It’s a significant day. Realistically, when I started blogging in June of 2014, I had no idea there would still be words and stories in my head. Pretty secure in saying, I’m the only person who’s read every single one. And more than once. Ugh. Instead of celebrating this milestone, I decided to read the first 99 again. My eyes, my eyes. My head, my head. I tried to remain objective. Hoping to see them from the perspective of reader instead of inept writer. I was determined to find at least 10% worthy of reading more than once. This is going to be a hard sell. Some arm twisting and bribery may be involved.

 

Yay Neese…

While none of the 99 are hysterically-pee-in-your-pants funny, a couple are mildly amusing. One or 2, heart-breakingly sad. The rest are just snippets of my life, family and the Hubs. All of whom wish I would never mention them again. Or in the first place. But, it’s always been my story, and mine to tell.

For the love of God, put a cork in in…

 

To commensurate with my eyes-glazed-over-for-days from reading, muddling my way through these blog posts one more time, I thought it only fair. The crazy, loyal, commenting folks who read this drivel get to suffer right along with me. Yay. The mighty few. Unlucky. Ones.

 

Pretty sure of my counting skills here…

 

The first 3 months of blogging can be described as resembling rapid machine gun fire. I was posting every 3 or 4 days. The stories of my childhood (told quickly in case I forgot), losing my brother Larry in 1958 when I was 7. Our rather strange home life after that life shattering event. My Dad, who found the Lord, but had little time after for anything else in his life. My Mom, never recovering or able to move past losing Larry. Becoming over protective towards me. Stifling at times.

 

That’s the way I remember kindergarten…

 

Since those early months of rat-a-tat typing, I’ve found a comfortable rhythm with my writing. Every single time I think there’s not one thing left to write, type, share, a story pops out from nowhere. I just love those. A subject or story I never considered. A thought might smack me in the head hard enough to cause a goose egg. Holy cow, where did that come from? How come I never thought about that before? Do you think this happened now so I could write about it?

 

Luke, I am your father…

 

In my early days of blogging, right after I hit publish, I’d start writing my next story. Leave it alone for a day or 2, make some changes, and hit publish again. Not so much anymore. Now after I’m done with a new post, I mull for a couple days. Somewhere, somehow, (This part is unknown. Part scary, part exhilarating, part creepy) an idea forms. Not always worth writing, but usually. At least to me. And that’s why I write.

 

What will I come up with next???

 

One of the most unusual aspects of writing is the unknown part. I have a story in mind, but once my fingers start typing, the story seems to literally have a mind of it’s own. Weird and strange. I swear it’s not me. The story just tells itself. There have probably been 5 times I’ve started a story. One third through, the whole gist of the story has changed. Here’s a prime example. The story I remember writing was going to be about my best friend when I was growing up. Char. Started off with how boring my Sunday’s were. Gong to church on Sunday morning, changing clothes, big dinner, visiting my grandfather in Sioux Center. Holy mackerel, 1500 words in, I was still talking about Sunday’s in the life of Neese. Not one word about Char had been uttered, er typed. Ran with the Sunday theme since I was nearly done and saved my dear friend Char for another post. How in the world does that happen? I truly don’t know.

 

Ok, I’m sneezing…

 

Now this has droned on long enough. Sometimes I can’t stop the words. It’s like having your good moral compass on one shoulder, and the devil typist on the other. That little devil keeps tapping away. Be gone, devil!!

 

Little stinker works at his own pace to boot…

 

 

OK we’re talking about some of my favorite stories. Are any particularly well written? No. When the little devil is furiously typing away, the words sometimes just sort of appear. If I stop for 2 minutes, trying valiantly to come up with a clever phrase instead of, “he asked,” instead saying, “he cautiously inquired,” I might lose the next 3 sentences already on their way from small brain to small iPad. Can you feel my pain? My daily writing hope is that new, innovative, clever, different, unusual words and phrases will leap their way into my blog. Only to find after I hit publish, I said, “he asked?” A vast vocabulary has not been my strong suit. I’m really sorry. I keep thinking I will improve, then read yet another, “he asked?” Sigh.

 

Happy, happy 100th Neese…

 

 

I’m not quite sure how my blog looks on other devices. On mine, the story appears as my first written paragraph and my first picture. All of this surrounded by a green background with dandelions gone to seed. Along the top right side, there is a picture of me. Underneath, the small scoop about Neese. It will say, August, 2015 and the name of each blog post for this month. Listed under that are months dating back to January. Below that has 2014. So if I wanted to see a post from March of this year, I tap that month. Up pops all the posts from that month. If I want to go back farther, I tap 2014, the months from December to June show up. “Where it began,” bleats Mr. Diamond.

 

Thanks for all my blessings God…

 

These are some of my favorites. Was surprised that I initially jotted down about 20. Eh, some were not very good upon further inspection. So I wheedled it down some. They’re not in any particular order, but I’ll try to list the most recent favorite first, going back in time:

1. “Ariana.” May, 2015. The story on one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. My fabulous granddaughter. Thanks God.

2. “Becca.” May, 2015. A woman of God who tries to help and support a sinner like me. Plus take care of her flock. Hint. I’m the black sheep.

3. “Opposites.” February, 2015. After 45 plus years of marriage (to the same guy) it suddenly it me. Hubs and I are really very different. Who knew?

4. “Man on a Mission.” January, 2015. The dedication of my 91 year old Dad.

5. “The Jug.” January, 2015. Mom’s unusual saving methods. She was such a great saver. One of her best, most unique qualities.

6. “The Middle.” December, 2014. Joshua, my middle child. Best. Ever.

7. “Landon Andrew.” December, 2014. Although it put me in extremely hot water with his sister Peyton 11, (it was simply the word nipple) my smart, sports junkie grandson. “Drew” to the rest of the world. You’ll see.

8. “Bye Dad.” November, 2014. Tough one. Losing your last parent.

9. “Called.” October, 2014. I literally felt compelled (most of my life) to nurture and visit the elderly.

10. “Decade of Dangers.” How did I manage to rear children during the dangerous 1970’s? Still, all became amazing, hardworking adults. Beats me.

11. “Party of 5.” September, 2014. Adam, my unplanned, surprise breech baby. Very much needed and welcomed to complete our family.

12. “Preliminary Steps.” June, 2014. The quirky study of Dad’s odd construction projects over the years.

So here’s the deal. I don’t expect you to read all these stories. But I would like you to read a couple. Take your time. I’ll wait. An hour. Tops. Kidding. Just give it the good old college try here folks. Especially if one seems unfamiliar. Maybe a word or 2 about what you liked or hated. Though most of my tormented, spiteful ones did not make my favorite list either. That’s odd. Read a couple of paragraphs. Then kindly tell me, yeah, yeah, yeah, # 3. Neese, now for the love of God, write something original again. Please.

I thought I would have big problems finding 10 or 12 stories that I still liked. I can be quite critical when it comes to me. But more still tug at the strings of my heart. If you find you are bored, stop cleaning the lint out of your belly button now. Or you have absolutely nothing to accomplish this day or week, remove the fork from your hand pointing towards your eye, get comfy and peruse my honorable mentions: “Life Lessons,” “It’s a Sign,” “3 Amigos,” all from July, 2014. “The Bonus,” August, 2014. “The Farm,” and “Mildred & Charlie,” and “Charlie and Opal” from October, 2014. Last one, “Accumulating Losses,” February, 2015.

Almost done. I’ll leave you with an amazing quote I read this week. “I believe God opens doors. I believe He has my whole life. My job has always been to walk through them. So I did.”

 

Can’t take the credit, but thanks Ben Carson…

 

 

Sorry, not quite done yet. Quit groaning. I mean with stories. Still got plenty of words floating around my head. Thanks for letting me air out some of my favorites for my 100th post. Happy, painful, silly, uplifting, depressing, bored, never-ending-reading my pretties…

 

In a nutshell. From the bottom of my heart…

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve had a For Sale sign in our front yard for 3 years. Had you told me in 2012 the nicest home we’ve ever owned would take this long to sell, I would have had you committed. It’s lake property people. Certainly not a mansion compared to some in the neighborhood, but still a nice home. I’ve lived in this house longer than I lived in my childhood home town of Rock Valley, Iowa, although it doesn’t seem that long. Except for that stinking sign still out front.

 

The sign has truly worn out its welcome…

I don’t remember exactly when we decided that living in west Michigan wasn’t smart for us anymore. I was still doing my Parish Visiting gig, but now on my 4th boss. All of them preachers and not very good in the boss department. John’s thriving little manufacturing plant was suddenly struggling after the crash of 2008. He had just been handed the straw that broke the camel’s back. One of the Big 3 had reneged on a huge contract Hubs had been awarded. Now mired with the huge debt load of already having new equipment installed, and no parts to produce, his company closed.

 

A nice house with great views. Time to move on…

 

 

Our youngest grandchild Graham, was born in 2009. Sarah and Adam were both working, plus Sarah had enrolled in school to become an RN. Neither wanted outsiders taking care of him. Sarah’s mom Karen and I would take care of Graham when Adam and Sarah both worked. The nights we were needed was one weekend a month each. Karen took one, John and I took the other. We have been driving 175 miles one way, at least once a month to watch Graham for 5 years. We love doing this, and have loads of fun with G. Plus many trips to Jackson in those 5 years to visit Shannon and Tracey. Attending Landon’s baseball, football, basketball games, and Peyton’s dance recitals, school projects, programs etc. More trips to Detroit to visit Josh and Erica, and nearby, our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. We’re constantly driving back and forth for something. It’s what we want to do. We love seeing our family often. What we don’t enjoy as much is the 3 hour drive one way to watch 11 year old Peyton dance (she’s very talented) 4 minutes, then drive another 3 hours back home.

 

Little cutie Graham 1, 2010…

 

We started questioning why we were living 180 miles from our immediate family? I loved my work, but was getting burned out by the mounting deaths of the elderly folks I visited. The passing of another person on my list every few weeks was taking a huge toll. I retired in 2013.

 

A regular occurrence. 1000 foot tankers chug past the house…

 

After looking at the big picture, we concluded the only thing holding us to Muskegon was our house. Why stay here? It had been a good 18 years, but the decision was made to move at least 150 miles east. Not too close to any of the kids. But close enough to help out with the grandchildren by picking up, carting to dance class, the Y, babysitting in a pinch, bringing forgotten lunch money, excuse slips, and permission slips without too much hassle.

 

Peyton 11, Landon 14 in California 2014…

 

Our first phone call was to Bill, the realtor who had sold us this house in 1994. He’s consistently one of the top sellers in the area. When he and his partner showed up, I was even happier. Dave owned the apartment complex a block away where my Dad lived when he moved to Michigan on 2005. Dave was terrific with the senior tenants.

 

Hoping to spend a bit more time with this beauty, Ariana, 2015…

 

Bill was just as persuasive and persistent as he was almost 20 years go. He was positive he could get this place sold and we would move by Labor Day, 2012. In fact, he had a couple from Chicago who wanted a summer place on the lake. Might not even take him and Dave 90 days to get us out of here. We signed a 6 month agreement. A couple days later Bill called with more good news. A couple from Saugatuk wanted a lake home. Our lake home. They would be driving up shortly. He was convinced we would have an offer in a few days. Sixty days later, we had not seen the couple from Chicago or Saugatuk. Or Bill. Or Dave.

 

Shooting stars over Muskegon’s lighthouse, 2015…

 

What we didn’t know is Bill was in a tough spot of his own. The 2008 crash was hitting him hard too. He had bought a bunch of land on speculation. A future profitable housing development. Well, land and houses weren’t popping up around here. Economy was in the toilet. Bill was trying to avoid bankruptcy. Thus the quick sale of John and Denise’s lake home was not high on his priority list. He didn’t update, communicate or show the house. What a mistake on our part! I was disappointed, disgusted and had reached my limit of being civil. I zipped off a rather terse email. Questioning why there hadn’t been an open house? Why, when he had all these buyers lined up, panting for the place, hadn’t he shown it ONCE in 2 months? I was not very nice. Bill never answered me. He was too busy. That job fell to Dave. Who droned on for 8 paragraphs how un-sellable our house was, even though neither had shown it. Folks didn’t like the master suite on the second floor. Or that the master bath faced the lake. Dave thought it was high time to start dropping the price. After that, communication pretty much stopped. I did complain via email once more. I got reamed a new one. Yikes. I read the note to John, who then wrote Dave a testy reply. Dave answered, and addressed the email to Denise and “George.” OK, we’re done here.

 

Sometimes words just aren’t needed…

 

Enter Mary. She works at a local realtor office right here in North Muskegon. She had lots of suggestions to make the place more marketable, without dumping in thousands of dollars. Suggested some new paint, carpet and removal of most of the things that make this house all Neese-like. We don’t want to distract buyers from looking at the house when they’re too busy looking at all my stuff. We didn’t argue, and took her suggestions to heart. Hauled out loads of furniture and almost everything hanging on the walls.

 

Mary our extraordinary realtor…

 

Wasn’t long before we had an offer. But it had a twist. Buyers wanted to put on a huge addition, and insisted on including an architect and builder to see how much it would cost. Or if it was even feasible. The addition was much more than they thought, and the deal fell through. We were devastated. They had looked at our home 7 times. Yes 7.

 

Some pretty spectacular sunsets over Lake Michigan, 2015…

 

Decided we needed a little break. Took it off the market for a couple months during the winter. We were just so tired of always being ready for another showing. You want constant showings, but keeping the house that clean is hard. And irritating. While the house was off the market, Hubs and I burned the fireplace every night. I went days without having every square inch of the counters sparkling. Sometimes left some dishes in the sink. Or a pan on the stove. Oh yeah, we were rebels.

 

Stunning colors. Yes, I’m going to miss this…

 

For the past 3 years, whenever I was doing routine chores, these were my thoughts. Well this is the last time I’ll have to haul out the down comforter in this house. This will be the last time we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving here. This is the last time I have to change my closet from season to season. One of the dumbest was check blanks. I’d be running out of checks and think, sure don’t want to order 2 books of check blanks with a North Muskegon address, then move. I ordered one box of duplicate checks at least 3 times, waiting.

 

Captured August, 2015, a waterspout on Lake Michigan…

 

So about the time we re-listed with Mary, I went into my slump. Spring was right around the corner, but I had a bad case of the blahs. Just not in a happy place. It took a couple of months for me to realize what was going on in the world of Neese. So like the brave gal I am (not), I bared my soul in my blog and wrote a post called, The Hole. It was June 24, 2015. As God is my witness, we got an offer on the house on June 25. God’s timing was impeccable. Since we had been pretty vocal with our first offer by telling family and friends, this time around we were going in another direction.

 

The clump of birch that’s always visible. The water’s up and they’re drowning…

 

 

“John, we’re going to treat this offer differently. Instead of blabbing to the world we have an offer, let’s pretend it’s 30 years ago, and I’ve just found out I’m pregnant-again. Whoops, another surprise. We tell no one until the first trimester is over (a done deal-house wise). It will be our little secret, ok?” “Sure,” he said beaming. “But just so you know, the other 3 times you really were pregnant, I shared our news with everyone. On day one. With complete strangers. In line at Meijer.” (Maybe I really do have 4 children).

 

I took this, looking east. Birch trees on the left…

 

Our house passed inspection and the buyer wanted to close on July 31st. About 10 days before the 31st, Mary texted that the buyer was changing loan institutions. That didn’t sound good. He was pre-approved. Please not another deal going kaflooey. Mary texted again a couple days later. An addendum had come from the buyer. Changing financing from a conventional loan to cash. Buyer wants closing, on or before August 14th. “It’s looking good,” she wrote. “Keep packing.” I texted back, “Mary, this is fantastic news.” Also mentioned I was busy making Bread and Butter pickles that day. She texted back, “I said keep packing, not pickling!” Clever girl. However, getting all the cash together stalled a bit, waiting on some banker dude’s signature. Buyer was not going to have the money to close on the 14th. I was getting a little discouraged.

 

1000 footer headed thru channel to the big Lake…

 

Suddenly Monday, August 17th, everything fell into place. Buyer and the cash were ready. Closing at 9 am on August 21st. Took a half hour. A young single guy, he’s ecstatic about buying the house. I hope he enjoys it for 21 (ok, some of the love started fading at year 19) years.

 

Great whitecaps…

 

We have no regrets. Enjoyed it here, the views, as you can see are fantastic. But I’m so ready. I have yet to discover the reason God needed us in this house for an extra 3 years. His timing doesn’t always coincide with this impatient sinner. Now there’s only 14 days before we have to be out of this place. We’re house hunting this weekend. Probably end up renting something for a bit and store our stuff in pods.

 

Looking out to Lake Michigan…

 

I’ve dreamt, prayed and longed to write the post, Pending. Here’s the definition of pending, “the period before the conclusion about to take place.” We actually passed pending this morning when we closed. But I love that word. More distinct than just plain old sold. Mary said she doesn’t use pending signs. Too many deals fall through after that little word has been displayed. However, after she brought over the closing paper details, she added pending to the for sale sign. Just so I could take a picture for my blog. I thought she would have changed it to sold by now. Think she might be celebrating today. Getting rid of us. Finally.

 

Waiting to see the Pending sign for a very long time, 8-20-15…

 

I refuse to fret about the next chapter. I’ve prayed the house would sell for so long, moving is going to be small potatoes. Thousands of folks move everyday. The next few blog posts maybe scheduled a little crazy. Be patient with this odd writer. I’ll be packing Blue Delft in one hand, and tapping away with the other. But I’m thankful and excited for what comes next…

 

Thanks for your help God, 8-21-15…

 

 

 

 

Boy, it’s been some week. As my Dad used to say, “I want to share this with you.” I was knee deep trying to get my last blog posted. Remember, it was the one about all the letters I wrote my Mom and Dad? Spanning the years from 1974-1976. After we had moved to eastern Iowa, about 325 miles away. I had letters everywhere. Reading each one, copying down paragraphs from certain ones that I wanted to use. I probably had written down 35 snippets.

 

The letters from me to my Mom and Dad, 1974-1976..

Hubs was not here. He had to go to Jackson, so I was home alone. I had my usual August fare for lunch. A BLT. I really love fresh tomatoes. If there’s left over tomato slices, I eat them on a slice of bread, sprinkled with sugar. I call it dessert. But August tomatoes are way different than tomatoes in any other month. They’re juicy. And I’m a lazy slug. With my letters laying helter-skelter all over the family room floor, rather than sit at the table like a normal civilized woman, I chose to have my über juicy BLT sitting in my nest.

 

I know better than to eat here. What can I say? I’m lazy…

 

I didn’t want to mess up my clean jammies that I was guiltily wearing at 2 p.m. Besides my arms were cold, so I buttoned up my ever present flannel shirt and sloppily snacked on the best lunch ever. It dripped and dribbled everywhere. I thought I was careful, but still managed a big mess. Toast crumbs down my flannel. Tomato seeds and juice glopped from chin to knees. Heaven. Washed it all down with a screw lid bottle of Diet Pepsi. ‘Cuse me while I burp for awhile.

 

So good, but not attractive all over my clothes…

 

Friends who read my blog, or total strangers even, know I’m somewhat of a loner. Happy with my own company, I don’t socialize a whole lot. You know I adore my family, and 99% of anyone over the age of 75. But short of calling myself a recluse, which I don’t think I fit into that particular category, I am not comfortable in the limelight. Ever. This may seem odd, as I seem to have no problems baring my soul when I write. That’s different. You can’t see me. Part of this stems from my newly acquired (ok, it’s been a decade. Still taking some getting used to though) profound hearing loss. Don’t do well in crowds or restaurants. Can’t join in noisy conversations. I end up looking dumb and clueless. Might “get” the joke someone said a lot later than the rest of the group. Shit, they were done laughing 2 minutes ago. And that’s if I’m lucky. Usually don’t hear or properly understand it in the first place. Kind of bugs me. I actually used to have a quick wit. Believe me, nothing’s quick when you’re deaf. The point I’m valiantly trying to make. Although my hearing loss has compounded my loner aloofness, most of my adult life I’ve been like this. Just a more dramatic form of Neese.

I bowled on one or 2 leagues for about 20 years. Loved the camaraderie, and I was pretty good. In that span, I would venture to guess I had a minimum of 20 bowling shirts, and at least 8 different bowling balls. I don’t believe I ever put the name Denise on a shirt or ball. Always dvb. I really didn’t want people who didn’t know me to know my name. Or anything about me. Is that weird?

 

My cool dvb mini iPad case…

 

Forty years ago, Dad asked me to start going to the South Dakota prisons with him when he spoke. I firmly said no thanks. Wasn’t my cup of tea at all. He asked me numerous times after he moved to Michigan in 2005. That environment is SO not me. Never felt compelled to mingle with prisoners in general. (Dad, I’ve always loved old people). And speaking in front of a group was (is) torture. Absolute torture. It’s not that I don’t have things to say. Man, I can write a good script on a topic. But if the group was larger than 6, and not in a loosey-goosey informal couch setting, I was (am) totally incapable.

 

Back to my strange week. I’m alone in the house. Family room sliders and front door is open, with a cool cross breeze on a beautiful day. I’m a mess. Busy writing, checking my old letters for dates and content. Half my head is thinking of what pictures I’m going to use. Just as hard and time consuming as writing the blog. Love doing the pictures but it takes me forever. So I should have brushed my teeth after eating. Should have showered hours before. And now all the tomato seeds are dried on the front of my flannel shirt. Are you getting the whole picture here? I closely resembled Michael Keaton in Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. We could have been twins. Ok, I never actually saw him with juicy tomato seeds stuck to the front of his movie costume.

 

Our likeness was uncanny one day last week…

 

The doorbell rings. (Please just kill me now). Hard NOT to answer the door since it’s wide open. Please, please let it be a kid collecting pop cans for North Muskegon School project. No, that would have been too simple and uncomplicated. It’s an adult. Of the male variety. Can I just slither in between one of the cracks of my wood floor?

“Hi, are you Denise?” (This was my out, and I blew it. Not a very good liar) Didn’t open the door, or get too close. No, I wasn’t afraid. But besides the glaring tomato seeds and drips all over my flannel shirt, covering my pajama top, I probably got seeds between my teeth to boot. A sigh here is not sufficient. A miserable, lamenting groan might however suffice. I hope you can feel my pain. It’s about to get much worse. I inwardly cringe, “Yes, I’m Denise.”

“Do you recognize this?” He thrusts a shadowy piece of paper (copy) in my direction. “Um, yes, I believe it was in my Dad’s apartment,” I cautiously answered. “Well Denise” (did he not get the memo about NO ONE KNOWING OR USING MY NAME?) he continued, “here’s the deal. A young woman from Spring Lake bought this painting at the Goodwill store in North Muskegon a few days ago. She was only interested in the frame. When she got to her car, she started taking the back off. That’s when she discovered a letter. Written to your dad, Rich Gerritson in 1984. The letter was written by a guy named Skip who painted the picture for your dad. The letter says that Skip was an inmate in a South Dakota prison. Is that possible?”

