The recent hype surrounding the saga of the Star Wars franchise has me reminiscing about my lifelong fascination with the movies. Something that started when I was a little kid. I can loosely compare it to eating the forbidden fruit in the garden. Because I was not allowed to go to the movies, hence, they have been irresistible to me ever since.

Holy spit curls! This is what happened after viewing my first horror movie, 1960…

I’ve never been a huge TV nut. I wasn’t raised watching much television. I remember watching Captain Kangaroo, and Howdy Doody. Some Saturday morning cartoons. A highlight of a grade school year was when you managed to get on the afternoon show, live from Sioux Falls, called Captain 11. Yeah, that was a biggie.

Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Greenjeans and sidekicks, mid-1950’s…

When Larry died in 1958, Dad had a huge transformation. He accepted the Lord as his Savior. And went way over the top. Mom’s and my life changed too because of Dad’s life changing deal breaker. Dad was now gone several nights a week doing the Lord’s work. Mom and I were left at home, each of us not knowing how to deal and heal from losing Larry. We’d watch a couple of programs together. Combat, Rawhide, Have Gun Will Travel, Whirlybirds, Wagon Train. Mom making us a bowl of popcorn. In a small frypan on our gas stove. Shaking it back and forth, me listening to the kernels pop. The incredible smell filling the quiet house on 15th street. Melting real butter, plus a couple shakes of salt. And the best part. Pop. Diet Rite, RC Cola. We always had pop in the house.

Actors that portrayed Gil Hanley and Chip Saunders in Combat, 1962…

But now Dad frowned on TV, even more so about theater movies. I don’t know if it was the Hollywood lifestyle that had him believing they were going to hell. Or just that I was headed to hell if I watched them. When I started blogging, one of my first posts was about sneaking into the movies. Not without paying. But going to the movies. My little Iowa, farming community had its own theater on Main Street when I was young. Not always easy to sneak in unnoticed. You’d be surprised how many adults would squeal about me to Dad, if they observed me going into the show. Or doing anything else questionable in their eyes. Really, it was pretty hard to get by with anything that was not witnessed by someone. And this without cell phones. Although not impossible. There were a couple of times my name should have been front and center in the usual line of suspects, but until I confessed in my blog posts, many of my indiscretions were not known by the masses. Yay Neese. Stealing a car, (borrowing really, we brought it back, unscathed a couple hours later, minus half a tank of gas) and painting the side of a building were two where I should have gotten into pretty big trouble. Those incidents came later in my life of crime, and nobody ratted me out.

Neese needed teddy bear comfort after watching Mr. Sardonicus…

The first movie to have a major impact in the Life of Neese was called Mr. Sardonicus. The scene practically set itself. Northwest Iowa was in the middle of a blizzard of epic proportions. Not an uncommon winter occurrence. Dad worked for the State Hiway Commission. During snow storms, he’d get several hours overtime, driving the snow plow from Rock Valley, west to the South Dakota border near Canton, east to the Sheldon overpass which was high, wicked and very dangerous. Or south on Hiway 75 towards Sioux City. I begged, pleaded, whined, and ‘zhanicked’ (begged, pleaded, whined in Dutch, only a bit more dramatic) for Mom to let me go to the movies that night while Dad was hard at work.

Dad driving a snowplow, while I was sinning at the movies, 1960…

The theater was 2 blocks from our house. No way we would have school the next day. The snow was past my knees already. Mom caved. Unfortunately, I had done no research on the only movie showing that night. Siskel and Ebert weren’t invented yet. So I happily, but unknowingly, trudged through the deep snow to my first (and last) horror movie. Holy Hanna. Scared the shit out of this 10 year old. The short review. Married couple discover their winning lottery ticket was in the suit coat pocket of the husband’s recently deceased father. Wife insists he retrieve that ticket. Once the coffin is dug up, Sonny takes one look at the gruesome facial expression on Pop’s face and splits. Wifey sends him back for that winning ticket. Go on, Dipstick. This time when he returns, hubby’s facial features are in the same distorted, macabre frozen position as dead Daddy. In a nutshell. Yikes. Since that fateful night, I still click the remote to another station when a door creaks on TV.

