light surrounds her, 2015…

Before I stop, I must add the next members (and numbers) to the quirky Van Berkum bunch. The next one is a little tricky and required some serious brain power on my part for a logical solution. Lo and behold, about 8 years ago, Adam started dating a beautiful young woman named Sarah. They became parents 6 years ago to our 4th grandchild. A smart, cute, precocious boy named Graham. Who could rattle off every 18 syllable, technical, dinosaur species name by age 2. As God is my witness, a true statement. Well, Graham was a double whammy. Not only born on the 10th, that date was also Tracey’s birthday. Alas, Sarah’s date is (I can hardly type it) the 11th. Hold the phone. Really, it’s ok. Graham is the 10th, Sarah’s the 11th, and Adam is the 12th. Makes perfect sense. At least in my ‘little’ world.

Sarah, Graham and Adam on vacation, 2015…

Which brings me to our last addition (so far). Erica Little. MSU grad in mechanical engineering. Pretty, smart, savvy, runner and health nut. She hooked the whole family with one dazzling smile, and her infectious laugh. But it was Josh who fell hard. And we’re so glad he did. Now married 3-1/2 years, they’ve been busy remodeling (down to the studs) a house in Detroit. It’s nearly ready for them to move in later this spring. Erica’s date? Though heading for the stratosphere, still an even number at 18.

2012, Cancun. Josh and Erica’s wedding…

Just a sneak peak at one of my 4 favorite, fabulous grandchildren and a snippet on the family. Numbers, who knew? Well, I’m going to add some cute pictures and send this off to my boss, the editor. Your guess is as good as mine on how many red slash marks it contains when I get my copy back. Don’t be too hard on your gram Peyton. Every word was typed with lots of love, pride and admiration. Happy birthday, Peyton…

PJ knows how to live on the wild side, 2016…