 

Skip’s 1984 painting for Dad. Minus the gorgeous frame…

 

“Sure sounds like my Dad.” (sorry, but I was dreading every sentence I was now verifying. This wasn’t going to end well for the loner). “He was actively involved with a prison ministry for decades. Preached at Sioux Falls, Springfield, held weekly Bible studies. He was instrumental in a group of volunteers who mentored inmates in a one-to-one basis called the M-2 Program” Gulp.

 

Dad trying to win inmate souls for Christ. In the late 1980’s…

 

Dude continues, “Michelle (the young woman from Spring Lake) put this on the station’s social media page. (Don’t bother with the gun, I’ll find one myself). “That’s when I got involved. We did a story on Michelle finding the letter. Would you believe, it’s gotten over 100,000 hits?” (Yet not one hitman for me) “A detective from Texas did some research and found obituaries on Skip in 1999, and your father in 2008. In your dad’s obituary, you are listed as his daughter. We didn’t have a phone number, but addresses are public knowledge.” (Lucky me) “So I drove over here today. Michelle would like to return the letter and painting to you. Is that ok?” “Sure,” I squeaked, “have her give me a call, and we’ll get together,” (I pleaded desperately with my eyes. For a news guy, he was kind of dense. Or in his defense, he might have been checking out my lunch leftovers. Can it get any worse? Yessiree)

You know it couldn’t possibly have ended that painlessly for me don’t you? Their original plan had been for them to give the follow up story line from Skip’s viewpoint. That was a dead end. (Sorry Skip). Since Rich’s daughter (of quivering voice and knocking knees) was alive and well (the well part still to be determined), this dude preferred to have the “rest of the story” documented on film. Have I mentioned that I do not like to have my name or any part of me out there anywhere? Honestly, I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. Standing there, agreeing to have him and Michelle come to my house. With a camera. I do believe at this point I did try and slink under the front porch. Tomato seeds and all.

 

What Michelle found under the frame backing…

 

Dude emailed, messaged, friended and phoned me during the next several uncomfortable hours. He had a somewhat bubbly disposition. Guess that’s a job requirement. The Big Story was going down the following morning at 10. I giddily hoped and fervently prayed, they’ll be here 5, ten minutes tops. Try an excruciating hour. I’m not wishing for a natural disaster, but can’t help but wonder how slow this news week must have been. (What are my chances)? All that and he got 90 seconds air time. Painful as they were, it could have been worse.

Dude did not show. (Thank you Jesus). But his replacement did. (Alas it was Dude’s regularly scheduled day off, which he failed to mention to this basket case). Dude #2 entered enthusiastically, bouncing up and down like Tigger on speed. Second dude was incredibly nice, trying hard to put me at ease. Asked me about Dad’s story. How and why he was compelled to work with inmates. Dad, giving his life to Christ after losing his only son Larry in 1958 at age 12 in a bike accident. My part in getting Dad re-connected after he moved here, 800 miles from his little Iowa home town. Before Dad moved, I had contacted the Chaplain at West Shoreline Correctional Facility. Asking if they had a spot for Dad’s gifts, though he was already 88 years old. Stopping in at Muskegon’s Rescue Mission and landing Dad a once a month gig with the less fortunate men staying at the shelter. Getting some heartfelt help at a local assisted living facility. Giving Dad a weekly Bible study spot. They adored having him come every week, and he loved going there.

 

Dad holding weekly Bible study in 2006. He’s sitting in the upper right…

 

Just getting semi-comfortable when dude # 2 hands me a MICROPHONE. I swear I’m going to collapse in a big heap. He notices then that Michelle has parked her car. Shoots out the door like a rocket, slaps a mic on her too. Comes back in the house. INSTRUCTS ME TO CASUALLY WALK OUT TO MEET AND GREET HER.

 

This is what I felt like. Calgon, take me away…

 

(If you’ve ever watched Sanford and Son, I’m here to tell you, my eyes went heavenward, and as Fred, I silently shouted, “Elizabeth, I’m coming!”). So we sit by the kitchen table (ha, take that TV camera. You can’t see my knees shaking. But my voice was hopelessly quivery when I was asked to read some of the sentiments from the inmates. They sent me, a virtual stranger, countless sympathy cards after Dad passed away. Telling me how much Dad, after 3 short years had meant to each of them) Hard. Though I try to minimize my self worth during my unbearable discomfort, Dad’s meaningful life was no joke.

 

My favorite pic of Dad. Newspaper interview about his sign ministry. He was kinda vain. I love that he’s still wearing his work clothes. 1978…

 

Imagine. Seven years after his death, Dad’s message is still getting through to others. He would be profoundly proud (and maybe a little envious). Wishing he were around to be interviewed and filmed. Instead of his hopeless, helpless, clueless daughter who couldn’t do him justice. But I tried. And didn’t collapse in a heap…

 

Skip’s letter to Dad in 1984…

 

Rich,

Knowing you the last several years has been a real pleasure, and one that I will keep stored in my minds memory for years to come. I had hoped to be here on Wednesday last, when you finished your Bible Study, and we could have visited one last time, but it didn’t work out that way. And since I’m going to Springfield on Tuesday morning, I won’t be seeing you this Wednesday either.

Over the last several years, I’ve enjoyed our various talks, and most especially though, had the opportunity to really get to know you, and know that you truly have the love of Jesus in your heart. Your impression left with me has been good, and I hope that I can continue to grow, and use some of the examples of your life, in my own.

This needn’t be good by. Maybe one of these days you’ll come to Springfield to visit Wayne (at Yankton), and we can see each other again. Otherwise, perhaps our paths will cross sometime in the future, when everything is different. Perhaps too, I’ll be lucky enough to go to the same place God has reserved for you, and we can meet again.

Thanks for everything Rich, and I really mean it.

From a friend,

Skip Teegardin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been tripping. Not literally the fall down kind. The memory lane variety. It all started with our basement. Our house is about 120 feet from Muskegon Lake. The basement is only 30 inches deep. A royal pain. The only thing I really hate about this house. Want the dozen containers holding all our Christmas paraphernalia? Go crawl around the basement cement floor for an hour.

 

Just before we moved to eastern Iowa. John, Denise, Shannon, 1973…

Hubs decided to clean the basement. Brought up countless tubs, containers, boxes, old toys, and miscellaneous junk that has been stored down there for 20 years. Shoved it all in the garage. What? How does that help anything? His goal was to have the basement squeaky clean, and have nothing stored down there. He swept (crawling), painted the floor, (also crawling) until it sparkled and was naked as a jaybird. But now the garage is a holy mess. Except for my car. I refused to give up that space and park my Jeep outside. And all my canning equipment, extra fridge and freezer. The rest of the garage was awful and a constant reminder of what still needed to be done.

We’ve been saying since spring, “we gotta defrost the freezer, and go through every one of those containers and downsize.” The freezer was a snap. But most of the basement stuff was going to be emotional. Much of it stuffed down there 10 years ago when Mom passed away. After Dad moved to Michigan, Mom’s stuff slid right down the 4 steps and has been sitting there ever since. Doubling in mass after Dad passed away in 2008. Things from his apartment, too painful for me to part with. Handwritten sermons, neatly stored in a nifty business sized tub Shannon bought him to help organize her lay-preaching Poppa. Just lots of stuff.

 

Dad’s handwritten sermons he gave at the prison, 2006…

 

John encouraged, “just bring one or 2 containers in the house at a time. Go through all the Rock Valley stuff. Only keep what you truly cannot part with. Please.” And that’s what started the tripping. I was doing pretty well too. Decided to keep a dozen of Dad’s sermons rather than the hundred languishing in the box. Plus his handwritten, detailed, original copy of what he wanted said and done for his funeral. I brought in this olive green container. Marked “Rock Valley-Denise’s early school papers and pictures.” Now that was fun to go through. Immediately, I did a blog post on my 13th birthday bash, and scavenger hunt. Sharing the pictures of that special day.

 

The famous letters from me to Mom and Dad, 74-76…

 

 

Then I found this stack of letters. Just after we had moved from Sioux City to New Vienna, Iowa, about 325 miles away. It was 1974. Hubs was working for the Whack Brothers at a toy tractor company in Dyersville. Shannon had just turned 4 and I was pregnant with our second child, sex still unknown. Just as God intended. New Vienna was a very small, close knit, 99.9% Catholic community. Plus the Dutch, Protestant Van Berkum’s, numbering only 3, but soon to be 4. Make that 5. I’m claiming our German Shorthair Pointer Anja as Dutch. I’ve definitely heard her bark, “heh-tah.”

 

Probably writing letters. Worthington, 1975…

 

In this container of Neese Notes, school pictures, perfect attendance accolades, award winning elementary poetry, and odds and ends of my childhood was this cache of letters. About a 100 of them. Written by me to my Mom and Dad. Mostly to Mom though (who obviously saved everything). Surprisingly, I didn’t cry very much when I read them. They’re not sad, depressing or morose. Most are about the happy, yet mundane life of a young stay at home, broke on her ass mom of one, soon to be 2.

 

Perfect attendance in kindergarten, 1957…

 

Once in a while, I mention something Mom must have written, because I’m answering her or clarifying. After reading the letters, I decided I could not part with them. About a third contained the first letters from 4 year old Shannon to her grandparents. Words run together, s’s that are backwards for about 6 months. Truly priceless. I told Shannon she and Joshua have to read these after I’m gone. A couple of years in the day to day life with their mom. That was about a month ago. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about those old letters. They just sloshing around my head. So I went back to the green container, and pulled them all out again. A couple no longer have envelopes. A couple more I’m unable to read the postal stamp date. I put them in chronological order best I could before reading them a second time. It was easy to insert the others. I’m either pregnant or got a new baby. Pretty sure some of you will identify with some of the subject matter I’m writing about. We were in the middle of our first decade of marriage during the mid 1970’s. Here are a few of the snippets from the assortment of letters to my Mom and Dad.

1975: Mom, Shannon is now able to write most of the letters of the alphabet. I write a sentence or 2, then she copies it. She doesn’t understand separating the words though. She’s quite proud of herself and loves to write you letters when I’m writing.

 

One of Shannon’s first attempts at writing my Mom and Dad, March, 1975…

 

We have to do something about our 1965 IH truck. While we were driving in Dubuque last night, we turned a corner and the passenger door flew open. Scared us to death. Would if Shannon had been standing by the door instead of in between us? How are we supposed to feel safe when we have 2 kids in there? We must get some better means of transportation before the baby.

 

Doors flying open were the only parts moving fast on our 1965 IH, 1974…

 

I need socks for Shannon. I want cotton, not white nylon that gets gray the first time I wash them. Would you look at Bev’s for me? K-Mart carried Buster Brown for 38 cents a pair. Now they’re 69 cents and have no colors to match her summer outfits.

John went to J. C. Penney’s during their sale. Sports coats regularly $40.00 on sale for $19.88. He came home with one, spending his 8 dollars of birthday money. He’s going to Milwaukee for work next week, and needs to be dressed nice. He also bought a writing tablet that they use in school. Oh Mom, I’ve been teaching Shannon to write some of her letters wrong.

John’s been car shopping. He brought home a 1970 Chevy, gold Nova. Almost identical to your blue one except this one has 4 doors, which I don’t like. It has 70,000 miles and they’re asking $1,200.00. They first offered us 75 bucks for the pickup in trade-in. They finally went up to $290. which is just enough for the down payment. That means we drove the truck for one year for 150 dollars. But since we now have a loan on the Nova, we need to carry full coverage insurance which will cost 60 dollars for 6 months. Our car payment is $49.00 a month. I’m so anxious to get our $700. dollar tax refund.

 

1970 Chevy Nova. Huge improvement over the old truck…

 

I bought Shannon a new set of sheets for her bed. She wanted purple, but were out of the flat full size, so I got her pink checks. Each sheet was $2.94, and matching cases were $2.14. If you and Dad need some, they had loads of twin size. They are 50% cotton, 50% polyester. They feel cool and nice.

 

Hanging out those new sheets. Joshua 1, 1976…

 

Boy am I ever mad. I heard my favorite program, “Petrocelli” might be cancelled. I wrote the television station. Can you believe they wrote me back? First time I’ve ever been addressed as Ms. They assured me it’s not being cancelled, but will be on a new night. Now they are running it against Monday Night Football. We will be watching Petrocelli unless the Viking’s or Dolphins are playing on TV.

 

Barry Newman as Petrocelli, 1975…

 

Shannon wants to bring May baskets next week to a dozen neighborhood kids. Helen says no one around New Vienna does May baskets. Poor Shannon won’t be getting any baskets in return. John brought a new book home for me to read until I go into labor. It’s by Peter Benchley, called Jaws. About some big killer shark.

 

Me and Shannon. Wearing my “eternity clothes,” 1974, Rock Valley…

 

I’m so uncomfortable. I get charley horses almost every night, bad enough to make me cry. Dr. Mulay said the baby is pressing on my esophagus which is why I have to sit up and swallow 40 times a night. Makes my throat hurt so much. Haven’t been able to drink coffee for the last few weeks. Hope that goes away after I have the baby. We went to Dubuque last night to get the new crib off lay-away. Guess what? They wouldn’t give it to us. That model doesn’t meet the new government standards. Now each crib side has to have 15 slats. The one we picked out has 13. Get this. All the new models are 20 dollars higher. We don’t have the extra money. John argued with them for a long time. They finally agreed to give us the newer, safer model for 10 dollars more.

 

What a beautiful head of hair! Joshua in his government approved crib, 1975…

 

Our dryer has been on the fritz for a couple weeks. It’s still under warranty, but they haven’t been able to fix it yet. Now the washer is broke. John brought the new box of Tide down the basement and set it on the washer for me. He accidentally shoved the box against the on button, forcing it to run for a day before I noticed it. What next? Now it doesn’t work right and smells like burnt rubber. I have to literally run down and turn it off after every wash cycle. Just started what I hope is the last time I ever have to wash my “eternity slacks” again. I’m really very tired of wearing them. (I swear the last month of a pregnancy is equivalent to a year in solitary confinement)

 

Joshua 4 months and Daddy, 1975…

 

I’m bringing Joshua to Dr. Mulay for his first check up. Since he’s almost 4 weeks old, I’m sure the doctor will have me start feeding him cereal.

 

May, 1974. John 26, Shannon 4-1/2, Joshua 2 weeks, me 24…

 

We’ve been going to a small Presbyterian church in Cascade, a few miles away. Joshua sleeps during the service. I don’t want to feed him a bottle because when he burps, he sounds like an uncouth grown man. (Honest, I wrote that. What a hoot). He’s still waking up for a bottle at 3 am too. In his book, Dr. Spock says a 9 pound, 1 month old baby does not need that feeding. This mom thinks otherwise. (Go mom!)

 

Going to church in Cascade, 1976. Shannon 5, John 27, Joshua 1…

 

Just about everyone gave us 5 dollars as a baby gift. I can usually find a one piece Health Tex outfit for that. While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses remarked about my frosted hair. Mom, I’m getting so gray. (I was 24-1/2 when I had Josh) Well, I’m not going to start dyeing it because I’d be doing that for 20 years. (Try 35 years Neese! But that’s a blog for another day).

 

New Vienna, May 1975. Mommy and her newborn Joshua…

 

I’ve been trying to find Baby-that-away for Shannon. One store has it for $17. but in the Sears catalog it’s only $10.66. Quite a savings, so I ordered it.

 

Shannon thought Baby-that-away could teach Joshua how to crawl, 1976…

 

Shannon always seems to get sick around the holidays. Now I think Joshua is following in her footsteps. He woke up with a very high temperature. I called Dr. Mulay, who is out of town. The doctor covering for him now practices in Dubuque. The visit cost 10 dollars and the medicine was $9.44. Can you believe it? I wonder how people with 6 kids do it? We’re only having 2. Every time we get ahead, something comes up.

 

Joshua, sick for another holiday, continuing the tradition, 1980 chickenpox…

 

Shannon’s Christmas program was something else. Shannon was with 7 other children, and during their part you could only hear one of them. Wanna guess? Right, your granddaughter. I was so embarrassed. John kept telling her, nice and loud when she was practicing. Naturally she went a little overboard. She had everyone in church in stitches. Boy, she likes to be the center of attention.

Have you ever heard of Fran Tarkenton? He’s the quarterback for the Minnesota Viking’s. Yesterday they lost in the playoffs so they won’t be going to the Super Bowl as they did for the last 3 years-and lost all 3 times. Well, Fran’s dad was watching the game from Savannah, Georgia and had a fatal heart attack during the game. I feel so bad. Poor Franny.

 

Minnesota Viking’s QB Fran Tarkenton, 1976..,

 

1976: Joshua won’t drink his bottle anymore. Mom, he’s only 8 months old. He likes drinking out of a cup and loves sucking his thumb. I guess I’ll just stop trying to give him the bottle.

 

Don’t worry about me. I got my thumb. Joshua, 1976…

 

The Eagle’s store in Dubuque is having a meat sale this week. Rib steak is $1.19, sirloin $1.29, and pork chops .99 cents. I’m getting extra steaks because we’re bringing some to Ankeny when we visit Barry and Jeanene Kuiper next weekend.

I’ve been saving green stamps for a new toaster. The cheapest one is 5-3/4 books. I need 3/4’s of a book yet. Now I have to go to the National store, which I don’t like to get some more stamps.

 

Joshua happily eating, 1976…

 

Shannon’s teaching herself to blow bubbles with bubblegum and whistle. She’s also been drawing faces on paper bags, coloring and cutting out parts. Then she wears the paper bag on her head all day. Joshua giggles when she walks past. We had some new snow, so Shannon went outside to build a snowman. She came in all excited. I looked out the window and just laughed myself sick. She made a “busty” snow-woman. I wanted a picture of it but she sort of melted and fell over. Boy does that girl have an imagination.

 

Shannon and Joshua, 1976…

 

I’ve been making homemade bread. I only have one loaf pan, so I make half into cinnamon rolls. I think I’m getting better every time I make them. I got a new book I want to read before the mini series comes on TV. It’s called, Rich Man, Poor Man.

 

Shannon 5, Poppa 58, Joshua 6 months, 1975…

 

I’ve had the worst toothache. (This letter was funny in a painful sort of way. I can hardly read my writing due to the pain pills I was on). How am I supposed to care for these kids all afternoon feeling so dizzy and giddy? The pills only help for about an hour, but the goofy affects last a long time. Dr. Mulay found a dentist for me in Cascade. Only way to save the tooth is with a root canal which I can’t afford, so he pulled it. Instant relief. The wonderful dentist only charged me 10 dollars and said I was very brave. Now we are trying to save 20 dollars a month so John can get his teeth fixed.

 

I was in pretty bad shape taking pain meds for a toothache, 1976…

 

We’ve been watching the Winter Olympics. It’s not fair that Russia sends their professional hockey players. I don’t think we should even play them. They showed some comparison food prices to the United States. How can people afford to live there? Gas is $1.47 a gallon and 72 cents for a quart of milk. We sure couldn’t.

Probably more than you wanted or needed to know about this small thriving family. Makes me remember and appreciate some of the tough times we went through. Yet there was never talk about throwing in the towel. We were committed (or should have been committed somewhere) to each other and our great kids. All part of my continuing journey. And so it goes…

 

Me and the Hubs, 1976, Worthington, Iowa…

 

 

It wasn’t exactly awkward, but still rather unusual. John and I started dating in the mid-60’s. His only sister Elly, had already been married for several years with 4 children! Wow. Jim and Mag were champions when it came to spacing children! Meaning, Elly got married when John was about 2. She became a mother for the first time a couple years after I was born. I didn’t see them very often. They lived in Sioux Falls at the time and were busy raising their family. A few years later they moved to Spencer. John and I were too busy making out to be real involved with Elly and her family. Oh how things would change.

Holidays with Elly and Dewey, mid-1970’s…

It was 1977. We were still renting the farm house in Cascade. John was driving 40 miles to work, one way to Cedar Rapids. Leaving me virtually stranded out in the boondocks. With several hundred hogs. And 2 small children. On the plus side, at my disposal were the best apple trees in the world. Made some great apple pies out there.

 

My favorite picture of Elly, always limber, mid-1980’s…

 

John had a job offer from Eaton Corp, located in Spencer, Iowa. We would be about 60 miles from both sets of parents who were in in Rock Valley. For the first time since Hubs was 2 years old, he would be living in the same town as his oldest sibling, Elly. Some of our best years were about to start. In 45 years of marriage, of all the many places we have lived, 2 hold a special place in our hearts. Complete opposites as far as size. Small town versus big city. Spencer and Davenport. You’ve heard a lot about Davenport. This is my story about Spencer. And Elly.

We weren’t used to being so close to family. For a short time in Hinton, 1970-1972, John’s brother Arly, his wife Vicky, and baby Wendy lived there. Otherwise we had never lived this close to any family members.

 

Young Elly with her mom Mag. In front great grandma Lena, and grandma Carrie, 1934…

 

Elly and Dewey welcomed us (more like enveloped us) with open arms. Both were working full time, but they included us in their family plans often. By then, 3 of their kids were out on their own, though I think Kerrie was still in high school or living at home.

Think of it. Elly was born 4 years after my mom. Although our kids would soon think of them as another set of grandparents, (something neither Elly or Dewey ever discouraged) John and I did not. Elly doled out her own brand of wisdom on child rearing and marriage, but I never saw her as a mother figure. She became one of my dearest, best friends and sister-in-law.

 

Elly, Jimmy and Leslie. About 1945…

 

Dewey was a sports nut. Not spectator. Two sports come to mind. He loved basketball. Playing in a senior league past the age of 80! And bowling. He was good. Very, very good. Soon after we moved, he asked us to join a couple’s league. Bowling every Sunday night. John and I had bowled on a couple’s league as newlyweds with Phil and Mitzi in Sioux City. But neither of us had thrown a strike or a gutter ball I n the 5 years since.

 

Aunt Elly and Adam, 1985…

 

 

It was a wonderful chance to get to know Elly and Dewey better. Often we would have supper together at their house or ours. Dewey would require the patience of Job to bowl with the rest of us misfits. (Actually talking mostly about Hubs here). John assumed to become a better bowler, one needed to throw the ball harder. Aim was secondary. Concentration, not mandatory. He’d heave that 16 pound sucker down the alley with the strength of Atlas. It might stay in the assigned lane and catch a couple of corner pins. Occasionally smash the living snot out of them with a zinging strike. Then he’d trot up to the 19″ color TV, hanging on the wall by the counter. Watching the last of whatever football game was still on. Sigh. Amble back and give the ball a second toss, aiming for the brick and mortar way beyond the lanes. Drink some beer and talk football. Elly threw her ball at about 10% of John’s speed, but got down as many or more pins.

 

I give up. Done arguing with Arly and Jim behind her, 1975…

 

Dewey and I concentrated hard on the finite world of bowling. I was pretty good, but threw a straight ball down the center. Dewey threw a magnificent hook. Encouraging me to invest in a fingertip ball, and try rolling a hook. We were there the night Dewey was in “the zone.” He seemed to have found a literal groove in both lanes. Bowled the series of a lifetime. It was almost 40 years ago, but it was something like a 725 series. Unbelievable. We were farting around with 450 series. Dewey was almost double that.

 

Shannon, Elly, Adam, Dewey and Josh, 1980…

 

Elly, Dewey and I would stick with bowling for several more years. Actually, I got pretty good and consistent. Best average I would maintain was in the mid 160’s. John gave it up to be an armchair football coach. Dewey and his 700 series. That was some night. Towards the end of the night, all eyes were on Dewey every time he let the ball go. Quiet, because no one wanted to jinx him. No one came over to joke or high 5 him about his 5 or 7 string of strikes in a row. The bowling alley made him a commemorative bowling pin. Sawed one in half with his series total painted on it.

 

Elly with her dad, mid-70’s…

 

Elly was really into collecting. John and I had a few pieces of antique oak furniture. But it was Elly who would soon infect us with the life long bug of antiquing. We were at an auction together. Elly outbid her competitor for a box of antique dishes. She was going through her treasures and she handed me 2 pieces. One was a green rectangular, 2-piece butter dish. The kind that holds a pound of butter. The other was a piece of depression glass, also green. Called Cameo. She thought this would give me something to collect besides furniture. And it was cheap. Oh, Elly what a shove you gave me down that slippery slope. A love of old glassware. Which I never had looked at before. Even when it wasn’t cheap anymore.

 

Elly recently in Le Mars, Iowa, 2012…

 

We would antique with them for years. Even after we moved away from Spencer. Hire a babysitter for the day, and leisurely go on the hunt. Back then, almost every little town in Iowa had at least one antique store. Lately it’s antique malls that have gained popularity. But a day of antiquing with Elly was gaining knowledge. She knew a little bit about everything when it came to antiques. Kitchenware, furniture, glassware. What was real or a “repo.”

 

Elly and Dewey…

 

Our closeness with this amazing couple (relatives to boot, who knew?) did not require a sitter or a day away though. Most of our best times were spent at each other’s house. Sharing a meal. Yes, I was finally a fairly good cook and baker by then. Playing cards, watching the kids play or TV. One miserable weekend during the winter (Spencer winters lasted about as long as northern Alaska’s) we invited them over. We were going to play Penuchle and make homemade ice cream. We had a crank type we had to churn. You surround the mixer (full of milk, cream, sugar) with rock salt and ice, and turned the crank until your arm fell off. Ta-da. Homemade ice cream. You can’t believe how much colder it tastes than store bought. We were doing something special with this batch that snowy Saturday. Making the whole works into “Grasshoppers!” Adding a healthy dose of Cream de Menthe and Cream de Coaco. First we took out a big portion, plunked in a few drops of green food coloring for Shannon and Joshua’s share. They wanted grasshoppers too. We were half lit playing cards. I don’t think I was capable of cooking anything too complicated that night. A good time together.

 

Dewey me Josh just starting on Grasshopper ice cream, 1981…

 

Elly wanted me to take ceramic classes with her. I did and made a few things for the house and a couple gifts. Not long after I started though, the place we took classes was making me sick. One night I had to leave early. Light headed and queasy, I needed to get out of there. Driving home, wise Elly wondered what was wrong. “It’s their heat Elly. Who has heat blowing down from the ceiling? Blows on my face and it’s making me sick,” I lamented. “Well, I think you’re going to have a baby,” she said quietly. ‘Twas true. We just hadn’t told anyone yet about our news. Little Adam was about to make our world a better place. Elly continued classes, but I didn’t. She surprised me with a fantastic nativity set she made for Christmas. Blew me away.

 

The nativity set Elly made for me, 1979…

 

The fall of 1979, the 4 of us had Minnesota Viking’s tickets. We would slowly antique all the way up to Minneapolis, go to the game on Sunday and head back home on Monday. We dropped Shannon and Josh at my Mom and Dad’s. Adam, a month old and a nursing babe would make the trip with us. A memorable trip to say the least. Only thing I remember buying was an antique oak board. It was off a fancy dresser or sideboard. One end was chewed off by mice after laying in a barn somewhere for 30 years. We spent a couple of bucks for it. When we got home, John used his saw to make it fit the top of our china closet we had just bought, but was missing the top.

Dewey helping Adam at Christmas in Rock Valley, 1980…

 

Two other moments stick out about that trip. Let’s just say Dewey was frugal. Very frugal. He would often drive several extra miles, looking for gas. Cheap gas. A penny a gallon cheaper than he saw it at the last station. We wandered around Minneapolis, looking for gas. I still don’t know how we didn’t run out. Then the brakes started squeaking. A couple of days of driving in a big city, and the noise was driving us crazy. John said, mildly exasperated, “I thought you were going to have new brake pads put on before we left, Dewey.” “Well I was John, but I thought I could get one more trip out of them,” Dewey answers slowly. (He was an easy going guy). Doesn’t do any good to point out after we screeched our way back to Iowa, John not only had to replace the pads of Dew’s wagon, but the rotors too.

Elly at Adam’s 1st birthday party. September 1980…

 

The last big memory of that trip was the game itself. I had one of those baby carriers. Nestled that little newborn right out in front like he was still in the womb. Game day was a spectacular fall day in Minnesota. High about 70, sunny skies. There were thousands of fans at the old Metropolitan Field. Adam was fed, dry, content, quiet and comfy. The Vikes were about to take the field. Holy moly. You wouldn’t think 57,124 fans, seeing 50 players run onto the field would be such a big deal. Big deal folks. 57,122 fans jumped out of their seats, screaming bloody murder. When they finally quieted down, only 1 small fan remained screaming. That uproar sent Adam over the edge. And I couldn’t retrieve him. He screamed for about 10 minutes before I screamed, “I’m done.” It took more pushing and shoving than giving birth, but I managed to free myself and the still screaming tiny fan out of our row. The great motel we were staying at was right across the parking lot. Wound our way through thousands of cars, to our quiet, air-conditioned room. We watched the game on the queen size bed. No more screaming from either of us. The trip as a whole, a wonderful memory both John and I hold dear.

 

John and Elly not too long ago…

 

Besides an avid antiquer, Elly had a “thing” for Christmas. She must have got it from her family. All the Van Berkum’s made a big deal about Christmas. Elly had a large picture window in her dining room. Every Advent, she painted a Christmas scene on that window. Decades later, folks from town would ride down East 8th Street to witness she had chosen to paint.

 

Don’t look at me. See the decorated window behind me that Elly painted, 1979…

 

The other “thing” that takes hours (and dollars) was her tree. She has an ornament collection that’s unrivaled. She bought unique, one of a kind ornaments wherever she went. Everyone who knows and loves her bought her unusual ornaments. One made from the ash of Mount St. Helen’s after it erupted. Many homemade ones from her grandkids. And our kids, of course, who thought of them as grandparents.

 

Elly’s magnificently decorated Christmas tree…

 

 

Elly would happily “do” Shannon’s hair for me. I was pretty hopeless in the styling of complicated hair. Shannon has a head of hair that unbelievably thick and coarse. Elly could do the most amazing French braids. Kids at school doubted Shannon’s Dutch heritage after Elly did her hair in braids. Shannon looked Asian for days because the braids were pulled so tight. Shannon’s little Asian eyes squirting tears while Elly’s fingers flew through that mass of hair.

 

Shannon aka, Bo Derek. Styled by Elly’s daughter, Kerrie, 1980…

 

The year after she made me the nativity set, Elly surprised me with a Christmas tree skirt. It’s about 35 years old now, and lovingly used every year. But not without a few expletives at first. Elly didn’t cut through the skirt. She cut a big X through the center. Her reasoning was then I could use it as a table cloth or center piece if I just covered the slit X with something. All well and good. But when I’m setting up the tree, if I don’t remember to slide the skirt over the stand before the tree is plopped in, I have to undo everything to that point. It’s not often anymore that I forget. But I did several times the first few years.

 

Joshua and Aunt Elly. Christmas, 1980…

 

We moved to Davenport in 1981, about 325 miles from Spencer. We still often traveled to northwest Iowa. Making a point to visit Elly and Dewey. They came to visit us eastern Iowa, later to Michigan. Lots of new antique stores for her to check out.

 

Hot tubbing with Dewey at our house in Jackson, 1990…

 

 

Dewey passed away a couple of years ago. Elly sold her big 2 story house and moved closer to a couple of her kids, and several of her grandkids and great-grands. Just had her 85th birthday and still enjoying her circle of life. I thank God that He put us in Spencer for a few years. Wish we could have been there longer. Grateful for the good years we had together. Love you so much Elly…

 

Elly with her newest great-granddaughter, 2015…

 

 

 

Since my kids were evenly spaced, you’d think they wouldn’t have much in common. And that was true as they got older. None of them were ever even in high school together. However their mother remained sane. Which was the whole purpose of having them spaced to begin with. But when I looked at some old pictures, I see the kids, mostly the boys played together quite a bit. At least for the first several years.

 

Absolutely priceless. Adam and Joshua, 1983…

We were living in Spencer, Iowa. A fabulous (freaking cold) town of less than 10,000 folks. Renting a cement block house. Let me tell you, when those blocks got cold, it was almost impossible to warm up that huge house. One of my most dramatic memories occurred in that house. It was September 22, 1979. John and I were celebrating our 10th anniversary. How could I possibly be married for a decade already? I was laying on our queen size bed upstairs. Sans John. Nothing much about this special anniversary would be very romantic.

 

Christmas card, 1979…

 

Laying next to me was Adam. Hmmm. He was a big surprise. A true gift from God, though unexpected. We’d been home from the hospital about a week. A traumatic birth, to say the least. If you haven’t read my blog post about him, it’s called Party of 5, posted in September of 2014. Ten days old and the first baby that I am nursing. Probably because he’s my last baby. I had some good friends, Shari, Pam and Diane. All recently becoming new moms, extolling the virtues of nursing versus formula babies. It took some convincing on my part, and Hubs never did join that happy bandwagon. He was too set in his bottle ways. He had happily helped raise 2 formula babies. This was foreign to him. And I really didn’t know yet what I was doing. Had I to do it over, I would have handled the whole nursing experience differently.

 

Shannon 10 in the (blank) house, 1981…

 

There was this group of DEDICATED ZEALOT MOMS called Le Leche League, trying to help. They were against pacifiers, bottles, formula of any kind. They also had some issues when was the best and right time to stop nursing. I swear a couple moms in the group were still nursing tweens. Icky. Most of them could tell I wasn’t on board with what they generally stood for. But since Adam was my last baby, I did want to try. And it was a wonderful experience. The best. For 5 months. I took the end of nursing much harder than Adam did.

Underoos rule! Josh 6, Adam 2, 1981…

 

John had always gotten up during the night with Shannon and Joshua. Heated a bottle, changed their diaper, fed and burped them. Letting me sleep through one nightly feeding until they slept through the night. Never happened with Adam. Newbie Adam wasn’t about to get cozy and nuzzle daddy’s neck or beard. He didn’t smell right for mommy milk. Period. So John felt left out in the early days with Adam. Had I nursed the other 2, Daddy would have never known the difference. And I should have been firmer about starting Adam off with a bottle or 2 a day to get him used to the other kind of nipple. For Daddy’s sake. And mine.

 

I swear they told me wine helped stimulate milk production, 1979…

 

Getting back to my ah-ha moment. Adam and I were resting. Four year old Joshua wanders in and out of his bedroom and ours. Playing, checking on me and his new baby brother. John and 9 year old Shannon are downstairs fixing supper. I simply cannot fathom I’ve been married for a decade already. With 3 children. I can distinctly remember the sounds and smells of that night. Joshua, making revving engine noises for the hot wheels he’s racing across the wood floor. My tiny newborn nestled next to me. I am in awe of my blessings and want desperately to stop time. Just for a bit. I swear I snoozed for 10 minutes. When I woke I was at Adam’s high school graduation. That’s how fast time slipped past me.

 

Adam and Josh, 1980…

 

So Josh was 4, Shannon 9, when Adam joined our merry band of misfits. Both of them doted on their baby brother. Josh had quite a bit of freedom in Spencer. Several buddies down the block to play with. Shannon practically had a run of the town. But that would change soon.

 

No words. Cutest. Picture. Ever. 1980…

 

John got laid off the day before Thanksgiving 1980. Sucked. Big time. He soon found an engineering job in the Quad-Cities, about 325 miles away. A factory called French and Hecht. Horrible place. We moved early in 1981. The only house we could rent was about 1000 square feet. After our extra large, ice cold house in Spencer. Now we were packed like a can of sardines. Shannon’s room was a small sun porch (ok, I’m gonna stop saying small. Trust me, everything in and about this house was small) off the (blank) dining room. I don’t think there was room for a crib and twin bed in the boy’s (blank) bedroom. So I ditched the crib, which was unusual for this mom. I clung to the crib for each kid. Explained to each of them, they could have a big bed when they were dry all night. That proved to be about 2-1/2 for Shannon and Joshua. But I had to change Adam’s timeline because the house was so dang (blank). We bought bunk beds for the boys. I think the master bedroom held our queen sized bed and one of our 3 dressers.

 

Shannon 13, on Kirkwood Blvd, 1983…

 

Davenport was huge by our standards of all Iowa living so far. A city of 100,000. Which butted up against 3 more cities. (That’s why Duh-Neese, it was called the QUAD-Cities). Davenport and Bettendorf on the west side of the mighty Mississippi. Rock Island and Moline just east of the river. Totaling almost a half of million people. Making the Van Berkum parents leery of letting the 2 older kids very far out of our sight. Boy, were we wrong. One of the best places we ever lived. I had more close friends in that large metropolis than I’ve ever had before or since. Sigh. Anyway, right after we moved, we kept the kids pretty close to home. It would be Josh teaching toddler Adam how to peddle his new little Big Wheel.

 

Joshua 6, Adam 2. On 38th St. 1981…

 

Soon Shannon found friends living nearby that were in her class at school as did Josh. It was also the first time in their young lives they would learn about loss. Joshua’s best buddy was named Craig. He lived about a half a block away. They were the same age and played together often. Both had to cross Sturdevant Street to get to each other’s house, but were careful and capable, being 6. We would fulfill our year’s lease on 38th Street before buying our big old stucco house on Kirkwood Blvd. Josh and Shannon would then be attending new schools, Washington Elementary and Sudlow Junior High. Adam was still home with Mommy.

 

Story time. Adam, Mommy, Joshua, 1981…

 

Craig spent a great deal of time at our house. Ate with us often. Wasn’t that hard to squeeze in another sardine. He was eating supper with us in our (blank) dining room in our (blank) house. To say our dining quarters were crowded with 6 around the table was an understatement. Adam was still using the high chair, which was in the next county, but only 2 feet away. Craig was trying to add salsa to his taco. Turning the jar upside down, it glopped out everywhere. John quickly stood up, leaned over to keep it from spilling on the floor, which was carpeted. Craig suddenly cowered, winced and covered his head with his arms. Forgot that he was not home, getting ready to be smacked. We all sat there dumbstruck. Feeling the pain for a little boy who knew no different. But our kids knew no different either. Just the total opposite of what Craig’s life was like. Too sad. Just wait. It gets worse.

 

Josh 10, Adam 6, Davenport, 1985…

 

Not long after moving to our house on Kirkwood, we were returning from northwest Iowa, after visiting our parents. It was a Sunday afternoon. We were listening to a Minnesota Viking’s game on the radio, which was carried on a Quad-Cities affiliate. During half time, local news reported that a 7 year old boy had been killed when a garbage truck backed over him in an alley. While he was riding his bike. The street was 38th and Sturdevant. The little boys name was being withheld. No doubt in our minds. It was our little battle worn friend Craig. Gone. His parents accepted the city’s check for compensation a few weeks later. And were completely broke in a year. Pitiful part of my story. We should have called social services. We wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. That time would come just a couple years later. Ugh. Death is awful. Sometimes life is too.

Superman 7, Woody 3, 1982…

 

The 5 years on Kirkwood Blvd (plus 1 on 38th) were pretty good ones for this family. The new neighborhood was full of kids. Shannon would be diagnosed with allergies, and asthma. And come pretty close to having a ruptured appendix. She started working for a neighbor lady who did in home day care. By the time she hit her teens, Shannon was raking in 50 bucks a week. Maybe this doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was 1983. Probably close to 400 dollars a week now. She was buying Calvin Klein Jeans, Nike Air Jordan’s (in baby blue), plus saving. I was jealous of her wardrobe. And her money.

 

Shannon had a better stereo system too, 1984…

 

Josh remained accident free until we moved to Michigan. But he was sick a lot. He had so many tonsil infections. Just get finished with antibiotics and go back to school. I could tell he had another infection as soon I walked into their (blank) bedroom. There was the distinct smell of sour bread dough. Joshua’s tonsils would be so swollen, they would touch each other. Causing that strange smell for a boys bedroom. As if the constant infections weren’t bad enough, he got Mononucleosis. Causing his spleen to swell for a couple weeks. Ever try getting a rambunctious 7 year old to lay on the couch for 2 weeks? Yikes. Lucky Adam was home to keep him quietly occupied. Finally, we had Joshua’s tonsils and adenoids removed. He was rarely sick after that. Went into a growth spurt and ate like there was no tomorrow.

When Adam was 5, Shannon was giving him a ride on her bike. His foot got caught in between the wheel spokes and the frame. Scraped the skin off his ankle down to the bone. That nasty wound would take months to heal. And he still carries a scar. But it was Hubs who usually got hurt the worst or the sickest. Sigh. (Sometimes it felt like I indeed had 4 children)

 

House in Davenport, Iowa, 1982-1987…

 

Here’s the best of the worst. It’s Christmas vacation for the kids. Plus John, now happily working for JI Case, which has it’s annual holiday shut down for 2 weeks. Lord, spare me. Love everyone of them to the moon and back, but this wife, mother, chief cook and bottle washer was so ready for all of them to head back to work and school.

 

Christmas 1985. Josh 10, Adam 6, Shannon 15…

 

John and our good buddy Ron (single coworker, engineering friend who loved us and we loved him) decided on Saturday (2 lousy days, a mere 48 hours and I was home free. Before everyone went back to their assigned places early Monday morning) to take the kids sledding. Yay. Not too far from our house was an old military school which was no longer used as such. The grounds were terraced on 2 sides where the cannons had once been placed. In between was quite a steep slope, leading to the parade grounds. Great place for sledding. Everyone was having a ball. Little stinker Adam started whining. Oh no, not to come home. He was feeling especially adventurous. He wanted to go down the terraces on the toboggan. Dad thought it looked too dangerous. So did Ron. But Adam was not deterred. The men caved. No surprise there. As a precaution Hubs and Ron said they would go first to ensure none of the kids would get hurt. Right. John was in front, Ron behind him. FOUR TERRACES. Before the bottom. After hitting the first terrace, they were off the ground a foot and picked up a little speed. By terrace number 4, they were airborne about 15 feet high, heading nose first into the parade grounds. Neither moved when they finally landed. Adam ran up to them yelling, “my turn, my turn!”

 

Ron, all healed up, 1984…

 

A mom (nurse) saw these 2 insane yahoos hit the ground. She ran to them yelling she was calling 911. John croaked out a “no!” After a few minutes of not feeling either of his legs, both guys finally got their wind back. They managed to get up and started limping back to the truck. All the while, Adam still complaining that daddy and Ron always got to have all the fun. By the time they got back to our house, they were in pretty sad shape. The hospital was just a few blocks away. I said I’d drive the nut jobs. Shannon could watch the boys. “Nah, we’ll be fine,” says wise John, pouring himself and Ron a pretty stiff drink. Ron soon limped to his car and drove home.

Well by Sunday, we almost had to call an ambulance. John could barely move. (I could point out, had John given birth to our first child, and me to our second, there would have never been a third child in our family. Or anyone else’s. But I won’t. This is not the time) I hauled him to the ER. John had a bump on the kaup, (head) a sprained wrist, sore feet from ramming them in the front of the toboggan. Plus a broken tailbone. Sigh. Ron ended up in the ER too. He had a couple of broken fingers, more than a couple broken toes from ramming John in the back with his feet.

The kids went back to school on Monday. Thank you God. John spent a few days at home, moaning and healing. When my engineering manager Hubs went back to work at Case, he brought along a nifty treat daily for the next 3 months. A donut. Not his favorite kind with sprinkles though. This one of the foam variety. To ease the pain of his sore hiney…

 

Adam 21, Joshua 25. Black Hills, 2000…

 

 

 

Have you noticed people celebrate birthdays differently? As a young mother, I usually made a big deal of our children’s birthdays. Inviting relatives and a few kids their age. Unless I could buy them off. I wasn’t above bribing them with cold hard cash. If one of the kids wanted something really expensive, sometimes they could be convinced to give up the party. Take the money and run. Really, birthdays should be a bigger deal in the life of a kid than Christmas. Celebrating their own uniqueness of the special day they came into and made your life so much better.

 

Shy, introverted Adam’s 4th birthday, Davenport, 1983…

When you think about it, it’s precisely why we celebrate Christmas. The day God sent His Son to live and die for us. I wonder when Christmas started leaning towards how many presents we were getting or giving instead of celebrating the birth of Jesus? Recently, much has been argued that December 25th is not the real day that Jesus was born. The exact day doesn’t matter folks. Pick a day and celebrate what God did for us. The sacrifice for us. Ok, now back to regular old birthdays. And Christmas.

 

Joshua’s 5th birthday party with Superman, 1980…

 

After my brother’s death in 1958, the Gerritson’s stopped celebrating Christmas. Period. Not the religious part, but everything about the commercialized part. Larry had picked out the tree for a couple years before he died. After his tragic death, celebrating Christmas seemed not only trivial, but bordered on blasphemous. The hard part of course was I was not yet 8 when he died. What kid that age says, “no, really, don’t mind me. Never wanted to celebrate and get a bunch of presents anyway.” That part was tough for this little kid.

 

Shannon’s 10th birthday, 1980. She still asks for German Chocolate Cake…

 

But I think it was about that time in the Life of Neese that Mom did up the ante in celebrating my birthday. Might not have been done consciously by her. And it very well could have had a lot to do with Larry’s death. Mom started making a big deal about a couple of holidays every year. May Day. Bringing homemade baskets to classmates after school. And my birthday. Not always a big party, but always something special. That took time and planning on her part. I really appreciate her efforts, even more that she did this when her heart wasn’t always in it.

 

Wearing shorts on Dec. 2nd. My 13th birthday, 1963…

 

Sometimes it might just be a shopping trip. Mom, me and my best friend Char. Going to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. Not K-Mart or Lewis Drug either. The good stores. Shriver’s and Younker’s. Buying us matching fuchsia fleece hooded tops (40 years before hoodies became the rage). Standing in line at Bishop’s Cafeteria. Eagerly waiting to choose from their vast array of food choices. This was not such a big deal for me. We actually went out to eat quite often after our family shriveled from 5 to 3. (Larry had died and Mona got married). But in the life of Char, eating out was a very big deal. She came from a big family. They didn’t go out to eat very often.

 

Me, Sharla, Char, Lin, Ruth, Gloria…

 

On these shopping trips, getting dessert when we finished eating was the highlight. Bishop’s made some spectacular desserts. My favorite was French Silk pie. As I recall, it consisted of regular bottom pie crust, chilled milk chocolate cream filling. Not standard pudding though. The filling was frothier or a whipped texture.Topped with a fancy dollop of whipped cream. And curled chocolate shavings. To die for. Years later in the Quad Cities, a restaurant called The Village Inn made a pie very similar. But for the crust. They used a graham cracker crust instead of pie dough crust. Good, but not quite as special. Holy moly, this story has taken a major detour.

 

A special shopping dessert. French Silk Pie…

 

Birthdays. Since my birthday fell in December (it still does, duh-Neese) one could never be sure what kind of weather we’d be having on the 2nd. Often there was a lot of snow on the ground already in northwest Iowa. I can vividly remember wearing shorts for one of my birthday parties. Maybe my 13th. A huge surprise on my part. Mom really went all out that year. She planned a scavenger hunt through the town of Rock Valley. Clues were handed out at our house to get the hunt started. After discovering the next item on the scavenger hunt, you got the next clue which would lead us to the next piece of the puzzle. The first team back won a prize. Fabulous party that year. Thanks Mom. She invited a boatload of my friends. How she got the weather to cooperate fully remains a mystery. We had so much fun running around town. On the hunt searching for our next clue. That was so unlike my Mom.

 

Wan, Shirlee, Pam…

 

Slumber parties were a common occurrence too. Not just for birthdays either. We had them often during junior and senior high. Six, to 10 giggling, screaming, hormonal teenage girls. Most of whom didn’t fall asleep until dawn. Talking, teasing, gossiping, eating. Not a better way to spend a weekend night for a bunch of girls. Miserable night for the parents who got very little sleep. But a great night for girls.

 

Slumber less party, Wan, Pam, Diane, Joann, 1967…

 

Back to birthdays being a special event. In the life of a kid, their own unique birthday should be much higher on the Richter scale as a very special day in their life than Christmas. Now I send everyone a special birthday card with a check. Bleh. And on Christmas, when they’re already inundated with gifts galore, we add to the stack. Got that one wrong Neese. Should be doing more for their own special day. Celebrating when they were born.

 

Birthday party meal, Sharla, Gloria, Mary. Are those rollers in her hair???

 

Part of the Christmas versus birthday debate was John’s fault. Christmas was a huge deal at the Van Berkum house. Presents stacked up to the ceiling. Hubs was the youngest in his family. Thus 3 of his 4 sibs were already married when we were dating. Two had kids of their own already. In the mid-60’s everyone bought everyone else a present. John’s sister Elly had 4 children. His brother Jim had 2 for sure. Les and Mary Jane were newlyweds. Arly was single and in the Navy. John’s family went all out for Christmas. Something John wanted and assumed we would continue after we got hitched. Since I hadn’t really celebrated Christmas for a decade, heck I was all for it.

 

Joshua, 6 waiting patiently for Santa to come, 1981…

 

I don’t ever remember talking about Santa Claus when I was little. I don’t believe Santa was part of Christmas in our house, even before we lost Larry. After I became a mom, I grew to resent Santa. A lot. Doesn’t that sound childish? Yes it does, but I’m not ashamed to say it. What did Hubs do every stinking year? Made all of our most expensive presents the kids really, really wanted from Santa. Made me nuts for years. Not only buying the gifts we couldn’t afford. But then letting some magical, mystical dude get all the credit. What? I needed the credit for scrimping, saving, lay-awaying, running from store to store for the gift that seemed to be sold out everywhere. Hiding them in the attic, trunk of the car, or basement. Buying special wrapping paper so the little smarties wouldn’t come up with, “how come Santa uses the same wrapping paper you have Mom?” Because. We bought the presents. NOT Santa. Even when we couldn’t afford squat, we bought them anyway. Wow! That makes me feel so much better. What a burden to lug around for 40 years. It was about time they learned the truth anyway.

 

Yup, some disbelief when learning the truth about Santa…

 

When one of our kids was invited to someone’s birthday party, I felt like I was getting a gift too. Drop the little tyke off for a whopping 3 hours. And freedom. Oh I had the other 2 kids with me. But there was still that sense of freedom. The difference between 2 and 3 kids, no matter what their ages, was monumental. Cause for our own celebration. Weird. That’s what we did when one of the rug rats was invited somewhere.

 

Maybe birthday number 30 for me, Spencer, 1980…

 

Families have different kinds of birthday parties for their kids lately. They’re certainly special. Sometimes big, elaborate affairs. But I never really understood the parents coming along. And not just moms either. The whole family comes for a 3 year olds party. I don’t think there was ever a way I could have worded this to convince John he needed to attend a 4 year old friend of Joshua’s birthday party. Nope, that idea would not have flown at our house. Or him ever going to a bridal or baby shower. That would have been much worse. But I’ve been to parties for my grand children when all their little friend’s families attend. It’s actually kind of fun. Our youngest grandson Graham has his parties in a park near their home. The playground equipment is phenomenonal. Plus a pond with fish and frogs. I do enjoy watching the parents chase after their little ones. And I do mean parents. The dads seem much more involved. They really do. In that respect the “whole family parties” are exactly that. Parties of their birth, celebrated with families…

 

Adam flat out refused to believe me, 1980…

 

 

 

I’ll own up to this one. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with trees since I moved to Michigan 28 years ago. Before moving to this tree stuffed state, I never thought about trees much. The last Michigan tree to human census taken totaled 5,691 trees to 1 person. They’re everywhere. Except at Lake Michigan. What a relief. The only place I can really breathe.

 

Lake Michigan on a very windy day…

 

Still, one of my favorite views in the world has to do with trees. Wouldn’t ‘ya know? When I walk up the steep hill on 2nd Street, I see the tops of approximately 2.127 million trees against Michigan’s startling, exotic blue sky. My favorite color combo-bar none. It’s not that I dislike trees. I just don’t like when they hinder any part of my view. Except the tree tops to sky shot.

 

 

Freaky country roads. Have you never heard of the word TRIM…

 

 

I’m telling you, some of the country roads around here are plain creepy. Trees on both sides. They scootch in a little closer to the road every day. Cue Pennywise from Stephen King’s novel, It. Where my nightmares originate.

 

 

Yeah, no thanks Pennywise, I’ll pass…

 

 

Nowhere have we lived thus far though compares to our house in Jackson for trees. True, our lot was an acre, but we had about 50 trees. I had to move every 10 minutes when I laid out in the sun. At least I was getting some exercise while reading and snoozing. The neighbors were aghast when John and our buddy Fred took down about half of them. Ah, the sun goddess lived to rule another day. But it was in that yard when I fell under the mysterious spell of the birch trees. I absolutely love the white bark. And how the shiny green leaves look as they sway in the breeze. We had several in the yard, but thee perfect one, smack dab in the middle of our front yard. Every summer I’d hang a hummingbird feeder in that birch. The tiny birds got so used to me being nearby, I could sit and watch them from a couple feet away.

 

Perfectly centered birch tree, Jackson, Mi. 1990…

 

 

When we moved to North Muskegon, all of our landscaping was new and small because our house was 2 years old. Twenty years later, we have a total of 4 trees. None of which are in the back yard, obstructing our view of Muskegon Lake. Two massive evergreens in the front hide the utilities and cable TV paraphernalia. Actually they were already here with another 6 pines in a very small berm. Which lasted about a year. John yanked out 5. And it was still crowded. The 2 trees we planted are on the west side of house. One’s a pretty maple but my favorite is a tri-color Beech tree. During the spring, the leaves are maroon with hot pink edges. It’s quite beautiful.

 

 

Gorgeous Tri-colored Beech. And neighbors awful fence…

 

 

Our neighbor west of us installed a fence from the street to their sea wall before we moved here. They also planted a weeping willow where their sea wall starts. Now really, why would anyone plant an ugly, messy, dirty tree that eliminates the beauty of living on the water? Not only for them, but on both sides too. Meaning us. Although the tree wasn’t much to look at first, it grew faster than my 2 teenage boys. We’ve had a couple of 100 mile an hour straight wind storms over the last 2 decades. My prayers have not been answered. The weeping willow lost maybe 3 leaves per storm. I was the one left weeping.

Along the west fence line near the lake, but on the east side were some ugly scrub trees that were not very big yet. Cottonwoods. But clumped together in a rather homely fashion. This empty lot and scrub trees belonged to the guy who owned our house. After 2 years in our house, they decided to build just northwest of us. Kind of behind us, but off to the side. There’s an easement in between those two lots which is why they are kind of behind us.

 

 

20 yrs ago this was our view looking west…

 

 

But this also meant no one would be building right next to us either. Yay. Or they would lose their nice view of the lake. When we were buying our house, we insisted on buying a few extra feet from the empty lot. Making their waterfront lot the bare minimum on which to build. At the time they mentioned taking those little ugly scrub trees down. Sigh. It never happened. Now those suckers are huge. As an added bonus we get a month long bounty of cottonball snow storms in June.

 

 

2015 view to the west. Sigh…

 

 

The 3 neighbors east of us, and the west weeping willow folks all had sea walls before we moved here. By not having our lot owner or the empty lot west put in sea walls at the same time was a real bummer for them. At that time the water level was very high, so windy days from the west caused our sandy beach to actually kind of undermine their sea walls. Plus it was eating away at our back yard.

 

Before we put in the sea wall, 1995…

 

 

Soon after we moved, our sprinkling system was hanging in the air near the lake in back. Ugh. We knew we had to do something. (If they had just put in our sea wall 5 years prior to us moving here, we’d have another 40 feet added to our back yard). Major bummer for us. The house due east really got the shaft by losing tons of sand. Their sea wall is steel sheeting. At the time of installation, the top of their sea wall was flush with their yard grass. Twenty years later they have an 18″ step. It’s sunk that much. So a couple years after we moved, we had several semi truck loads of sand hauled in to build up our “sliding into the lake” back yard. Followed by covering the sand with heavy felt. And tons of tons of medium sized rocks. Which I worked on for weeks. I wanted it rather level so you could walk on the top of our rock sea wall, which was a couple feet wide.

 

 

New rock sea wall and dock, 1997…

 

 

 

Of course we didn’t realize just a couple years later, Lake Michigan would plummet dangerously low, almost breaking low water level records. This was about 15 years ago. Suddenly, the bottom of our sea wall was dry land for 125 feet. A new happy home for snakes, frogs, and yup, you guessed it, more scrub trees. John would head down there twice a summer, cutting down 30 spindly tress, bushes, invasive reed thingy’s. Yuk. We stopped putting our dock out each summer. With only 100 feet of dock, we didn’t come close to hitting water yet.

 

 

Night shot of the moon, and spindly little birch trees, 2013…

 

 

RCG (rich crazy guy) owned the last house east of us (10,000 square feet, resembling a VFW hall, minus the liquor license). Part of his property was the point east of him which jutted out quite far and had fairly deep water. When the water levels dropped, all kinds of unwanted growth popped up on this new dry ground. He might have tried a time or 2 to tame this new forest, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was unsightly and blocked the lake views for everyone. After his bankruptcy, he moved and lost the title of RCG, becoming merely CG (crazy guy). The family who bought his little mansion started remodeling the home and the grounds. Hired workers with wild, crazy, chain saw abandon and cleared the forest point of all vegetation. Except for a cluster of about a dozen, spindly 12-15 foot birch trees. I adored that little group of trees. When I’m in my nest, it’s always in my view. And you know how often I languish here. Constantly.

 

 

My baker’s dozen little green birch trees, 2010…

 

 

Each time I take a picture of a sunrise, or a 1000 foot tanker gliding by, most of the pictures include my (yeah, I got some ownership issues) little cluster of birch trees. Friends of ours thought it was very rude. Living on a lake with the audacity to let trees compromise our lake views. Why I have issues with my non-west views, but no problem with my east views has not yet been answered in my weird head.

 

 

Sunrise over the birch trees…

 

 

One of my all time favorite pictures is that little clump of birch trees. But I did not have my iPad yet. Only my hopeless smart ass phone. It was probably mid-September, 2012. I looked up from my nest, and there it was. My baker’s dozen clump of little birch trees. With a total of at least 10 different colors. It was stunning. The picture lost something after I reproduced it. Last fall I was determined to get a good picture of the fall color change. Didn’t happen. And it took me until this spring to figure out the reason why.

 

 

Birch trees showing an awesome array of fall colors, 2012…

 

 

It’s the water. A couple years go, the water level started rising again. All of the Great Lakes are on the rise again. Yay. Good news for folks who had their boats moored 200 feet farther in the water than their docks reached. Our rising water started out with a couple little puddles here and there near our sea wall. Last summer the water was about a foot deep. This year it’s double that or more. Meaning all my little birch trees are drowning. Half of them didn’t sprout more than a handful of leaves this spring. The remaining spindly few got leaves that resemble October instead of the first of July. First time I’ve ever felt bad about losing .000000000000000001 percent of Michigan’s tree population…

 

 

Clump of birch are drowning after water levels rose, 2015…

 

 

 

 

To infinity and beyond! Here’s hoping for at least another 10-15 good years. My Mom’s life headed south when she was around 70. My Dad though, was about 90. I’ll stick with 80-ish. So we are in the year 2031. My incredible memory is fading. I am somewhat dependent on others, and none to happy about it. Names, faces and stories are on the tip of my tongue, but at times I can no longer retrieve them. Foggy brained and frustrated, I’ve become somewhat cranky. Now there’s a surprise. Visitors tend to forget I’ve lost most of my hearing. So they mumble, or talk when not facing me. This gives them the impression I have chosen not to join in their conversation or answer them. When nothing could be further from the truth. Here’s a snippet of my imagined future life as I age. At least my side of the topics and conversations. And some of my very favorite pictures of those I love. Plus me.

Baby Neese, 1951. Braids, 1955…

I vowed early in life, I will not badger family or friends if they are thoughtful and attentive enough to come visit me. That was a lie. I know. I suck. And lie. But a couple of these reminders are meant to enhance the life I have left. So humor me. For the sake of all that’s good and kind, commit these key essential pointers to memory. Thus making what’s left in the life of Neese, better.

 

Josh and Erica, 2013…

 

 

Everyone at one time or another has teased me about my teeth. Sure, not all of them are my own anymore or snow white. But do me a favor. Help me, or remind me to brush them anyway. I carried a travel toothbrush in my purse for decades. Everyone had to wait for me until I brushed my teeth after we ate. It drove people crazy. But it drove me nuts if I had something stuck in one of my bridges. See my dilemma. Now there, that took all of 2 minutes. Gee that feels so good. Sliding my tongue over smooth, tooth-pasty-clean-teeth.

 

 

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) 2001…

 

 

My glasses. Sure, they might appear sparkly clean, but trust me when I tell you they are not. They’re filthy. Are you kidding me? They not only have a smudge, but an innocuous spot on them. Which my one eye constantly lingers on. Please run them under the faucet, and wipe them dry. Holy moly, not with a Kleenex or paper towel!! That could scratch the lens, which drives me completely bonkers. A clean, dry, wash rag will suffice. Thanks so much.

 

 

My lovely dresser with Shannon’s little dress hanging from it…

 

 

“Would you mind walking over to the antique oak dresser? It is lovely, isn’t it? Still one of my favorite pieces. Remember when we bought it on one of our annual road trips? It rained cats and dogs from Princeton, Illinois to Jackson, Michigan. Poured the whole trip home. But the antique dealer had completely wrapped the dresser in Saran Wrap.” What a hoot.

 

 

Josh and Ariana, 2014…

 

 

“In the top right hand drawer of the dresser is a denim bag. I was once asked a silly question. If you were stranded on a deserted island, name one thing you couldn’t live without? Surely you know my standard answer. It’s been my signature (go to) item for a half century. Get a quick count for me, will ‘ya please? Only 24? You sure you counted right? You know I always like to have about 50 tubes on hand. Tell your brother it’s his responsibility to stop at the drugstore before he comes next week. Make sure you spell it out for him. NATURAL ICE MENTHOLATUM LIP BALM. You know I can’t stand that cheap imitation junk called Chapstick. Might as well use Crisco. Grab me a new tube please. Oh how I love that tingly, burning sensation for a minute after I first put it on. If you don’t mind, update my inventory sheet. And don’t forget to remind your brother.”

 

Getting kind of low. Panic attack…

 

 

“Why do all these places have such dreary drapes? I haven’t used drapes for decades. You know that’s why God invented windows. So I can see out. Please open the drapes and shades so I can see what’s going on in the world. Nah, don’t worry so much. No one wants to watch an old lady get dressed and undressed. Saggy boobs are not in. Or a treat for anyone to see. I gotta be able to see what’s out there. Wow, look at that gorgeous day! Not a cloud in the sky. If it were 40 years ago, I’d take a book along to read, and lay out in the sun. I used to love laying out. But only when it was cool. About 65 degrees was perfect. Those were MY good old days.”

 

 

Watching the Cubs 3 innings when Harry C. was on the radio, 1985…

 

 

“Yes, I’d love to look at some old pictures. Thanks for bringing the photo albums. Refresh me on what year this was in our family’s life. Oh yeah, we were still living in Spencer. But about ready to move to Davenport. Looks like Mother’s Day breakfast. What in the world was I doing in the boys room?”

 

Mother’s Day, 1981. Breakfast on Cameo depression glass…

 

 

“Yup, I like my new hearing aid. Do you think I’m catching any more of the conversations? No? Shoot, me either. But it’s nice to hear the birds singing once in a while. When your sister stops for my Diet Pepsi, ask her to buy some batteries for this new fangled hearing aid? Why can’t they have one size battery that fits all hearing aids? Stupid to have 10 different sizes!”

 

 

Graham in Florida, 2013…

 

 

“No, I haven’t watched anything lately on TV. Nothing good on. Crazy people getting paid for being crazy on their own reality show. Dumb. I got enough reality in my life. Old movies? A new book? Yeah, I’d like either one. Or both. Have your brother bring a couple next week. Oh, I don’t know. Something with Paul Newman and that other hunk, Steve McQueen. You know Steve died way too young. God, Paul had beautiful eyes. Had the hots for both of them when I was in school. But my favorite was Steve. I would like to see Cool Hand Luke and Bullitt. Call and remind your brother. Could you find my old book series by J.A. Konrath? I really enjoyed those Jack Daniel’s books. That Phin was a hottie. One of the neatest characters ever.”

 

Goofy grands, Ari, Landon, Graham and Peyton, 2014..

 

 

“What did you bring me? Good heavens, that was thoughtful. You know I never cared for microwave popcorn. Disgusting smell. But this. Freshly popped and with real butter. You don’t even eat real butter. Yum. And just a titch of salt. It’s so good. You know that’s why your dad and I always had separate bowls. He liked it weird. Too salty, and he added extra butter to his.”

 

 

Ari, the ballerina in Pampers, 1992…

 

 

“Where in the world did you find cotton candy? One of my favorites. You knew that? You think I could squeeze a cotton candy machine in that corner over there? Whadaya mean I can’t have one in here? It’s MY room. I’m down to one measly room, and still I can’t have or do what I want? That’s a crying shame. Are ‘ya sure? But I wouldn’t give any cotton candy to my diabetic friends. Well, Ok. You promise? I’m holding you to that. I won’t forget. I don’t know where you’re going to find it every week, but hey, you offered, right?”

 

 

Davenport Iowa, 1983…

 

 

“Really? It’s that time of summer already? Gospel truth? Yup, I’d sure give up cotton candy for a couple of weeks for some real, fresh tomatoes. Bring some cooked bacon along. Bendy strips. I don’t like bacon that breaks in 20 pieces when I bite into my BLT. My that’s something I’ll look forward to. You know I used to eat them almost everyday during the month of August. Never with mayo. Yuk. That was your father’s deal, not mine. That’s really thoughtful. Thanks.”

 

 

Adam and Sarah, 2015…

 

 

 

“I don’t know where it is. One of the girls read a couple pages last night, but I haven’t seen it today. Oh no! You have to find it. My life isn’t the same without it. How else can I remember? Go to the front desk and ask who helped me get ready for bed last night. Please. Oh wait, here it is. Never mind. It’s on the floor. Must have slipped down the side of my bed last night. I must take better care of my book. Do you think we could have a chip installed inside the cover? You know, the kind they do for pets? I really can’t afford to ever lose the book. It’s my memory maker. Sure I’d love to hear some stories.”

 

 

Breech baby, breech baby give me your hand. Adam, 1980..

 

 

“Did you know one of my kids was a breech baby? Yeah, Adam. He was a surprise. Sure glad we had him. I’m so proud of what a fantastic father he’s been.”

 

 

Diane, Faye, Neese and Kay, 1967…

 

 

“I really loved being a cheerleader in school. The games, pep bus, the camaraderie. Especially the outfits. They were the best.”

 

 

Shannon and Superman Tracey, 2014…

 

 

“I bet you didn’t know I couldn’t boil water or make coffee when your dad and I eloped? Heh-tah, I was hopeless. First meal I ever made was red salmon from a can. On bread with lettuce. Your dad was not impressed.”

 

 

Peyton, 2005…

 

 

“I was kind of a rebel when I was a kid. Borrowed, ok I stole a car when I was 13. That was some slumber party out at Mary Klein’s farm. Heck yes, I drove that car. It was a push button automatic. Me, driving all the way to Sioux Falls in the middle of the night. The rest of the girls were in the car. We ate at a truck stop. Then I drove back to Rock Valley. Must have gotten back about 2 a.m. Never got in trouble for that little stunt either. I loved driving since that night. Can we go out for a ride sometime? Do I still have a driver’s license? No? Well, that’s never stopped me before.”

 

Beautiful, brilliant Shannon, 1972…

 

 

“Did you realize my daughter Shannon had her PHD by the time she was 37? Such a smart, determined, focused girl. I know, I know. You’re not the first person to tell me she didn’t take after me at all. I am so very proud of her.”

 

 

Joshua, Cascade, Iowa, 1977…

 

 

Did I mention Joshua has his own successful company in Detroit? Yes, he is amazing. No, you go ahead and pick a couple stories. And don’t forget to read me all the comments. They were the best part about my story telling…

 

 

J and D, Worthington, 1976…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I just read the funniest blog post ever. Of course it wasn’t mine. I’m not funny. Groan. And I don’t write well. Sigh. It’s my lack of vocabulary. Lazy. Plus my inability to put my thoughts down on paper well. Should have made an effort in school. Slacker. I do however, admit wholeheartedly, I am green with envy about her writing ability. Did I mention very dark, dark green? How I wish I was funny and could really write. Not to be. Well, maybe I’d tone down her style a bit. She was fairly free with the salty language. Ok, it might have been a bit raunchy, but the content was hilarious. She wrote about the movement embraced by thousands. On living tiny.

 

Yup, tried it with Shannon in 1973…

 

The mass of folks who have made the switch to teensy-weensy living quarters. Homes, complete homes, barely room size by today’s standards. Kitchen sinks that double as a shower. