Nothing dirty about the title. Calm down. Simply means boxes and shelves. I acquired a life-long fascination with antique oak furniture right after Hubs and I got married, decades ago. First finding an adorable dresser at a garage sale for 5 bucks. I didn’t know then just how bad this hobby would suck me in. Or how much my tastes would change. From its very inception, I was drawn to a certain furniture type, even though we were on a shoestring budget. Shoestring meaning pretty much zero dollars to spend on anything besides heat, food, gas, rent and insurance. Tough way to start an antique lover’s career.

Dainty little claw feet on my Deacon’s bench and curved glass china closet…

But I would eek out a small corner of our meager budget the first few years to find pieces I could afford. Not always the pieces I coveted or drooled over. The ones I found (could afford) always required a lot of work. Many were covered with several coats of paint, or missing key components, but that never stopped me. I bought curved glass china closets missing doors, tops or glass. John was willing to do the repairs to make the piece complete. I did most of the stripping (ha), sometimes using a darning needle to remove paint from a corner or the deep grain. If the piece was too light in color to suit us, Hubs was the stain guy. I always did the finishing, using polyurethane or tung oil. John was impatient with a small brush. And sloppy. We all have our gifts.

No claw feet, but this piece sucked the break right out of me when I spotted it…

This was during the 70’s and 80’s when dipping a piece was popular. Huge tanks of stripper, allowing you to plop (and pay for) the whole piece in a vat. Like a school of piranha gleaning a fresh kill. But when your budget is a few dollars for an abused antique, dipping was expensive and frowned on by many. Hard on the wood, joints etc. Neither John or I minded working on a piece for a few weeks. It always gave me a huge sense of satisfaction after I brought home something with multiple layers of vile paint. Discovering the beautiful wood grain underneath.

Sinclair Fidelity Meats now holds all my throws…

From the get-go, I liked oak that was rather dainty. With curved glass and claw feet. Reflecting back, I didn’t realize my tastes were changing. Twenty years later, I found myself liking my furniture darker and buying more rustic pieces. Huh? Yup, in my late thirty’s I got hooked on boxes. Wooden boxes. Nothing beautiful, petite, or even oak. How did this happen? To me, the dainty oak collector? The sheer magnitude of this box/advertising obsession wasn’t fully realized until we were unpacking at the new house. Many of these bits and pieces of bizarre collections have been in storage for several years when we were forced to live a minimalist life style in order to sell our house. Remove all but a few pieces, giving the house a larger appearance, concentrating on the house, instead of all the stuff in the house. Gone were my broken, metal toy trucks and cars, all missing paint, headlights or other parts. Advertising paraphernalia that once graced my oak furniture. Green glass measuring cups, matchbooks, old dolls, depression glass, all packed away in a storage unit. Making me depressed.

The truck Hubs has had for 65 years…

Part of this venue change in collecting was because of the pieces I already had. You just can’t keep buying wardrobes, dressers and china closets forever. Unless you have limitless room and funding. Sigh. I loved the furniture I had, and the antique bug was still rampant. But I needed other things to collect, and my big pieces of furniture had already been upgraded to the next level. Shannon was in college, a single mom to the exquisite Ariana, and most agreeable to my hand me downs. As I found fancier pieces, her home seemed to need what I was trying to get rid of. Allowing me justification to buy nicer pieces. With a couple more coins in my wallet, I actually bought some pieces that didn’t need to be stripped and refinished. Gasp.

Advertising Tootsie-Rolls shipped to Jackson, Mi…

Now after about 60 plus days in our new crib, the ever elusive shelves to my final curved glass secretary have surfaced. For our first month here, all 3 sets of shelves were missing. I had saran wrapped each set of shelves together, but had no idea where they were. I thought they were packed in a slender picture/mirror box. Only the china closet shelves had some substance to them. Curvy, with a beveled edge and plate grooves, both sets to the curved glass secretaries are non-descript. Rectangular and rather plain. At the time, it was just too much work to keep searching for the shelves. Most of the house was looking fairly good. But I was sleeping on the couch and John (sicker than a dog) was in the spare bedroom.

Procter & Gamble Mottled German Soap box ready for shipping…

Our next goal was to knock out a wall between 2 bedrooms. Heaven help us, one room was painted red and navy, the other pink and purple, complete with a castle and dragon on one wall. Those two rooms, now one, needed major commitment from us after the wall came tumbling down. We started with a 2 gallon pail of Kilz, which is a primer/stain coverup combined. Let me tell you, one coat of Kilz does not a dragon slay. Try 3 coats of Kilz, then 2 of blue. Plus the whole ceiling was adorned with Sponge Bob, SquarePants stickers. Which were really, really stuck. Did I mention how adorable those stickers looked? Requiring a few choice words, gnashing of teeth and 2 coats of ceiling paint. As we were painting with a vengeance, we ordered carpet. Still it was 3 long weeks before we got to sleep in our own bed together.

The dragon and castle after 2 coats of Kilz. Ugh…

The last elusive shelf set was in a big plastic tub by our Christmas stuff. There was a stack of several plastic containers marked Christmas, another stack marked canning. I hadn’t gone through either, cause I wasn’t canning or setting up Christmas yet. But I assumed all those tubs contained what was sloppily labeled on the outside. Wrong. We had to be some kind of messed up in August when we totally botched this. This particular tub had two 36 packs of Northern bath tissue, and an unopened box of 135 kitchen trash bags. I knew I had that extra box of bags somewhere, but had given up finding them and just spent $13.99 for a new box. Sigh. We now have lots of garbage bags and toilet paper. All the necessities to make our home complete.

Ta-da! They have retuned to the fold…

Today I’m gonna run a sink of soapy water, and wash my Waterford crystal. Haven’t gone through that box yet. It’s been sitting in the same spot for 9 weeks. I couldn’t unpack it cause I had nowhere to put the stuff, without those stinking shelves. I hope none of it is broken. So far, I’ve found a couple of broken ornaments, 2 of my Lladro statues and 3 pieces of blue Delft. All broke. Guess we won’t be lining up any how-to-pack-before-you-move-seminars-in-the-near-future.

This used to hold 4 dainty rolls of toilet tissue. For 72 rolls, I’m gonna need a bigger box…

I was about to toss the broken Blue Delft pitcher when a semi-crafty idea hit me. Honest, I was as surprised as you. This happens to me so infrequently, I tend to act upon it to keep my once-in-a-decade-string-going. Thought it would be a novel idea if I beat the living snot out of that pitcher. Break it up into small pieces. Bring it along as a craft project for Graham and I to do together. It was a bust (ha-ha). We made salt dough, then using a rolling pin, shaped what I hoped was a trivet. Graham wanted to do a couple of ornaments with smaller pieces of Blue Delft stuck in them. Salt dough has to be in a low oven for hours. I should have paid closer attention. When they were finally dry (baked), the shards of Delft had sorta heaved themselves right out of the dough. Bummer. Should have known it wouldn’t turn out when the words, “crafty and project” were in the same thought cloud in my head. We ended up throwing all of them way except one. I kept one ornament even though it has a couple of pieces of Delft poking up.

Some shards might get me, but I love the mitten Graham and I made…

Not only is the house really starting to ‘feel’ like home, there have been several precious impromptu moments sealing the deal. In the period of just a few days, 6 year old Graham came over to spend a day with us. It no longer took them 3 hours to get to our house, try half an hour. Peyton 11, came for an afternoon. We frosted cookies together for a treat she had to bring for Honors choir rehearsal the following day. Adam and Graham came over for spaghetti supper and watch Thursday night football with us. Josh was delivering a Christmas gift to one of his clients, and stopped for a surprise visit. Then there’s the basketball games we’ve got to attend already this season. But there’s a whole blog post for next time. Promise.

Peyton’s take on mitten and bell cookie decorating…

Oh, crap, can’t let you leave without a word about toilets. Yeah, we’re going there. We’re about to start remodeling our bathroom. Looking at tile patterns, shower fixtures, doors, vanities, lights, towel bars and a rugged tissue holder for those pesky 72 newly found toilet paper rolls. Only thing we plan on saving is the toilet. It’s a nice Kohler. We bought a new seat and lid before we moved in. Foolishly, I picked out one that has some kind of pneumatic gizmo, allowing the seat and lid to lower s-l-o-w-l-y. Without a noisy slam. Don’t know about your place or bathrooms, and don’t care, but around here, our lid and seat are in the ‘up’ position about 90% of the time. Reason? I ‘go’ much less frequently than with whom I share this home. Problem, when I have to go, I’ve already put it off for 2 hours. Pretty much because I hate going to the bathroom. Except for all the luscious smelling, foamy soaps from Bath and Body Works. Anyway, by the time I need to go, I must wait an excruciating 30 seconds while the seat descends. S-o s-t-i-n-k-i-n-g s-l-o-w. But noiselessly of course. I’m doing a dance, and it’s not very happy while I wait. What a dumb purchase. Hope my decision skills suit me better on the remodeling job. I’m flushed with excitement at the prospect…

Used to keep fire wood in this one. No fireplace, I do believe it might work for the toilet paper issue…

I wish I could remember more about my life before Larry died, when I was 7. I’m able to conjure up playing drive-in across the street with the Beumer girls or the Schmidt kids on the corner. Learning to ride my bike, playing hopscotch, or spending hours in the playhouse Dad built. Just being a little kid. But my most vivid memories, came after his tragic death in 1958.

Awesome playhouse that Dad built. This is about 1954….

I assume when we were still a family of 5, we had our holiday meals at home. But soon after Larry’s death, Mona married, and we were suddenly a family of 3. We were in mourning, and our house was very quiet. I think Mona and Ed went to his folk’s farm near Inwood for special occasions. Mom and Dad barely tolerated Ed, but thought highly of Ed’s folks. I wonder why we never were invited to the farm for Thanksgiving? Really, with all those people, what’s another 3 to feed? Maybe we did and Mom declined. She wasn’t always comfortable in large groups. Ed’s family was huge, maybe 8 kids, spouses, nieces and nephews. Ed was the second to the youngest, so his brothers and sisters had scads of kids by the time he and Mona got hitched.

Dad, Mom, me and Mona at her house in Canton, SD, 1961…

Mom was a pretty good cook, but besides going out every Saturday night, we mostly ate at home. Still, for the span of about 20 years, I do not remember very many Thanksgiving’s in the house on 15th Street. After I married and finally learned how to cook, I often fixed the turkey at Mom and Dad’s. But for over a decade as a kid, we went out to eat every Thanksgiving. Weird. If Mom was working on that holiday, Dad and I had our usual fare. Swanson’s TV dinners. I always got the turkey, Dad the chopped beef steak. Wonder if Swanson’s played a part in my obsession with cranberry sauce?

Can’t help it, I’ve loved ’em all my life. Sick, I know…

We always dressed up when we went out to eat. I associate that with always going to church first. That would justify the fancy clothes for the famous Thursday holiday. But we never, ever went to a restaurant on Sunday. Big, big sin. Stores, restaurants were not supposed to be open on the Lord’s Day. It was wrong to work, or make money on Sunday. Six days shalt thou labor, and on the 7th day, shalt thou rest. Hospitals and nursing homes were exceptions.

Geez, what a dork! Don’t remember the picture, but surely recognize the fancy Normandy/Sunday dress, about 1960…

So this small Dutch Gerritson clan would head to Sioux Falls on Thanksgiving Day. To me, it was a very fancy restaurant. Called The Normandy. If we didn’t time it just right, we’d end up standing in a very long line outside. But the wait was always worth it. The food was spectacular. I don’t remember the weather ever being horrible, but Iowa-South Dakota often had some snow by late November, so maybe there were years that the wait was miserable. The downside was no leftovers. How awful is that? One of the perks of roasting a turkey (always with stuffing, the best) is being able to eat it again the next day. Since turkey and all the trimmings is my favorite meal, I would just hate to eat it in a restaurant. But for awhile this was the norm for us. Maybe it was just too painful to try and celebrate thankfulness when your only son was suddenly snatched from this earth. Either way, The Normandy filled a gap.

This is what the outside of The Normandy looked like on Thanksgiving. I guess others ate out too…

So holidays were never the same in our house after 1958. No tree for Christmas, no turkey leftovers. But that didn’t mean all holiday traditions were missing from our lives. Mom made great candies, fudge penuche, and divinity. She also had a had this huge thing for cranberries. Just like me. Between mid-November and Christmas, she would buy about a dozen bags of cranberries. Tuck them in their own little niche of our freezer. The freezer (the size of a ’60’s luxury car) was located in an add on haukee (little room), complete with pull on string light bulb, and a step that could break a leg of someone if you didn’t know better. (One of my best blog posts called Steps). We might not have turkey leftovers, but doggone it, we pretty much ate cranberry sauce ALL YEAR LONG.

Fresh tomatoes, my fave. But cranberry sauce is a close second…

I’ve always liked a cold side dish with my meal. My absolute favorite is fresh tomatoes, but that delicacy is only available 2 short months a year. I also love pickled beets, bread and butter pickles, or applesauce. But my go to side has always been cranberry sauce. I eat it with anything from steak to tuna casserole and everything in between. So Mom would take 2 bags of (Ocean Spray) cranberries from the freezer. Put 2 cups of water and 2 cups of sugar in a Dutch oven. Stir until the sugar was dissolved and let that syrup boil for 5 minutes. That was barely enough time for her to scan the 2 bags of cranberries. Mom carefully sorted them. Checking for an errant leaf or tiny stem that was still attached. Touching most of the berries individually for soft spots, or blemishes that would make a difference in the sauce. The best part was when she dumped the berries in the boiling sugar-water. They’d sizzle, squeak and finally start popping as the heated syrup hit them. Mom would cook them for a few minutes. The pan was dark maroon with some pink foam. She’d scrape the foam off into a small dish, then start her inspection. Holding a large spoon, she’d carefully sift through the sauce. Searching for those 7 or 8 berries amongst thousands THAT HAD NOT YET POPPED. All of sudden she’d spot one. Maneuver it over to the side of the pan. Squeeze him between the spoon and the pan, forcing it to pop open. If you ever bit into a cranberry in sauce that had not popped, sucker would make you pucker. For sure. After a thorough inspection, she was assured there were no more hold outs, she’d let the pan cool. We had a Tupperware bowl that held a double bag recipe of this delicious-ness just perfect. So our lives were once again complete. Mom and I would eat some most nights with our supper. Can’t remember Dad ever eating any though.

3 pounds just starting to cook. Love the pink foam, tho it’s gotta go…

And I’ve continued this tradition from the onset of my marriage. It might have been the first thing I knew how to cook. You never wanted to have the short cranberry season end if you didn’t have your dozen bags of cranberries frozen snugly to get us each through the year. That would have required intensive therapy. Mom made less and less cranberry sauce as she got older. She never lost her taste for it though. But after she and Dad retired, they ate out more often. She just wasn’t cooking as much at home.

One batch ready to be jarred and a water bath. So pretty. And good…

None of my kids got on the cranberry craze bandwagon either. Really out of 3 kids, what are the odds? Shannon eats it for Thanksgiving, but Josh or Adam, nope. Got to keep praying, one of the grandkids inherits my love of all things cranberry.

There’s my usual side of cranberry sauce…

But I’m not buying bags for the freezer anymore either. I love to buy and peruse old cookbooks. I get them at estate sales.

A neat canning cookbook I use often…

This cookbook isn’t even very old. Maybe from the ’70’s. Better Homes and Gardens Canning Cookbook. On page 23, I spotted it. Canning whole cranberry sauce. Now why didn’t I ever think of that? Of course you should be able to can it.

The recipe that changed my cranberry life…

Now I buy 6 pounds of fresh and can 2 batches each fall. By myself, I eat about a pint a month. There, I’ve said it. Not ashamed either. It has made me realize that I really dislike any change in my life. I made cranberry sauce the same way for 30 years. Now I love canning it. And I try really hard to buy cranberries that are grown in Michigan. Sorry Ocean Spray. Though I think some of the Michigan growers sell to Ocean Spray. I just eliminate the step of trucking them several states away to be processed and packaged, only to be shipped back into Michigan to be sold. That’s dumb.

This here is a wonderful thing…

A couple words about change. I still do many things the way Mom did them. I make penuche and fudge with the recipes from her grandmother Berghuis. My Mom and her twin brother lost their mom, my grandma Coba, when they were just a few days old. Raise by their paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, they still spent a lot of time with their maternal ones too, the Berghuis’. Effie Berghuis would often make fudge with mom when she was a little girl. On a Sunday afternoon. Scandalous. Simple recipes, but still a bit more work. Timing is always critical in the soft ball stage of fudge and penuche. Thirty seconds can be the difference between a beautiful batch or beating that crap for a half hour because it will not set up. Still tastes good though. I can attest to that-often with my failures.

Effie Berghuis, Mom’s Sunday fudge making gram…

For the past several years, our former neighbor’s in North Muskegon, Dale and Carol have brought over a huge plate of fudge every Thanksgiving. When our youngest granddaughter Peyton, (now 11) was about 3, she had consumed her fair share of Dale fudge. She drew him a picture of thanks and trotted down to their house. Without prompting she said, “could I have this recipe for my mom please?” She looked forward to ‘Dale’s Fudge’ more than she did Christmas presents. When our house finally sold in August, the first words out of her mouth were, “but you’re not moving until after Thanksgiving and Dale Fudge are you?” Alas we were gone by Labor Day. So a couple days ago, I dug out his recipe, bought the necessary ingredients to make sure Peyton has Dale fudge this year. You know what? I felt guilty the whole time I was making it. How bizarre is that? Like I was being unfaithful to my Mom and great grandma. I didn’t feel that way when I started canning cranberry sauce as opposed freezing and cooking batches throughout the year. I’m sorry Mom and great grandma Berghuis, I will from this day forward continue to make fudge from your old recipe.

Effie Berghuis Fudge recipe. When made right, it’s hard to beat…

We are creatures of habit. Our son Adam was helping us again this week. As I drove down our street a few days ago, I realized we were about the only place on the block still with all of our fallen leaves. Well, we have been busy. It’s not my thing, and Hubs has been sick or hurt for the last 2 stinking months. Our lawn tractor has been in Adam’s garage for almost 3 months. John still has high hopes that our recent foot of snow will melt (it is) so he can suck up the leaves and get rid of them. Once again we will be able hold our heads high. Not too high, as our lawn has but 3 blades of real grass. But we’ll tackle that little issue this spring. John and Adam had the tractor unloaded, and were moving furniture around so I can finally get my Jeep in the garage. After moving a couple pieces down the basement, Adam walked through the house. Looking around he said, “mom, it’s starting to look just like your other house in here.” Exactly I thought, smiling to myself…

During the mid-60’s my Mom was on a mission. We had lived in our house on 15th street for a decade. Larry had been gone for 8 years, and Mona was married with a couple of boys. This time frame was during my angry, rebellious, fun-loving mid-teens. Dad was working for the State Hiway Commission, and Mom was a nurse’s aide at Valley Manor. Her mission? New furniture. She was totally smitten with Early American Hard Rock Maple furniture. From Vanderploeg’s in Sioux Center, her old stomping grounds.

Mom’s favorite, her Hard Rock Maple clock, about 1966…

Mom bought a new dining room set. Round table, 4 chairs and a lovely open hutch. We rarely used the furniture or the dining room, which was odd because it was the nicest and biggest room in our house. It was right at the entrance when you walked in, and the pretty furniture made a statement. But she wasn’t done. She soon added a bookcase, (hard rock maple) a grandmother clock (H-R-M) and as an after thought, a magazine rack (of course, hard rock maple). It sat next to her hard rock maple rocker. (I’m not saying it again. You get the drift, everything was now hard rock maple). Later the rocker (HRM) was replaced with a gorgeous off white leather Lazy Boy. Which ironically had no maple, hard or otherwise. The magazine rack held her Reader’s Digest, Good Housekeeping, People Magazine (from the day of its inception), the Des Moines Register, and Sioux City Journal. Maybe a couple magazines from the Reformed Church of America too, though the names I am unable to grasp at the moment. For a time the National Enquirer was included, though she probably wouldn’t admit it.

Sprague & Carlton Hard Rock Maple set, she’d say with pride…

She loved that magazine rack. After Hubs and I eloped a few years later, and she had finally calmed down to a low simmer, to save face (it was always about how she thought they were perceived in town), Mom and Mag threw us a little wedding reception. Held in the same building where Larry’s wake had been. That place was still unbearably painful to be in. One of our gifts from Mom and Dad was an almost identical magazine rack. Their big gift to us was a bedroom set. Surprise. Hard rock maple, early American. Sigh. We went through a few years before I decided early American was just not our thing. We ended up collecting real early American stuff. Called oak antiques from the early 1900’s.

Much more our style, early 1900’s oak…

Eventually we got rid of all the hard rock maple pieces we had started out with. Except for the little magazine rack. Really didn’t pay much attention to it, but somehow it’s made every move in our 46 years of marriage. The twist. After Mom passed away in 2004, and Dad moved to Michigan, I ended up with Mom’s magazine rack too. Never thought much about that until this move a couple of weeks ago.

Not even sure which one was ours originally, circa 1969…

Our new crib was chuck full of antiques, boxes, and containers. All vainly trying to find their rightful home in this strange place. Hubs wasn’t much help because he had cut his thumb. When it was barely healed, he upped the ante and has been suffering with acute bronchitis going on 3 weeks now. He could not help me. So I did the next best thing. Laid the guilt on our 2 sons. “We’re just not getting anywhere with all our stuff! So much to do, but that nasty cut, and now bronchitis is prohibiting your dad from helping me at all.” Both boys probably sighed (or groaned), but each found time in the following couple of days to make quick work or organizing, re-arranging, shuffling our shit from one spot to another.

Once unloaded, we hardly knew where to begin…

Much of this shuffling revolved around the garage. It’s just a few steps outside the sliders. Making it much easier for John and I to move stuff back and forth. Figuring out what fits and looks good where, and what pieces we will be getting rid of soon, rather than having these pieces down the basement, lugging them up and down the steps. Josh spent a day patiently doing my bidding, plus techie stuff where he excels. Next it was Adam’s turn. Moving most of what was stacked to the ceiling in 2 bedrooms. The construction guy was coming to knock out the wall between the 2 rooms. Finally we would be able to paint, order new carpet and sleep in our king size bed again. Sleeping in our own bed together had abruptly stopped once the truck was loaded at North Muskegon and headed for a storage unit several weeks before. Adam made fast work of clearing the rooms. He was nosing his way through containers in the garage, searching for my one set of still missing shelves to an antique oak curved glass secretary. He made his way from the shade of the garage to brilliant sunshine, each arm bearing my twin set of magazine racks. The look on his face was somewhere between wonder and disgust. But it’s not the “2” part that had him puzzled. One of the racks was empty, but the other had a stack of 15 calendars, gathering dust in the bottom.

May be odd, but it’s my odd mini-diary…

“Seriously Mom! You moved old, outdated calendars?” I hung my head, gulped and tried not to look guilty. “They’re a huge part of my life,” I shot back. “Just bring them in the house.”

Most likely a gift to Neese…

When I was growing up, one of the most popular birthday gifts for young girls were diaries. I got my share. Since Mom kept absolutely everything, I came across several when we were moving Dad out of their house in 2005. All of my diaries were used. Each one had about a week’s worth of “the fascinating life of Neese.” I just had no stick-to-ness. Most likely I didn’t dare write down my real feelings back then. We were a family that didn’t always share our pain together. Isn’t it nice to know I’ve overcome that stubborn obstacle in my life? Seems I have no problem baring my soul these days. I did find one little birthday gift that had almost every page filled. It’s an autograph book. Classmates would write little ditties in it. But it was not me doing the writing.

Best friend Char wrote in it several times…

For several years during my Parish Visiting stint, I regularly saw a wonderful woman named Edith. She was in her 90’s, and sharp as a tack. She had been writing in a journal since the 1940’s and had continued for over 60 years. Edith had them stored in boxes by decades. Often she’d be perusing one when I stopped to see her. Some days she merely wrote about doing something as mundane as laundry, cooking supper, or getting a phone call from a relative. Sometimes she was somewhat amazed and surprised by what she wrote, and would suddenly declare, “I remember that like it was yesterday.” I was so envious of her determination that kept her writing for over a half century. Even if it was only a few sentences a day.

Edith, the journal keeper of 60 years, 2008…

For some reason, I started writing little things on my calendar about the year 2000. Just 15 years ago, looking back, it appears I was very busy. I was volunteering a lot, visiting, cooking and baking for the masses. But this wasn’t just reminders that I had a bible study class, or 10 dozen frosted cut out cookies had to go here or there. They read more like a mini-diary. During 2001, Hubs and I saw the Pointer Sisters, Ray Charles, Neil Diamond, and took the whole family to watch a weekend series of the Cubs playing the Tigers in Detroit. Who I met for lunch, when I dyed my hair, and the dates marking the anniversaries of the deaths who are dear to me.

The infamous HRM rocking chair, 1965…

I never realized until recently, for about 5 of those years, I took every conceivable class on aging, caregiving, advanced directives, Hospice training, dementia, medication issues surrounding the elderly. You name it, I took it. After finishing a 50 hour course becoming a Stephen Minister, I went to St. Louis for a week to get accredited to teach classes to become a Stephen Minister. Most of these classes were a simple testament to my sincere, life-long devotion to the elderly. But until looking at my old calendars, the sheer magnitude of the number of classes went un-noticed by me.

Very noticeable in the early 2000’s were my increased visits to Rock Valley as my Mom’s health declined. For the 3 years after Dad moved here, the calendars look like a taxi driver’s itinerary. Driving Dad to Muskegon Rescue to preach one night a month. Though Dad could drive to the prison by himself, often his weekly trips to Brooks were with me at the wheel. Even if I wasn’t driving, I kept track of where and when he was expected, like Hillcrest Assisted Living for his weekly bible study. Back and forth to the blood oncologist for his CLL and the dermatologist for his various skin cancers. Man, I had forgotten about half those things. Sometimes it’s painful to look through them, but usually I enjoy reading about the daily life of me and the family. And the special events of our lives.

Cheerleader Neese next to the HRM bookcase which is now in our home…

For several years our son-in-law, Tracey was head basketball coach for Jackson High. We went to many of his games. Loved watching his strategy during a game. Just a toddler back then, Landon, our phenomenal grandson learned at a very young age, to remain quietly seated on the bench, or he’d have to come up and sit with Mommy, me and grandpa. Jackson was invited to a holiday classic basketball tourney in Traverse City. We went several years in a row. Traverse City is a very cool place to visit. When it’s not summer. During the summer it’s way too busy. We discovered a restaurant called Boone’s, that serves the best prime rib ever. After Tracey and his team won the tourney 3 years in a row, Jackson wasn’t invited again. All that stuff is documented in my silly calendars.

I really love writing, even badly…

I don’t write nearly as much on my calendars these days. Retired, in a new neighborhood and town, I’m just not doing very much. But the girl who could not finish a week’s worth of writing about her life as an angry teen is now finding tremendous joy and fulfillment writing her goofy stories…

It’s been a long 2 weeks. We hired a local crew to pick up our measly 14,000 pounds of stuff from a storage unit 18 miles away. They brought about 2/3 of it one day in a straight truck. Decided not to go back for what remained, but had it here by noon the following day. John insisted I literally stand on the deck and dictate where each piece of furniture, every antique, the miscellaneous 200 boxes, and 50 containers should be placed. (Might have a bit of scaling back to do again in the future. Perhaps a ton or so). Plus I was trying to set up my new, smaller kitchen. Sounds like a perfect storm brewing.

A pittance of what belongs in my kitchen…

About a dozen antique pieces had been in our former master bedroom (the size of Delaware) for the last 2 decades, so naturally I directed those pieces to be put in what would eventually be our bedroom. But this bedroom is about 1/2 the size as North Muskegon. It filled quickly. Massive oak antiques. I was determined to keep 3 particular pieces besides our king size bed and night stands. A couple of dandy dressers. And I had my heart set on keeping this one big wardrobe. A beauty. Since our spare bedroom is decent sized, I wanted it with our 7 foot oak double bed.

We’ve had this gorgeous piece over 30 years…

The moving crew could not get the wardrobe (Saran wrapped like a mummy) around the corner from the hallway though. So they plopped it in the already crowded master. Blocking any chance of getting around it to reach the 4 box wardrobes holding all of our clothes. Remember, it’s now been almost 2 months and I’m still wearing the same few crappy outfits I packed in August.

Beautiful, massive oak wardrobe simply does not fit in this house. Bummer…

Had I been using the brain God gave me, I would have known this spelled disaster. But by day 2, I was numb and dumb. Why in heaven’s name did I have all the furniture packed in that room? We had decided that the wall between it and the third bedroom was going to be knocked out? How is the contractor supposed to work around all that crap if I can’t even get to my clothes? Well, I couldn’t worry about that room just yet, as he wasn’t due to start that project for a couple weeks. I was concerned about getting the kitchen and family room is some kind of order. So we could at least live here.

I was carefully mulling where and how to fill my cupboards. The drawers were surprisingly easy in my decision making. Why? Because I have 2. Not a typo, you read it right, 2. And one is the size of my granddaughter Ari’s waist.

Ari. Wow. She is tiny, but fierce…

That’s where I’ll put the pot holders and trivets. I’m not counting the 2 teensy-weensy drawers below the sink. They’ll each hold a couple of chore girls, max. But the other drawer is quite large. A quick count on the drawers in former kitchen totaled 13 in my head. My, my what to do with the other 11 drawers of boxed items, itching to go into my kitchen. Well, there is this smallish room off the dining room. I call it the pantry. Four large cupboards and 2 drawers. A nice counter, and a back door leading outside. Only about a dozen steps away from my sink. A nice big, under utilized closet. Even I can see the closet has wasted space up the ying-yang. So I enlisted the help of the closet guru of the family. Tech wizard, Josh. He’s going to figure out the placement of some more shelves, thus fulfilling my newly named room. Can’t decide if I need to put canned goods or small appliances like the waffle iron, and crockpots in there. Hope both can be managed like an arranged marriage. Hey, they don’t have to love each other right away.

Awesome but still cluttered pantry…

Back to the helter-skelter-bedroom mess. We hired a guy to knock out a wall between the 2 smaller bedrooms. Making the master sort of L-shaped. We could have gone the other way, making the room a larger rectangle, but then the spare bedroom would be very, very small. My vision of a lovely 7 foot oak headboard, plus the massive wardrobe smashed against each other was not very appealing. The 2 pieces had yet to spend one night together. Where was the flirting, wooing, the mating dance? That’s when the Hubs threw me a zinger. When Duke (not THE DUKE, he’s dead, but the construction dude, Duke) tore out the wall, but before he closed off the second doorway, we could scoot (right, it weighs like a ton) the wardrobe into the spare room. But after Duke closed off that door, the wardrobe was never coming back out of that room. Just when she and the 7 footer (bed) were getting cozy. I actually started a mild-to-middling panic attack. No, that wouldn’t do. After a few days we had our son-in-law Tracey, (he was so relieved we were finally out of his hair, he was happy to help for a few minutes. A not so subtle play on words, as he shaves his handsome head). Plus our incredibly cute, strong grandson Landon and his buddy Harry lug the wardrobe out to the garage. And that folks is why arranged marriages rarely work out for the best.

Living room remained packed tight for a week…

Out of 200 boxes, 50 containers, the moving elves had arranged with relative ease, finding the boxes containing Blue Delft, Waterford Crystal and Lladro. I put the boxes right by my 2 curved glass secretaries and curved glass china closet. The shelves to all 3 cabinets remained in seclusion for several days by the resident poltergeist. Not funny Durwood (poltergeist’s affectionate name). I have since found 2 sets of the shelves. Washed all the Delft and Lladro figurines, but the Waterford is still boxed on hold for the cleanse. I know I had Saran wrapped all the shelves from each cabinet together. The first moving squad must have plunked most of them in flat picture/mirror boxes. I was not made aware of that little move. I went through about 8 of those boxes today, but have yet come up with that last set of shelves.

China closet shelves finally made an appearance. Blue Delft is back home…

More than likely this means they’re in the garage. Ugh. Boy oh boy, the garage is really a hell of a mess. Might be another few days. It’s the domino affect. Have to wait for Duke to stop adding layers of mud, sanding, more mud (not really mud at all, it’s white and eliminates seeing seams, cracks on his newly minted wall and non-wall). He might be a perfectionist in this department. Once he’s finished, we order new carpet, paint the ceiling, then the walls with Kilz. A primer type paint to take care of the red and navy walls of one room and the pink/purple/walls and castle. Complete with a dragon protecting the castle. Kind of sad to paint over that. Ok, I’m over it. Let’s paint. Then we can move antiques, brass head and footboard, king size mattress and box springs from the garage, maybe leaving enough room for the Jeep (in the garage, not the bedroom) before the snow flies.

You can catch the dragon’s tail sliding behind the U-haul box…

This saga continues with yet another chapter soon. I know I’ve been lax about writing. It’s not that I don’t want to write, but I’ve been pulled in too many different directions. And my concentration level is nil. I wrote a comment on someone’s post a few days ago that I’ve come to the conclusion I am not a 10 minute writer. Takes me that long to formulate my first sentence. A dozen times and different ways. Usually consisting of about 3 words. If I don’t have a couple hours to really get a story going, I just can’t commit. It will get better, I hope. Or my stories will dwindle to nothingness. Hope not.

My lovely back yard maple just starting to turn…

A few words about the Hubs. Sigh. He’s actually had a really rough couple of months. First, he who never, ever has back issues, threw out his back while we were sweating to the oldies packing in August. Severely hampering our timeline. He’s been my muscle for a half century. I was completely befuddled on what and how to do things without much of his help. His concentration level was far worse than my mixed up, muddled mind. Too much to do, not enough time (though we’d been waiting for this moment for 3 years to move). Plus the biggie weighing on both of our minds. Holy shit, we got nowhere to go. Hmm.

Our hedge at the back of our lot. Stunning colors…

Fast forward. Living with Shannon and crew. 3/4 of a ton safely stored because of quick thinking Tracey who knew a guy. Yeah, that kind of thing. We bought a home needing some work (loosely using this term. Good house, but a horrible mess). We’re both working on it very hard everyday. Ordering carpets, painting. John’s doing repair work. Holes in the walls, small leak from the water heater. Another leak from the toilet (only good thing about the bathroom, which still needs a major remodel). But he’s seriously missing tools because we don’t have our 14,000 pounds of much needed stuff yet. So he’s using the wrong tool and gouges his thumb with a carpet knife. What the knife had been used on before was not a good thought. We bandage his thumb a couple times because it keeps bleeding through. (Note to Neese: take him in for stitches next time). Of course, soon the thumb was swollen about twice the size, is bright red and throbbing painfully. Quick trip to a med station. Two prescriptions, but it would be a good 10 days before that wound closed. So Hubs could not do anything like saw, use a screwdriver, drill or hammer. Sigh.

Trying out the griddle on my new gas stove. I like it…

His thumb is better. Peeled like he sunburned it good, but he was back in business. Except for his lame back. But it too was getting better. Enter a mild, obnoxious cough. Sigh. (Honestly, how many times can I sigh in one post)? Hubs had a scratchy throat, runny nose and this cough. Which got worse and worse. And worse. (I think the answer is for us to find a new primary care doc. Then we’ll never need him). I finally laid down the law, said he had to be seen by someone, so another trip to the med station. (It kinda sounds like I’m describing a clumsy pre-schooler). The good news. Doctor said he was about a day away from pneumonia and a hospital stay. Acute bronchitis. Ugh. Nothing remotely cute about it. Three prescriptions this trip. Yup, things are looking up. For a spell this week, I swear he did not stop coughing for 48 hours straight. I do see tiny improvements. Hasn’t been able to do anything, but his voice is better, and he’s sleeping better. Coughing a bit less. A very tiny bit less.

25 bucks a quart guaranteed to cover my hopeless purple door with 1 coat. Liars…

So I’ve had to step up to the plate. With tools in my hands, I’m a disaster. But I have managed a couple of projects. After 3 years in storage, I finally found my balls! Gorgeous Waterfords which hung in my bay window until we cleared our “for sale” home of any Neese personality. Now look how I’m hung!! And I did it all myself. Quite proud of this little endeavor.

The balls were once more hanging in the window with care. In hopes that a realtor never comes near…

Something that John usually handles is running around. Picking up this, that and the other thing. Well this week, I’ve had to do all the schlepping. Light bulbs, paint, tools, outlet covers, not the most fun shopping. Yesterday was one such trip. I got him settled in his chair with cough syrup, inhaler, hot tea. I zoomed off to get cellular shades and some groceries. As God is my witness this is 5 minutes worth of texts during my little trip between us. Yup, sick as a dog, about 50 years after first laying eyes on him, Hubs continues to make me laugh. At times…

Hubs speak is gray. Me cracking up is in blue…

Ok kids, raise your hand if you enjoy upheaval and major changes in your life. Right, me either. Until recently. I was so eagerly anticipating this move, it was hard not be bubbling with enthusiasm. Those feelings waned rather quickly in 90 degree heat. Packing stuff ourselves. Which wasn’t a first in our long marriage, but we hadn’t done that part of moving for 40 years. Always completed and paid for by the company who had just hired Hubs. The kicker was we had no “next place” lined up where to hang our hats. That was an uncomfortable first.

Have not missed this house for 1 second since we moved…

So it’s been 40 days. And 40 nights. Sounds almost biblical. We bid on a house as the movers were loading up our belongings in North Muskegon. A smaller home with several cosmetic issues. One of the homely stepsisters. Inside and out. But the outtie will have to wait until spring. New driveway, landscaping will help a lot. John decided if he puts weed killer on the lawn, all he’ll have left is dirt. Mr. Anal-Lawn-Dude will be busy for the next couple of summers trying to perfect his lawn. Installing a sprinkling system will do wonders.

So long west Michigan…

On the whole though, the house is in great shape. Good bones I guess. Pella Windows. New 2-1/2 stall garage. The place just needed a complete makeover really. What not to wear. Immediate needs were new appliances, carpet, flooring, and paint, paint and more paint. I ended up doing the living room and hallway 3 times. Gave it one coat, did the trim where the roller doesn’t reach twice and was running low on paint. Got another gallon which proved to be a couple shades lighter than the first gallon. Grrr, so frustrating. Painted the walls a second coat and the non roller trim again. Twice. Hubs sauntered in, said, “looks awesome Hon, but the room’s definitely shrunk 3 inches.” Smart ass.

I have however really missed windy days watching Lake Michigan. Jeremy Church pic on 10-20-15…

Actually, the whole house deal went surprisingly fast. Once we learned who we were dealing with. Intrusive, over-powering, big government. Ugh. The first time we submitted the longish 50 page offer, I accidentally forgot to sign my middle initial (no, not my middle finger, didn’t want to piss them off) for one of 40 times required. Whole thing got sent back with a stern note stating unless it was properly signed sealed, delivered (I’m your man) within 24 hours, the house went back on the market. Two days later, the whole 50 pages came back for a second time. Our realtor had signed her name where required for about as many times. But in one of those spots, both Hubs and I were required to initial where she had signed. So we lost about a week with piddly shit that didn’t matter.

Lake Michigan by North Muskegon, 2015…

I think it was a test. To see if we had the muster to put up with their piddly shit. We did. Yay. After that, things did go pretty fast. Three weeks later we were closing. Which took all of 20 minutes. As my reward, I snagged 3 Tootsie Roll Pops out of the kids basket, which I guess was really meant for kids. Who brings kids to a title office? As I deftly slid them in my purse, I noticed one was raspberry. Shoot, thought I had cherry. Didn’t have the nerve to turn around, walk back and exchange it in front of several adults. Nuts, can’t even swipe the right flavors. John was awarded a spiffy new yardstick advertising the Title Company. Probably with hopes that he use it on his unruly companion. We were assured the deed to the house would be forthcoming. I was so excited about the deed. Thought it might be reminiscent of an old time marriage certificate that would warrant a fancy mat and frame. It arrived via snail mail 2 weeks later. Non-descript legal envelope containing two folded, stapled plain white pieces of paper. No fancy calligraphy, just laser printed. With a seal of some sort making it look halfway legal. That was a huge disappointment. Won’t be hanging that puppy on any wall. But it is our home, free and clear. Yay, Neese and John.

Like I said, when we packed it was late August, humid and hotter and than Hades. Anticipating exactly what I’d need for a questionable length of time wasn’t even on my radar. In my biggest suitcase I plopped 4 pair of capris, maybe 8 T-shirts, one pair of jeans, a light jacket, couple of pair of Keens, one pair of shoes, socks and undies. Good grief, I’m so sick of wearing the same boring misfits over and over. Plus I had to sacrifice one outfit. Paint clothes. Dang it was a nice pair of Nike capris too. But they only have one teensie-weensie pocket that barely holds my ever present Mentholathum Lip Balm. Should have chosen this popular outfit more wisely. I lived in those paint clothes for a fortnight. Scooching my butt along the grubby floors, painting the trim white, twice. Nice. Looking so much better.

Travel bottles precariously low with my good smelling hair products…

I have a nice travel bag. Holds stuff not in my everyday makeup case. The travel bag is tired and almost bone dry. Normally this gets used when we are gone for a weekend or a few days. So I can use my favorite shampoo, conditioner, hair gel. Most are running on fumes. Each day I wonder if this is the last time I’ll be able to squeeze out a bit more from those small plastic bottles. My great smelling shower gel pooped out on me weeks ago. Bought another travel size of strawberry something. Not the same. Neese not smelling the same. I’m on my third travel size Aveeno lotion. Those tiny bottles crap out after about 3 showers.

Tiny bottles of Aveeno last about 3 days…

Still, things keep falling into place. We ordered 4 different carpets. Held my breath that none would be back ordered. Told the gal at the store if any were to call me and I’d pick out something else. Not waiting around for 3 months for one particular pattern/color to come in. I’m not that fussy. The normal time frame is 7-10 business days for special orders. Got a call on day 7, everything was in and they could install the next day. You know, I really needed to take more before and after pictures. But I couldn’t. The carpet and walls were in such bad/sad shape, I just didn’t have the heart to document it. I will tell you this was the dining room carpet. At one time it had been beige. It’s black. With a huge strip of colorful tape in the middle of the room. Designating where one should stand when throwing at the dart board on the dining room wall. Peppered with 50 holes. I’m embarrassed, yet none of it was my fault. How fricking crazy is that?

Yucky carpet with tape so we can throw darts. Replaced before any neat Neese stuff hit the door…

Each day headway has been made. One room at a time the house is starting to look ever so much better. We’ve met several of our neighbors. Pat told us years ago our house was the nicest one in the neighborhood. Well, we got a little ways to go to reach that high popularity status again. We also found a picture of the place when it was much newer. It was beautifully landscaped. Our luck, all had been yanked except for weeds. But new landscaping will make it more of our own. The front storm door was literally hanging on by a thread when we took possession. A wind storm had trashed it, tossing glass all over. John pitched the door on day one, and I finally cleaned up as much of the glass as I could with a broom and dust pan yesterday. We bought new storm doors for the front and back, but will wait until the movers are done unloading.

How can my hair look great without gel. And my glasses kept free and clear without these necessities?

Looks as though our days of sponging off our kids are drawing to a close. Yes, what you just heard across hundreds or thousands of miles were huge sighs of relief coming from everyone involved. They have been extremely patient and kind. But we are ready and eager to make this little house our home. We lost about 800 square feet. Which we hadn’t used much in North Muskegon for the past several years. But each square foot was stuffed pretty full. Where exactly we put 14,000 pounds of miscellaneous Neese junk, antiques, food, canning supplies, and collectibles has yet to be determined. Stay tuned Hawkeye fans…

7 and 0 baby. This week is a bye, we need the rest….

Although we loved living near the Mississippi River in Davenport Iowa, a couple of pretty bizarre events occurred while we were part of that community. Guess it’s only logical once you figure the numbers game. Take my little town of Rock Valley, where I grew up. The town consisted of about 2,500 folks. You could safely assume a few of them were whack jobs.The population of Davenport in the mid 80’s was around 100,000 people. Equals out to lots more nut jobs. Not trying to be disrespectful. These were some seriously mentally ill individuals. Here’s my memories of 2 tragedies that happened while we lived there.

One of several bridges crossing the Mississippi from Davenport…

The first odd ball (murdering scoundrel) was a chiropractor. I remember their home resembled a castle. It was big, new and had a really neat looking turret. His name was Jim and his wife’s name was Joyce. Before I moved to the Quad Cities, Joyce had subbed on one of the bowling leagues I would soon join. Joyce disappeared in March of 1983. About a month later, a couple of boating fishermen were enjoying a fine spring day on the Mississippi when they noticed something jammed up against the shore. Turned out to be a torso. Holy moly. It was Joyce. The crazy husband, Dr. Jim was arrested. Later found guilty of second degree murder. Killing, dismembering Joyce with a chain saw and dumping her parts in the Mississippi. I don’t believe any of her other parts or the chain saw were ever found. He served 20 years of his 50 year sentence.

Joyce Klindt, 33 before her untimely death…

Released in 2004, Jim moved back to Davenport and lived with his now elderly parents. Was arrested numerous times during the next decade. Drugs, domestic disturbance (not against his parents, thank heavens, but a girl friend). Allegedly took a nasty spill at home early in 2014, hitting a piece of furniture on the way to the floor. Died a couple days later at age 62. End of the road for Jim.

Happy days for Jim Klindt, freedom…

I don’t remember exactly how we hooked up with Doug. My guess is he ran an ad in the Quad City Times that I noticed. Or someone recommended him to us. We were fairly new to the city. Shannon was 11, Joshua was 7 and Adam was 3. We needed a doctor and dentist for starters. Found a family physician nearby named Harold Miller who was fabulous. Our new dentist, Doug Castleberry was a bit farther away. We all liked him immediately. He was good with the kids, and not much older than us. Had his own practice, and a great staff.

My life back then was very different than the one I have now. Busy stay at home mom of 3. I was out and about all the time. One, 2 or all of the kids had to be driven here or there. One needed new shoes from Northpark Mall, one had baseball practice, or play dates too far away to walk (but that’s not what they were called back then). Grocery shopping was non stop. We were constantly running low on food in our house cause the kids ate, well constantly. I bowled on a couple leagues, played double deck Euchre regularly with a fabulous group of gals. There weren’t many days that I didn’t have to do one or several of the following. Haul, drag, chaperone, coerce kids for doctor appointments, haircuts, carpooling or shopping. Occasionally I even managed go out for Chinese food at lunch with a friend.

Shannon, 12, Adam 4, Joshua 8, Davenport, 1983…

Dr. Castleberry was married to a pharmacist. She worked in a hospital across the river (Quad-City-speak. Davenport and Bettendorf were on the Iowa side of the Mississsippi, Rock Island and Moline on the Illinois side. Voila, you now have the Quad Cities). I never met her, but vaguely remember her name might have been Arlene. Doesn’t really matter. But the name Arlene keeps popping in my head when I think about the Castleberry’s.

The Mighty Mississippi from the Iowa side…

Imagine living in a city like Davenport, plus the other 3 cities that make up the Quad. So total about a half million people. You’d be hard pressed to ever think you might run into ANYONE you knew. But I did. I vividly recall running into Doug several times over the course of 2 or 3 years. Always seemingly innocently having lunch or a couple of drinks after work with his dental assistant. A gal named Jackie. She was adorable. I might be an Iowa hick, but after running into them more than twice, I knew something was going on between them. Geez, half looped on nitrous oxide at his office, I could see the sparks fly between them with a wad of cotton and novocaine stuck in my mouth.

So this happened during spring break a couple years later. The kids all had appointments for dental checkups and cleanings. We were about to leave for Dr. Castleberry’s office when I got a phone call. It was his office. Arlene had called the office and left a message during the weekend, telling them Doug been called out of town due to the sudden death of one of his college roommates. He’d be back in town in a couple of days. Would it be ok if we rescheduled the appointments later in the week? Not a problem. Although the kids liked Dr. Castleberry, no dentist appointment was still better than going to the dentist. Especially during spring break. But a couple days later, Doug was still not back to work, so we moved their appointments to a later date again.

Mississippi…

Jackie did not have a good feeling about this situation. No way Doug would not call her himself and explain what happened and when exactly he’d be back in the office. This particular weekend was very important to both of them. Doug was finally going to tell Arlene he wanted a divorce. Jackie was a huge part of the reason but certainly not all of it. Doug was unhappily married to an unstable person. He decided long before Jackie that he was not going to continue living like this.

Bridging the Mississippi…

Jackie convinced a coworker to go with her to the Castleberry house. She wanted to make sure everything was ok. No one answered the numerous phone calls or had spoken to either one of them since Arlene had called explaining Doug’s sudden absence. As they pulled up to the house, both gals noticed several days worth of mail and newspapers laying on the front steps. Not a good sign. No one answered their repeated knocking at the door. Jackie, a petite little thing hoisted herself up on the other gal’s shoulders and peeked in the window. What she saw was devastating. Arlene was slouched on a kitchen chair, with her head laying on the table. What in the world had happened? And where was Doug? Near hysterics, they ran to a neighbor’s house and called the police.

Once the cops arrived, Jackie and the co-worker were not allowed to enter the house. Doug was found in their bedroom. He had been shot several times with a 357 Magnum. After piecing the story together, it seems that Doug had finally worked up the courage to break the news to Arlene. Their marriage was over. He was leaving. Arlene saw things differently. She decided if she couldn’t have Doug, Jackie certainly couldn’t either. She emptied the gun to prove that point. Then fabricated the “death of a college buddy” giving her some time. But there really was no way out of this mess for her. I believe in her mind, justice had been served. She swallowed a boatload of pills that ended her life soon after she ended Doug’s.

The view of Davenport from the River…

Two freaky, sad, bizarre, senseless murders. Three deaths. Four if you count Jim taking a dive. Jim and Joyce’s violent ordeal made national news and headlines for days. But I didn’t know either of them. Never bowled with Joyce or saw Jim as a chiropractor. If they had children, they were not friends, acquaintances or attended the same school as our kids. Although I really only knew Doug as our dentist, he seemed like my friend. His death was very hard on the kids. Explaining death to children is a tough enough subject to tackle. A violent death to someone they personally knew and liked was almost unfathomable. Holy cow, it was hard enough for John and I to accept. The Castleberry tragedy was not handled on the same sensational scale as the Klindt case. Not a lot of news coverage like the Klindt murder a couple years before. But for me, the Castleberry’s deaths were much more tragic and personal. For our whole family…

Strange to think a business in Jackson, Michigan has been weaving it’s way through our lives since 1986. John moved to Jackson about 4 months before the rest of our family. But the rest of us went to Jackson for a long weekends every couple weeks. Hubs was staying at a new hotel called Budgetel, which was right next door to the Holiday Inn. When we were looking for a house, John would move to the Holiday Inn so the kids 16, 11, and 7 had a pool to enjoy. During one of those trips we would discover an ice cream shop which was pretty close to being world renown.

Several name changes, but always great treats…

It was called The Parlour, but had gone through several name changes, owners, and renovations since it’s humble beginning in the 1930’s. It was first called Loud and Jackson’s, then Jackson’s All-Star Dairy. Finally settled on The Parlour not too many years before we moved to Michigan. Greyhound busses with touring day trippers from all over Michigan, Ohio and Indiana would spend the day in Jackson. One of the highlights was always a stop at The Parlour. After a football or basketball game, it was nigh onto impossible to buy your favorite dish of ice cream. The lines outside, regardless of the weather were a block long. The required waitress uniforms when we became regular customers were scandalous. Very short red skirts, black cummerbund and a white blouse. Did I mention, the skirts were really, really short? Probably 3 inches longer than girls wear them now.

What a crock I found for Shannon a few years ago…

Shannon got a job there a few months after we moved. The Parlour was still making their own ice cream, and it was delicious. They carried about 30 flavors, including chocolate chip, bubblegum, strawberry, butter pecan like everyone else. But it was their custom made sundaes, shakes, banana splits where they excelled. A waist high extremely long freezer full of 5 gallon round brown tubs to choose from. The girls making these amazing concoctions had to have the strongest wrists in the world. Constantly dipping humongous fist size scoops. And nothing they made ever consisted of only one dip. Nothing.

Shannon in Parlour uniform, 1987…

We lived in Jackson for 7 years. And frequented The Parlour every couple weeks. One night Shannon came home after working a long, busy winter night at The Parlour, crying. In her haste to get to the freezing car with her skirt not covering very much of her, she set her plastic cup of tips on top of the car-and drove off. She was devastated over the loss of this extra money by the time she realized what had happened and got home. (Which was more than her hourly wage) Hubs grabbed his flashlight, and the bawling teen and hiked back to where she had parked her car. They spent over an hour picking up her hard earned tips.

Words fail me…

Naturally, after we moved about 160 miles west of Jackson to North Muskegon in 1994, our trips to The Parlour would be few and far between. They must have really missed our piddly business because The Parlour fell on hard times too. To the dismay of the hordes of loyal ice cream aficionados, The Parlour closed. It would take some time, another remodeling job, but it would reopen again. Same name, now serving sandwiches, plus all the old favorites. I don’t believe they make their own ice cream anymore. But it’s still very good. John and I stopped there just a couple weeks ago after we had been house hunting. I ordered my Parlour favorite in the smallest size, which is still huge. The Pecan Turtle Sundae. Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and hot caramel topping, salted pecans, real whipped cream. And a cherry. In the dessert world, this is: To. Die. For. By the time we were half done with our ice cream, but all the way done with eating any more ice cream, we decided from here on out, we should order one speciality dish when we come. And share it. We’re both fine with that idea. (As long as it’s the Pecan Turtle Jr.).

Tell me this isn’t the cutest picture of Peyton-ever!!!

This is my fondest and funniest memory of a visit to The Parlour. Didn’t happen that long ago really. I’m almost positive Peyton was 3, thus Landon was 7 and it was fall of 2007. Tracey was teaching at Jackson and head basketball coach. Shannon was one year away from attaining her PH.D. So she was in school, an hour east, somewhere in Detroit. Don’t remember where Ariana was that afternoon, but she would have been about 16. Maybe an after school activity. Anyway, we were watching the 2 youngest ones. We decided as a special treat, we’d take them to The Parlour. This is kind of a dicey decision. Landon has an array of food allergies. Milk, eggs, beef, chocolate. Yikes. But The Parlour offered some fruit smoothies, like slushes, which he loves and can have. The Parlour’s seating is mostly swivel stools at a counter that snakes through a very large room. The last thing this grandma needed was Peyton taking a dive from one, onto the hard ceramic tile floor. Or rambunctious Landon running around like, well a 7 year old. So we chose one of about 4 booths they offer. John and I sat on the outside, him with Landon (now Drew to the rest of the world) me and PJ on the other side. We ordered.

The place for ice cream…

In saunterd a man a little older than us. With 2 very elderly women. The 3 of them plop in the booth directly across from us. They ordered as we got our ice cream. Talking, watching our adorable grandkids. (And who could blame or resist them)? We’re nearly done. So are they. The man gets up to pay. One of the ladies scoots out. (Not the right word. Try slowly inches) her way to the restroom. The remaining gal glances over occasionally. Smiling, watching us. Ever so slowly she maneuvers out of her booth. Stops smack dab in front of me. As God is my witness, she started what can only be described as a litany. A long litany.

Adorable Peyton, about 3…

“That’s my son Herb over there, paying the bill. He did the most thoughtful thing today. My name is Mabel, I’m 93. The lady who went to the restroom is my younger sister Mildred. She’s 90 and looks pretty good I think. Well she lives in Hamtramck. Do you know where that is? It’s over by Detroit, a good hour away.” (Peyton is now resting her jaw on the table. Landon however looks somewhere between amazed, dubious and sincerely troubled).

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world, 2007…

Mabel was not yet done with her conversation with me. “I haven’t seen Mildred for 5 years. So Mr. Thoughtful over there gets up this morning, drove ALL THE WAY OVER to Hamtramck. Just so we could spend the day together. We’ve just had the most wonderful time. Visiting and reminiscing about growing up. We thought the best ending to this fine day was some ice cream from The Parlour. Before Herb drives her all the way back to Hamtramck.” (Landon is now whispering furiously in grandpa’s ear across from us). Hubs just nods and puts his finger to his lips until Mabel decides it necessary to finally take a breath. (She’s like some long winded preachers I’ve heard in my lifetime-except she’s so stinking cute) Nope, still not quite the right moment to inhale.

Not particularly cheap, but worth the money…

“You got a real nice family,” Mabel exclaimed, smiling at Landon who’s still rather leary of this whole situation. “Are these your grandchildren?” “They sure are,” I bragged, “this is Peyton and her brother Landon. We’re watching them this afternoon while Daddy is teaching and Mom is in school. Which is very near where your sister lives.” Mabel glances over at the cashier. “Well I can see Herb and Mildred are waiting for me. You have a wonderful day with your little ones.” She finally takes a humongous gulp of air, smiles and pats me a couple times on the shoulder. Slowly toddles towards the door of her waiting, not so patiently, relatives.

I don’t think I’ve ever finished what I’ve ordered…

Landon is totally done whispering now. “Who was that lady? Is she a friend of yours grandma? Why did she stop here so long and talk so much?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. Grandpa took the lead. “No Landon, grandma has never seen that lady before. But this happens to her all the time.” (it does, I’m not ashamed to admit it) “As you get older, you’ll notice every time you’re with your grandma. Complete strangers, usually older folks will strike up a conversation with her. In a aisle at Meijer, at one of your daddy’s basketball games. Even here at The Parlour. You might as well learn this early and get used to it. You too Peyton. Your grandma is the old people whisperer.”…

A Dare to be Great. Wow…

How the Hubs and I became acquainted with these 3 fellas was kind of a fluke. Tom, Tileo, and John sat in the pew behind us during church. Tom had been widowed for years, and was in the middle of writing a book about the history of our church. Tileo sat with them was because his wife was in the choir singing every Sunday. John’s wife was having some health issues and rarely made it to the church service anymore.

Where the conversations were held-before and during the service…

All 3 sat conversing before the service started each week. Sometimes including us, sometimes about us. Kidding. Tom and Tileo didn’t have much to say for a couple of reasons. Both were rather soft-spoken and quiet gents. John did most of the talking on Sunday mornings. Didn’t really matter if the service had started or not. If he had something to say, it just got said. He wasn’t inappropriate in his comments and was sharp as a tack. He just didn’t have too much. Tact that is. I guess he figured his time was as valuable as the preacher’s. Each of them vying for a listening audience.

I was very fond of Tom. I purposefully stopped a couple times to visit him though he was not on my parish visitor list. He was about 80, still driving, going out to eat, visiting family near and far. Tom had just returned from a 6 week trip to Europe. When I remarked the following Sunday that I had been a little bit worried because he missed so many Sundays in a row, he grabbed my hand and told me how much he appreciated knowing someone noticed his absence. He was just finishing up a book about the church he had been working on for a couple years. Tom was honored at a church dinner shortly after it was published. Wasn’t a couple months later he suffered a massive stroke and passed away.

Author, friend Tom in 2000…

Tileo I never would know very well. He was quite frail, and spent most of his time with his wife Martha, and their musically talented family until his death a year or so later. Soon it was just John sitting behind us on Sunday mornings. Accompanied by his running conversations. Before and during the service.

John and his wife Marcella lived a few blocks from me in North Muskegon. Since I had never met her, I stopped at their house one afternoon to remedy that little wrong. John ushered me in and introduced me. He didn’t stop talking for 30 minutes straight. Finally Marcella looked at him squarely, and strongly suggested he go out for a cup of coffee. See if he could meet up with some of his retired realtor buddies he used to work with. He kindly took her not so subtle hint.

John and Marcella, about 2000…

Now was the time for Marcella and I to get acquainted. She was a retired elementary teacher from North Muskegon Schools. Said she taught the choir director at our church when he was in third grade. She was the same age as my Mom who had passed away just months before. Born in 1926, she shared the same birthday as the Queen Elizabeth.

John and Marcella were so proud of their Navy son…

A routine doctor’s visit revealed a spot on Marcella’s leg that needed attention. Although the procedure wasn’t new, I had never heard of it before. It’s called Mohs Surgery. I think it’s used for certain skin cancers. Usually done in a specialist’s office, her dermatologist practiced in Holland, about 40 miles away. Once the affected area is numb, the cancer was removed. The surgeon keeps searching for cancer cells around the area, removing a little bit more at a time. Then waiting until a pathologist looks at the latest specimen. If any cells are suspicious, they keep going deeper or out farther. Removing, sending the cells to be diagnosed, waiting to hear if this section is completely clear of cancer before closing. Fascinating really. Sometimes skins grafts are needed if the incision or surrounding tissue damage is extensive, but Marcella’s incision healed up just fine. Unfortunately, this was not her only or most serious health issue. But for the time being, she was fine.

One day I was parking my car in front just as they were backing their Caddie out of the driveway. I waved as they slowed down to see who was in the strange car. John rolled down his window, and hollered, “Denise, come get in the car and go for a ride with us. There’s a new housing development started out near Lake Michigan and I want to check it out.” (Forever the realtor). “Marcella’s been stuck in the house for a few days. We’d love it if you would ride along and keep us company.” (Explanation: listen to some of my stories). Marcella and I did have a great time hearing John’s opinion on whether this housing addition would be a smashing success or not.

The USS Nimitz. All 1092 feet of her-WOW…

John and Marcella had 2 children. Their daughter I believe lives in Kentucky. Their son Robert was a career Navy man. He had just been (I don’t know the correct term. Promoted, commissioned, invited, forced) as the CO (Commanding Officer) of the USS Nimitz. One of the Navy’s biggest, most prestigious super aircraft carriers. A very big deal. The local paper had numerous write-ups about the local boy and his huge success story. Because Robert was stationed in Hawaii for a time, John and Marcella decided to vacation and visit him there. Didn’t take too much persuading I don’t think.

They had a wonderful time and brought back a gift for me. Several of Hawaii’s local artists work on the beach and hand paint T-shirts. Marcella had bought several T-shirts from this gal when they had vacationed in Hawaii before. The artist signed and dated my shirt. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Every time I get that summer T-shirt out, my mind immediately drifts back to 2006. Visiting Marcella after her fabulous Hawaiian trip. She was still feeling good. A wonderful memory to reflect back on before she got so sick.

Aloha~Denise~Maui~2006…

Not long after getting back from their wonderful vacation, Marcella’s health would take a turn. I can’t remember exactly what it was called but a very serious blood disorder. Quite the opposite of what my Dad had. His white count hovered around 100,000 and should have been 12,000. While something in Marcella’s blood that should have numbered in the thousands sat near zero. She went into Hospice care and passed away shortly thereafter. A unique, quiet, inspiring teacher, wife, mother and grandmother. And I was lucky enough to call her my friend.

Gift from Marcella from Hawaii, 2006…

Robert retired from the Navy and his family and moved to California. By this time, John was in his upper-80’s. Bob and his sister thought it was a good idea for him to move closer to one of them. John decided on sunny California. He lived there for several years, first independently, then with some assistance. If he ever made it back to Michigan after his move to California, I did not get to visit with him. He just passed away recently, and a memorial was held in our church. No more Sunday mornings with John. Listening to him chat before, during and after the service…

CO Robert throwing out first pitch in San Diego…

I was raised to stay put. Until serious health issues forced Mom and Dad to make some necessary, but unwanted changes, they had only lived in 2 houses through 62 years of marriage. Both in Rock Valley. In 1955, when I was 4, we moved to 1711 15th Street, which would remain their home for 50 years. Hard to imagine. Back then, most things they were involved with were long term. Dad worked at the Iowa State Hiway Commission over 30 years. This wasn’t just a small town Iowa thing either. As a rookie, if you started your baseball career with the Chicago Cubs, odds were 20 some years later, you were still playing with those lovable losers. So what happened to me? How come I didn’t stay in Rock Valley? Heck, I even moved away from Iowa.

1711 15th St. where I grew up…

I never set out to move a lot in my adult life. I recently found a hundred letters Mom saved that I wrote her in the mid-70’s. In several, I’m very troubled because Shannon is about to turn 5. It wasn’t the turning five part I was unhappy about, but the going to school part. We were living in eastern Iowa. That area involved several miles which was about 90% Catholic. Nothing wrong with that, but every small city, town, village, and neighborhood of 3 or more homes, had their own Catholic school. Shannon was about to start kindergarten. The closest public school was miles away and humongous. I wasn’t feeling comfortable with our options. Deep down I had an uneasy feeling my kids weren’t going to experience the kind of school career (not the hopeless, non-study type kid I was, but the closeness of the small town living throughout my whole childhood). That somewhat ominous feeling would prove true for all my little rug rats. Sigh.

First day of school for Shannon on the farm, 1976…

I wrote Mom it was high time the Hubs and I settled down. I was committed to the idea. I wanted us to live, work and “stay put” in the same town once Shannon started school. That way, she could enjoy what I had growing up. Going to school with the same kids the entire 13 years. Knowing almost everyone in town. I was anxious to put down serious roots somewhere. I was skeptical and a bit afraid of this big school system she would have to attend if we stayed. It wasn’t what I knew or grew up with. How are you supposed to nurture close friendships with a class size of 400? My class size was only 50 some kids. Worrywart mom.

One of my class pics, maybe 4th grade…

Not to be. Hubs and I never did end up staying in any one place very long. Only time we did, Shannon and Joshua were grown and out on their own. Adam was a sophomore. I believe both boys changed schools 4 times. Four times. Shannon informed me she changed schools 7 times. So much worse. I guess I’ve been in denial. Pitiful. Totally blocked out a few of her moves.

Davenport 1985. Josh and Shannon had already changed schools several times…

It sure never crossed my mind that John and I would end up moving 15 times during 45 years of marriage. If you take away the lengthy stay in North Muskegon of 21 years, that’s not letting very much grass grow-anywhere. A few moves were our choice, but many were not. Companies where John was working suffered a downturn, the economy was in the tank, or companies were swallowed up by a bigger fish, and employees let go. Each time requiring finding work elsewhere, and moving the family. Again. Never occurred to me until recently but when each of our kids were sophomores, we moved, and they had to change schools. Tough time for teens. And for the mother of teens.

Mommy and Shannon, 1973. The first home we bought in Sioux City, Iowa…

Our kids seem to have skipped a generation and that pesky gene that has plagued their mom and dad. Although Josh has moved around a bit in the city, he’s been in Detroit for over 15 years. Shannon moved back to Jackson 14 years ago and still lives in the same house. Though that may change, but not by very many miles. Adam and Sarah haven’t moved either. Both are committed to the fantastic school district adorable Graham attends. Makes me feel good. They’ve put down better, deeper roots than we ever did.

Davenport Iowa home during Bix Race, 1985…

For as long as I can remember, we’ve always had “the next place” lined up and ready. Our current situation is a first. I fretted about it for weeks. Finally just had to let that one go. It somehow seemed irresponsible to me, without just cause. Not to have a place to call our own when Allied Van Lines pulled up in front of the house. What were we trying to accomplish, relive the ’60’s? We never were the young snots going through hippiedom. We were trying our darnedest to raise our kids the best we could.

Jackson, Mi. 1987-1994…

But it really started even earlier than that. I had made a list of businesses to call. You know, Consumer’s Energy, DTE Gas, Directv, Internet. Plus all of my magazines that needed a change of address. People, TV Guide, Good Housekeeping, (as if) Family Circle. I found all the numbers and addresses I needed and sat down with a frown. Not looking forward to all those calls. I don’t do very well on the phone with my hearing loss.

J and D. Didn’t have a permanent address together yet, 1965…

That’s when it hit me. For the first time in our married life, we had no forwarding address. I couldn’t request the electricity be switched from North Muskegon to WHERE-EVER! I would have our final bill sent to? Where? Hmmm. Might have suffered a mini-meltdown right then and there all by myself. Such a disconcerting feeling. A sense of panic. We’ve always had somewhere to go. Responsible parents with a home, and new school, even if the kids were justifiably upset with another move. Yet here we were. Retired. Still, seemingly not together enough to have “the next place to live.” Just can’t explain how queasy that made me feel when the realization hit.

Moorings Court, North Muskegon, Mi, 1994-2015…

Finally, after a little weepy and poor, woe is me session, I dried my eyes, blew my nose, and started punching out numbers. After a few calls, I thought it polite to text Shannon, asking if we could use her address as a home base until we bought a house? Since I had already given it out to a dozen times.

Rock Valley, Iowa has always held a special place in my heart…

It’s a weird feeling not having a home base. A strange feeling I hadn’t felt since my 40th class reunion in 2009. Hubs and I were in Rock Valley for the day. Shopping, eating, riding around and reminiscing through old neighborhoods. But we were staying in Le Mars with John’s brother and his wife, Les and Mary Jane. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, though at least smart enough to bring along better clothes for the reunion. But an hour before heading to the reunion we suddenly found ourselves questioning exactly where could we change our clothes? Without that home base we were both so used to. We finally drove outside of Rock Valley, stopped on a gravel road. Walked down the ditch and each changed clothes in the corn field. Laughed about what we would have been doing 40 plus years before when changing clothes together in a corn field. Yeah, we would have been very late. And dirty. All joking aside, it was an awful feeling. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies. No home base. Nomads. Wandering. Drifting. Sponging off our kids.

The Hubs and I…

I was telling Shannon about the strange feelings Hubs and I have been having. Living with our kids. Waking up during the night, before dawn. Watching my son-in-law Tracey slink (hard to do when you’re 6’5″) through the house with his hand covering the dim light of his phone. Navigating quietly through his own house. Trying hard to be polite and not wake me by turning on some lights. Whispering to Landon as they got ready to start their long day. Decided to give Shannon and crew a long weekend break, so have been staying with Adam and Sarah for a few days. Waiting for news on the house we bid on. Lots to do, but nothing much to do until we close. Our 11 year old granddaughter, Peyton appeared to be in her own little-newly-minted-middle-school-normal-world while we were talking. I was joking with Shannon about our living conditions. Being homeless. Peyton’s head shot up, her eyes scorched mine. She insisted with some heat, “grandma, you’re not homeless. You live with us now and this is your home.” What a great thing to say. Thanks Peyton. And thanks kids…

Peyton honing her archery skills at camp, 2015…

It should be compared to a lengthy, difficult labor. Except there’s no newborn to smell, swaddle and nurse. Besides the good Lord gave new moms the ability to gradually forget about those perfectly timed, excruciating pains when you shouted the Hubs name. Claiming if he ever comes near you again, there would be hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay. Nope, not going to forget this for a quite a spell.

1979 with newborn Adam…

The week everything fell into place for closing on the long awaited sale of our house, not exactly everything fell just right. Just fell. Three sprinkler heads went kaflooey, dribbling water like a little boy with bad aim. Who wants a new owner to start off with that mess? Growing grass is tough enough here. You’re trying to have a lush green lawn on about 4 inches of topsoil covering 2 feet of sand. Besides it’s a Hot August Night (Neal Diamond) and the lawn is already stressed. John hopped in the truck, ran to the hardware store and bought some new heads. Terrible to admit, but I always kind of get a kick out of watching him change heads. He digs up the old one, replaces it, then has to set them. Exactly right. So every stinking blade of grass gets equally covered. He gets utterly saturated with sprinkler well water. When he’s absolutely sure the rotation is perfect, he’s covered with mud, sand, water and mosquito bites. I wouldn’t do that job if you paid me. But Hubs has always been anal about his grass.

Muskegon Lighthouse looking west towards Milwaukee, 2015…

The evening Hubs changed the sprinkler heads, he sauntered in, filthy and dripping wet. While he scooted upstairs to shower, I made supper. We ate, then decided to go for a little ride. Stopped at our favorite ice cream joint (we knew our 2 visits a week were going to end soon) and each got a twist cone. Meandered home and settled in the family room. John reached for his iPad next to his recliner. Which was setting on the hearth. Behind his iPad are a set of fireplace tools you use to arrange wood and stoke the fire. Like a gentle breeze, one of the tools (fireplace, not Hubs) slowly started leaning. For 21 years we have had those fireplace tools flying, falling, and flipping through that room. Nothing has ever happened. But this time there was a sharp crack as wrought iron nuzzled the fireplace’s 4 paned glass doors. Actually sounded kind of neat. Tinkling little shards of glass sprinkled the hearth, my sandals, the carpet and an open lock box of old pictures I had been delving through for blog pictures. We just sat there, looking back and forth at each other, 12 feet apart. Watching as the few remaining clinging hunks of glass made their way to their final resting place. What are the chances? What was the tool (fireplace) doing there anyway? We usually put them in the garage for the summer. We hadn’t burned the fireplace in months. Why hadn’t the tool (Hubs) moved the dang thing? Burning questions and you want answers. Got nothing. Guess we didn’t move them to the garage because it was already bursting at the seams. We both assumed they should stay with the house.

Lake Express arriving daily from Milwaukee. Our lake home was behind that out crop of land in left corner…

Well, the new owner was expecting doors on the fireplace, so John took the measurements, and zipped upstairs to the computer. Searching, he found a set just like ours, but with glass. He ordered new doors while I cleaned up. A fluke. The doors came a few days later, and didn’t take Hubs long to install. All shiny and new, looked good. The tool (fireplace) was then put out of harms way. A day late and many dollars shorter.

Fireplace now has a new set of doors…

Closing went without a hitch, giving us 14 days to move. Seems like a long time doesn’t it? Holy Hanna, it went fast. We blew 2-1/2 days house hunting when we should have been packing in earnest. But finding a new crib was much more fun that going through drawers, cupboards, closets that held items from the Eisenhower administration. I jest. Well, most of our furniture was born about the time of Eisenhower, but we weren’t. After looking for a house the second time, we decided that had to be put on the back burner or we’d never be ready when the moving van parked in our drive.

Seagulls get cold feet too…

If you’ve been at an address for any length of time, take a mental walk through a couple of your rooms. Notice the painted rocks your granddaughter made for you awhile back. The magnet pictures on the fridge, box of colors, a few crayons short. The Northern gar pike hanging on the wall. Remembering 17 year old Adam excitedly calling you at work one day many years ago. Begging you to have it mounted for him.

Neighbor’s lab Junior, Adam with speared gar pike, 1997…

Who doesn’t have at least one junk drawer? We have 3. Every bit of string, dried out tubes of crazy glue, wandering nails and an obscure coin from a Las Vegas trip 20 years causes reflection. Most must be weighed in worth. Smiles, tears, pros-cons. I tossed or donated items I could barely part with by day 6.

Sailboats on Muskegon Lake behind our house, 2013…

Finally in Jackson, I looked at my holy mess of a Jeep and slowly started unpacking. Most of it are things I need until we buy a house. Clothes and toiletries. Still off to one side of the mountain of miscellaneous crap, I find 3 small Meijer bags. Filled with empty pop cans. A whopping $3.40. Are you kidding me? I lost more than that when I pitched the new jar of Hoisen Sauce from the fridge missing 1/2 cup from the last time I made broccoli beef. Ugh.

Sunrise looking east at Moorings Court, 2013…

I wasn’t dreading this move at all. It was anticipated wholeheartedly. But I could not fathom exactly how much stuff had to be plucked, pondered, and plunked in a box. While I was super diligent at first, it didn’t take long before that over exuberance waned dramatically. The clock was ticking faster than a speeding bullet. No time if a pair of my Keen sandals were in the bathroom. Mentally, I’d take make a note. Keen sandals in with 2-36 packs of Northern bath tissue. As if. There were numerous things to decide on and delegate, and too little time to devote anything to memory. I’m lucky I could remember where to turn off I-96 to head south on 127. Someday I will get to that huge box of toilet paper. Hope it’s spring so the sandals are right on time.

Lake Michigan. Breathtaking beauty…

By day 8, most of the stuff I was packing, I never wanted to see again. It’s like you become desensitized. I was a packer in zombie mode. Only one purpose. The finish line. Which was before the movers arrived.

Left Muskegon Lake, right, Bear Lake, top magnificent Lake Michigan…

The most unappealing aspect of this is NOT that we have yet to find a home to buy. All of our belongings are safe. Secure and stored for now. The key word here is: stored. Meaning, lucky us, we get to do this again. Yay us. But this time, without the massive amount of help from the dudes from Allied. Who, by the way after 5 hours of backbreaking work in hot, humid weather conditions, were still taking the stairs, 2 steps at a time. And singing. And joking. All the while hauling out our antiques that were barely recognizable. Which accounts for the secure part.

Deep water channel to Lake Michigan, looking west…

These moving dudes know their way around old furniture. For example, my stacking oak bookcase. This exquisite piece was willed to me several years ago. Really, one of my better stories. Titled Mildred and Charlie, in October of 2014. The bookcase is actually 7 separate pieces. After John and I picked it up in 2008, Hubs had a heck of a time putting it back together. The 5 bookcase sections are all just a bit different in size. By maybe half an inch each. Plus the bottom section is a drawer and the top fancy part. So I numbered them from 1-7, making life easier for The Hubs when it came time to slap that sucker back together. Little show off mover guy had other ideas after thanking me for the great idea of numbering them. He secured (“we don’t use tape Denise. If this piece sits in storage even a few days, when you try and remove it, the finish comes right off”) cardboard to the front, protecting the glass doors. Proceeded to haul out a huge roll of Saran Wrap, which they prefer to call shrink wrap. Show-off-mover-dude ran around the bookcase a minimum of 648 times. With the Saran Wrap at warp speed. Top to bottom. Gave a little whistle, another mover (there was only one show off) with a carrot top (Red) hustled over. Both picked up the bookcase like it weighed 5 pounds-tops and zoomed it into the truck. All my antiques were treated this way.

Bookcase snugly stored. Waiting to come back home…

The hardest part is done. Moorings Court now has a new owner. I’m so glad. I hope he enjoys the house and living on the lake. For this homeless couple, we are filled with hope and anticipation of where we’ll be hanging our hats soon. Still, absolutely no regrets. Only got choked up saying goodbye to my dear friend Jo. I will miss her. And Lake Michigan. One unparalleled body of water. Some of the most spectacular sunsets, ever. But the bennies about living here. Within a few minutes from my 3 grown children and 4 grandchildren. That too is unparalleled. I think they’re all excited that we will be living closer. Maybe they’ll show more excitement in a few months. After the dreaded call and some time has passed. The recent unpleasant memory has faded a bit. We have moved every one of them too many times to count. Hauled furniture back and forth. They owe us. It’s pay back time…

Lake Michigan. Simply stunning…