My then 10 yr old eyes still see Mr. Sardonicus in my nightmares…

Once I got a bit older, bolder, and sneakier, movies were part of my high school days. Not as often in Rock Valley, though. There were some incredible, magnificent movie theaters in Sioux City and Sioux Falls. Downtown buildings with winding staircases 10 feet wide. Stunning architecture I barely noticed back in the 60’s. For this small town girl, some of these films were a real life education. The seducing wiles of an older woman with a much younger guy in The Graduate. (but true love wins) My first experience learning about homosexuals in Midnight Cowboy. My undying love for all things Steve McQueen and Paul Newman. Bullitt, Thomas Crown Affair, Papillion, The Getaway. Newman in Cool Hand Luke, Butch Cassidy, The Sting. The Towering Inferno which starred both of them.

Heart throb Steve McQueen, 20 years my senior. I’d have followed him to the ends of the earth…

Not all movies had teaching moments for this naive chick. But they remain firmly entrenched in my head. Usually because one scene hit me hard then and has stuck. The Witness, with Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis. City slicker cop (Harrison) has to protect an Amish widow (Kelly) and her young son who witnessed a murder. In MY scene, Harrison is falling for the widow, and the feeling is mutual. Harrison is walking through her house. Kelly is undressing, the door is ajar. Their eyes meet in the mirror. The forbidden longing, lust and love their faces convey in that single glance still makes my tummy flip.

When we were living on the farm, 40 miles from Cedar Rapids in the mid-’70’s, there was a Mel Brooks movie called, Young Frankenstein. I don’t believe I’ve ever laughed that hard, though Blazing Saddles came close. Weeks later, I’d think about Marty Feldman saying, “werewolf!” Gene Wilder asking “werewolf?” Marty answering, “there wolf, there castle.” Or Wilder looking at the castle’s mammoth doors, exclaiming, “what a set of knockers!” Terri Gar answers shyly, “thank you.”

Young Frankenstein stars, Feldman, Wilder and Gar…

Diane Keaton in Baby Boom, as a single, ambitious New Yorker whose cousin passes away and literally leaves Diane her baby girl. Diane is not mom material and seriously considers giving the baby up for adoption. In MY scene, the baby has been sick and up all night. Diane has walked, or rocked her and both are near exhaustion. Both Baby and Diane fall asleep, with baby on Diane’s chest. One of the most poignant scenes ever. I sob every time.

Diane Keaton in Baby Boom…

Or my favorite romantic comedy. Notting Hill. Julia Roberts plays a superstar (now there’s a stretch) who’s in London. She goes into a book store owned by Hugh Grant. Instant attraction. But they are from such different worlds. After flirting, an affair and numerous problems getting in their way, Julia walks into the book store (in flip flops, gotta love it) says to Hugh, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her!” So romantic and heartfelt. I bawled my eyes out. As an added bonus, Rhys Ifans plays Hugh’s roommate, Spike. He steals several scenes and is absolutely hilarious. In grungy underwear.

Julia asking for Hugh’s heart…

Even during our first, oh-so-broke years of marriage, John and I managed to see a few movies. We watched The Godfather at South Sioux City’s, Gordon Twin Drive Inn. Couldn’t afford a babysitter, making it necessary to haul our adorable 2-1/2 year old, Shannon along. In our 1972 green Chevy Vega. Embarrassing to admit that. Not that we took a toddler to a very adult themed movie. That we owned a Vega. We loaded the car with goodies and enough blankets, pillows to make a bed in the hatchback for our precocious little diva. She assured us, she would sleep in the car. Right. Next thing we hear out of her is, “why is that man sleeping with a horse? Where’s the rest of the horse, daddy?” Probably the reason she became a therapist.

Looks like Shannon suffered no ill effects from The Godfather…

Forty years ago, I started reading The TV guide and People Magazine, faithfully. Nosy and loved learning what was going on in Hollywood. That inquisitiveness has waned the last few years. Many of the stars I enjoy watching on the big screen feel because the make millions in movies, they also know what’s best for me in the world of politics. Please, shut your mouth unless it’s a movie script. The trivia about Hollywoood and their stars stuck though. Twenty years ago when the kids were in college, I’d regularly receive phone calls from one of them, which sounded something like this. “Mom, what was the movie where the secret service guy’s job was…” “Umm, Guarding Tess, with Nicolas Cage and Shirley McClaine,” I’d answer quickly. Not only has most of that information seeped from my head (no, not song lyrics yet) I’ve been replaced by Google. My services of useless tidbit information, no longer required.

Brad Davis as Billy Hayes in Midnight Express, 1979…

The movie that struck me with the biggest impact happened in Spencer, Iowa. The spring of 1979. I was pregnant with Adam. Hubs and I went to the theater downtown. The movie was, Midnight Express. Based on a true story starring Brad Davis as Billy Hayes. Billy is caught at the airport in Istanbul, Turkey, trying to smuggle hashish out of the country. Tried and sentenced for 30 years to life in a gruesome prison. What he endured was horrifying. After a few years, his girlfriend smuggles him some money to help buy an escape, cause he’s not getting out any other way. Billy’s nemesis is a sadistic guard with the intention of raping Billy. Billy accidentally kills him before the deed. Billy quickly puts on the guards clothing and calmly walks out of prison. Makes his way to Greece and back to New York a few weeks later. For some reason, this movie still haunts me almost 4 decades later. I wonder if any movies have made a huge impact on other people’s lives like they have on mine…

I complained a lot by the time we finally moved east in 2015. Our lives were thrust in turmoil from the moment we put the house on the market in mid-2012. It was like our house wasn’t ours anymore, but it was. Uneasy about letting any clutter lie around, beds unmade, or plan a big day of canning. We constantly had to be ready to show the house. Even less like our house after we rented a storage unit and packed a third of our belongings for what we thought would be 90 days. Try 1,200 days. Ugh. Why it took 3 years to sell a nifty lake home still puzzles me.

Our house in North Muskegon for 21 years…

There were advantages to renting that dang storage unit. We stored massive furniture pieces in it, giving our house a less cluttered, more open look. I’d pine over the spot where each piece had resided for 18 years. But it was the 2 rows of plastic tubs, all neatly stacked to the ceiling that simply oozed out of my memory bank.

 We went through quite a few of the tubs when it became apparent the house sale was actually a reality. This was our first move in 20 years, and the first one where we’d be doing all the work of packing. And paying for it ourselves. Ouch. We needed to lighten our load. Didn’t do such a hot job in that department. Then the stark realization we could not keep everything. We wanted/needed to downsize. We hadn’t used several rooms of our house for years but there a disloyal feeling about selling a favorite antique, only to discover it’s just the size and would fit our new house perfectly. So we paid the movers to load 14,000 pounds of our belongings. This after we’d seriously gotten rid of a boatload of stuff.

This gorgeous piece I’ve only had 15 years so it had to go…

We bought a home a thousand square feet smaller and the movers unloaded everything in the house, basement and garage. We barely had room to walk. I moved, swapped, wrung my hands over pieces that just weren’t going to work. I kept telling myself, “it’s just stuff Neese, let it go.” So I’ve come to terms with what will and won’t work and I’m ok with that. I’ve managed to find spots for most of my favorites. The kids will take the rest or we’ll sell a few things. But to my surprise, one of the best parts of that annoying storage unit was finding some small, unexpected treasures.

Our much smaller house…

After my Mom passed away in 2004, Dad lived in their house another 4 months. It sold, and I had a week to pack, save or give away their stash of belongings. Dad and Mom had lived there for 50 years. My sister Mona and her 3 kids took quite a bit. The rest was for me and our children. Since Dad was moving to Michigan, he kept whatever he wanted for his new apartment. Which was added to my stuff after he passed away 3 years later. That’s really how I got bogged down with all these containers. I couldn’t keep up with the deaths and moves. Easier to ignore the stacks.

 And that’s exactly why it’s been such a trip to go through these containers. I had to toughen up a bit when it hit I couldn’t keep everything. It was that or rent another storage unit. When I was agonizing over decisions I did not cave often. John tried to hurry me along, he thought I’d say, “heck, just haul it to Goodwill.” I used my outside voice and firmly stated, “dude, no way I’m getting rid of that. Maybe in a year, but for now, it stays.” Then he’d start whining, “we aren’t going to have a bunch of tubs just taking up space. Are you absolutely sure you really need this?” “Give it up John, I’m not selling or giving that away. Period.”

Dad was a lay minister, preaching at prisons and Gospel missions. I’ve saved his sermons.

For several weeks Hubs brought in containers from the garage. Knick-knacks I didn’t remember until I spotted them again. I have a dozen beautiful paper weights. (I thought I had 4). Now my bookcases are cluttered with too many things on shelves but it’s almost like getting new stuff cause I hadn’t seen it for 4 years. The items I kept is everything that was my brother Larry’s. He was killed in 1958 at age 12, while riding his bike. I was 7 and worshipped him.

 Mona, me and Larry in 1953…

I call them Larry’s treasures. They mean more to me than all my antiques and collectibles combined. Sometimes I wonder why Mom kept certain things from him and not others. A pair of his swimming trunks, blue jeans, and one shirt. His baseball glove, pop gun, bubblegum machine, and billfold with most of his classmates pictures inside. Guess they were from 6th grade or maybe they had already gotten their 7th grade pictures back. That stuff I don’t wonder about and I’m glad Mom kept what she did.

Larry’s pop gun…

Here’s one of the more curious items I just found. The soft, thin string is very yellow with age. It had so many knots I truly thought about cutting it apart. But I really wanted to save it as original as possible. The trinkets attached to the string looked chintzy. For 45 minutes I painstakingly worked to untangle the mess. Careful to keep them in the same order Larry had put them on 65 years ago. A mish-mash of plastic, or metal looking tiny objects. I can only compare it to a girl’s charm bracelet or necklace-tough boy style. Since he passed away in ’58, they all date before that. Hubs offered his opinion as I was removing them one by one. He thinks they’re from Cracker Jacks boxes. One is a zodiac sign of Virgo that resembles a coin. A couple of dogs, bowling pins, gun, stagecoach, skull, plastic safety pin. And on the very end is a good sized nail. I didn’t even take that apart. It had a nice knot and wasn’t tangled up. I couldn’t imagine why a nail would be on the end. Uncomfortable if he carried this around in his pocket. John ventured he thought Larry hung it up somewhere. Using the nail. Hmmm.

So I’ve dedicated a couple of shelves in an antique oak bookcase for some of Larry’s and my old stuff. For me, part of a baking set with tiny cookie cutters, a jello mold, kaleidoscope, wooden rolling pin, stuffed animals. A little plaid pup that Larry gave me for Christmas. Although you’ve been gone a long time, not a day has passed when I haven’t thought about you Larry. Not as long as I live. Love ‘ya big brother…

I can hear it now. You’re all going to blame me. It wasn’t my fault, I swear. Looking back though, I might have been a bit hasty with my last post, called The Freshman. But hey, I was excited about the terrific December he and his team had just finished. Ok, so I got caught up in the moment. But as the rest of the story unfolds, I’m sure you’ll find me completely blameless.

Landon, number 3, going in for a layup…

Let me catch you up. It really all started about 2 years ago. My 15 year old grandson, Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) had a sore foot. His left foot. A nagging pain when he played hard, changed directions or pivoted on the basketball court. Over the last 2 years he’s seen his pediatrician, a podiatrist, had shoe inserts, been taped, x-rays, you name it. But not one of them could find the cause for Landon’s foot pain.

Did the pain in his foot ever halt his play on the basketball court? Surely you jest. Nope, this kid just played through the discomfort. But it never went away. So, mom, dad and Landon continued to look for answers on what was troubling this growing foot on my fantastic grandson, the ball player.

Landon guarding, disrupting Skyline’s player…

Shannon had a day long commitment with Governor Snyder’s Task Force back in December. Tracey had just gone through knee replacement surgery and wasn’t able to drive yet. So I was tagged to take Landon, his most recent x-rays, and tests results to an orthopedic specialist in Jackson.

His appointment was at 9:15. I love morning appointments. I optimistically assume since it’s so early, how far behind can the office/Doctor possibly be? We waited and waited. Landon was the youngest one in the office by about 5 decades. One of the patients ahead of him was a 90 year old lady who insisted on filling out all the forms herself. I love these little independent women. Except she could not remember any medications, dates of injuries, surgeries, not much of anything pertaining to her upcoming visit. She was also stone deaf, and ended up asking her daughter every single question from the four sheet form. Loudly. I’m profoundly deaf, and I heard all the information on the last 50 years of her health issues that morning. I’m glad Landon was on the ball. He had his phone along. Texted his mom with questions about his medications and dates.

Something he’s always excelled in, his passing ability…

We finally get called back and sit in a room to wait some more. When the doctor finally makes an appearance, (he’s wearing an identical Polo shirt that Landon owns. Only about 3 sizes bigger) and he’s full of questions. About Tracey, knee surgery, basketball and life in general. I didn’t realize the doc went to Jackson High with Shannon and Tracey. He was a couple years ahead of Shannon, as was Tracey, though Tracey and Shannon are the same age. T graduated at age 16. Anyway, he finally got to the reason we were there. The foot problem. I saw and sympathized during the wincing pain on Landon’s face as Doc manipulated his foot. Asked a lot of questions, looked at his recent x-rays, and said he thought it was time for an MRI. Ventured it could be a stress fracture, cyst or something completely different.

He’s got some growing to do. Look at those feet???

Nothing else for us to do that day. We got some lunch and I hustled him to school for a half day cause his appointment took so long. Shannon called to set up the MRI appointment during Christmas break. Landon continued to practice and play basketball. His team, the Ann Arbor Pioneers, were doing phenomenal. Hadn’t lost yet. Landon, the only freshman on Varsity was getting quite a few playing minutes. And scoring some points.

Christmas break is over, school’s back in session, the basketball season is back on the court. Shannon and Landon have an appointment to get the results of the MRI. She calls after they leave the office. It’s official. A stress fracture. Bummer. He needs a boot, crutches and 4 weeks of rest for his left foot.

Umm, yes, he can be pretty intense on the court…

The doctor’s appointment was on a Friday, a couple hours before one of Pioneer’s biggest rivalry opponents. No doubt about it, Landon wanted to play, then tell his coach. The timing is actually pretty good. He might only miss 4 games because they have 2 Tuesday’s off in January. Shannon and Tracey decide to let him play. After all, he’s been playing basketball year round with this discomfort for over 2 years.

What a game. This is the same team they played in December when “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman” was screamed by the student section as he went on to score 14 points. (And the student body continued this tradition that night). But 14 isn’t even close to the game he was about to have. At age 15.

The Rowdy Bunch during game against Skyline. Coach Rex in white shirt…

Landon goes in about midway through the first quarter, and plays 9 minutes of the first half. He makes his first shot, a jumper, then a lay up. Two 3 pointers follow for 10 in the half. Never missed a shot and had one foul. Goes in at the 3 minute mark of the 3rd quarter. Does not score in the period, but causes all kinds of headaches for one of Skyline’s main shooters.

It’s during the 4th quarter where Landon would really shine. He’s always been a very disciplined player. (His only waver is a bit of trash talking once in a while. Not to worry, I’m on it) He practices A LOT. This is where all that practice comes to fruition. Crunch time. First he has a nifty layup. So his total stands at 12. Although Pioneer had lead by more than 20 points at times, the big lead has dwindled. With time running down, Skyline needs the clock to stop. How does a team do that? By fouling Pioneer and hoping they miss at the line. Unfortunately for Skyline, they had to foul a superb point guard with the name of Landon Lowder (ok, so most scream Drew, but not this gram. If anything, I’m consistent). Towards the end of the 4th quarter, they fouled him 5 times. How many points did the Pioneers get out of Landon standing on the free throw line? Ten freaking points people. Ten, I tell you. Does he stand at the foul line and go through all kinds of crazy rituals? Nope. Just bounces it once, throws it up and swishes it through. Over and over. Ten points in free throws. Twelve for the half. High scorer for the game with 22.

Oh yeah baby, he’s making his move…

Landon was interviewed at length by a sports writer from the Ann Arbor News for the paper last Sunday. Reading the article and the blog his coach writes after every game was misleading though. Both indicated Landon had recently hurt his foot. This injury was not recent at all. One of the neatest comments I read in the blog about Landon’s game was this: “at crunch time, a freshman with ice water in his veins at the free throw line!”

My rather lame attempt keeping Landon stats…

So last Saturday morning, Landon started sporting a boot and crutches. Sigh. It has to be done. They didn’t have a game on Tuesday. We didn’t go to Friday nights game either. Sure I want Pioneer to win, but without the lure of watching Landon hustle up and down the court during the game, it’s just not the same for this gram. Shannon texted me throughout. Pioneer struggled more than they should have, and although Landon’s not a starter, where Deric is, they are now missing 2 key players in their lineup. But the Pioneers pulled it out for their 11th win with no losses. Landon goes back to the orthopedic doctor the 1st of February. Deric might be out a little longer than that. The big game with their other town rivalry is this Friday night. And I hear Huron has a pretty good team.

Landon has stepped up his defense…

I have a couple stories in my head trying to break free. But at least for the next few weeks, no basketball stories about the amazing Landon. You’ll have to be content with the boring early Neese years…

Busy times loom on the horizon. Our 15 year old grandson, Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) had just finished freshman football season. There was a bit of a dead zone, maybe 2 weeks, tops. Nothing demanding his time (besides schoolwork and girls) in the world of sports for the moment. But basketball tryouts were coming up. A grueling week of 2-a-days. This is his favorite and best sport since he was born.

Landon, 5, shooting during halftime, 2005…

Plain and simple, I was hoping he’d make the junior varsity team. I knew he would get the most playing time because he’s that good. How much fun is it if he makes varsity, but sits the bench most of the season? How does that make him a better player? He’s always played in leagues a notch above his age. Being pushed to be better by bigger, older kids. His dad (Tracey, former pro, then high school coach, teacher, now principal) thought he should strive and make the varsity team. Practicing everyday with juniors and seniors, maybe get a few minutes of playing time each game. There was also an option of the 2 combined. Play on junior varsity, then suit up with varsity. A rule where he would be allowed to play a certain amount of minutes per game on Varsity. I think it’s about 8.

Hurts my heart. He’s just as good at baseball. But hates it…

So, for one week in mid-November, we sweated (not literally, but anxiously) through the days wondering how he was doing. Fourth night after supper, I get a text from Shannon. A letter from Rex, the head Pioneer coach. Landon made the varsity team. Was that good or bad? I was skeptical. How do juniors and seniors treat a freshman who’s just made the team? If they have the best interest of the team in their hearts, I assume they would accept him unequivocally. If there’s a possibility he might snag some playing time minutes away from other players, who knows?

Landon cocky? Surely you jest…

A few weeks fly by and the season starts. A Tuesday home game. Pioneer is big, maybe 1800 students. I thought the place would be packed, but it’s not. Most of our family are in attendance, anxious to watch Landon. Though Tracey warned us, as a freshman, he would not get very much playing time. If any. Adam, Sarah, Graham and Sarah’s nephew Coyle, who’s a sports nut. Ari and Josh. Tracey had total knee replacement 5 days prior. Was determined not to miss any of Landon’s games, but this just wasn’t feasible. He was on powerful pain medication and transporting him was dicey enough, let alone getting jostled during the game. Shannon texted him throughout with updates. We were playing a non-conference team from Detroit, called Taylor Kennedy.

Taking the ball down court, calling the offense…

We sat on the wrong side, behind the scorer’s table. No cheerleaders for either team, which was odd. Learned later, half of Pioneer’s Cheerleader uniforms hadn’t arrived yet. The announcer is a hoot. Talks to the crowd, encouraging, cajoling, scolding. He has a litany down pat. “Please, no standing in the doorways. Find your seats. Show good sportsmanship to players and refs. Be courteous and respectful.” By the second game we would learn exactly why he says this over the microphone. With a sincere, but firm attitude. The game starts and Pioneer is handling their opponents with ease. Midway through the first quarter, Landon is signaled to go in. He plays the rest of the first quarter and half of the second. Scores a couple of buckets, defense is awesome. (He must have read the coaches letter). Comes back in midway through 3rd, and plays halfway through the 4th. Scores 7 for the night. We win easily 85-50. Good way to start the season.

Running the plays. Adam in the background…

The small crowd files out. We are waiting to give Landon a ride home, but he’s in the locker room. For the post game sermon from the coach I guess. I see a gal, about 40, writing furiously at the scorer’s table. I wander towards her. Bend over behind her as she’s writing and venture, “hi, I’m Landon’s grandma” (then I spot the stat sheet in front of her has him listed as Drew Lowder-sigh. Yeah, this is what I’ll have to put up with for the rest of his sports career, I guess). “I mean Drew’s grandma. I know he scored 7 points, but do you know the rest of his stats for the night? I think he had a couple assists, maybe a foul. Did you chart that one rebound? And exactly how many minutes and seconds did he play? I should have jotted some of this stuff down, but,” my voice finally trailed off. I stopped and sucked in a big breath. She turns towards me, looking perplexed and says, “sorry, I don’t have any of that information except his point total. I’m actually from Taylor Kennedy. I’m the coaches wife. So most of my stats are on our players, not Pioneer’s.” Well, color me embarrassed. I slink away, slightly beneath the court floor.

Getting so much better at D…

I didn’t know game # 2 would be so different. Neither Shannon or Tracey could attend, which has only happened a couple times in a decade of basketball for the kid. Shannon’s office (she’s the CEO) Christmas party has been scheduled for months, not knowing that Tracey would be having surgery the week prior. He’s still not up to going, so it’s just grandpa and me on a Friday night. And Pioneer’s playing one of their 2 biggest rivalries. Skyline High School. Who knew? Not us. You would have thought after sticking my foot in my mouth over the stats issue, I would have learned. But I didn’t. Wouldn’t be until game 4 where I would devise a makeshift stat sheet of my own. Only on Landon’s efforts and the team score by quarters.

Yup, he’s had a couple of blocked shots …

I know this is selfish, but this is kinda like I felt when I bowled (with purpose) for 20 years. Yes, I wanted our ‘team’ to win, but more importantly, I wanted to bowl well. If we lost, but I had a 550, which was about 75 pins above my average, well, meh, I did my part. This is how I felt about Landon. I wanted Pioneer to do well and win, but my main concern was Landon’s stats. This game I would document however, in a different way. Since both mom and dad were missing it, I texted them. Scores once in a while, but mostly stuff when Landon was in and what he was doing. So far his best game of the season. This time, we were sitting across from the bench (far away from the scorer’s table too) and facing the Pioneer student section. They showed up in droves for this game. At one point, when Landon swished his second 3-pointer, they all stood up and screamed in unison, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!”

The student section who are boisterous…

Landon was freaking awesome. The 6th man. Usually goes in mid-1st period, stays in until mid-late second quarter. Goes back in about the same time in the 3rd and stays until mid-4th. After he went in, he scored a 3-pointer, followed by a lay-up. Went down hard during a fight for the ball, and the two did some trash talking. Ref said something to them, soon after Landon went out. But back in a couple minutes later. Played most of the second half which ended at the buzzer with a tie. He did not play in overtime, but Pioneer won by 7.

Landon, in white, scrapping for the ball…

The student section got a little rambunctious and may have disagreed with one of the refs foul calls. In ear splitting unison, (and I’m deaf) the group shouts, “bullshit, bullshit.” The bouncer-announcer stands up, turns around to face these kids and sternly yells into the mic, “hey, knock it off. Now.” At the buzzer of the emotional overtime win, the student group fly through the air, off the bleachers to give high 5’s and hugs to the players. B-A (bouncer-announcer from here on in) screams, “get off the floor. Get off the floor. Now.”

Landon, ready to go in. Bouncer-announcer behind on the left…

This is part of the Ann Arbor News sports article the following day: Pioneer 71, Skyline 64 in overtime. Junior Cedric Benton led the way for Pioneer, scoring a game high 22 points. He was followed by freshman Drew (sigh) Lowder, who came off the bench to tally 14 points, looking more like a seasoned veteran. Wow, just wow. The wow, just wow part was not in the paper. Why, I do not know or understand.

Not bragging, he’s a pretty good ball-handler…

This is one of the reasons we moved 160 miles east. To be able to go to the games, concerts, recitals, school programs of our grandkids. Meet one of our kids for pizza and not have to drive 3 hours first. So I won’t bore you over every detail of each game. Although if you ask, I still have most of the stats in my head. Although I am learning, jotting them down is a better way of tracking how my boy (ownership issues) is doing.

Going in for a lay-up…

The Ann Arbor Pioneers are 8-0 for the month of December. Two were overtime wins, one, a squeaker by just 3. They won a holiday tourney last week with ease. But one of the starters just broke his foot, so the team dynamics will change for the next few weeks. Landon has played about the same number of minutes in each one. Averaging about 14 minutes (seconds played are still unknown to this gram) out of 32 per game. His scoring has been a bit sporadic, but his ball-handling, defense, passing and assists have been spot on. He has been consistently hitting team mates in the head, chest, and shoulders over the years with his unbelievable passing ability. Looking the other way, yet somehow manages to thread a pass through 3 bodies to the dude under the basket. Sometimes they’re totally caught off guard, just not ready for that sneaky pass. Well I’m sure you’re just as excited and anxious as I am to see how Pioneer (ok, let’s be honest, Landon) does in the month of January. Not to worry, I’ll post up…

Landon, never shy with a basketball in his hands…

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…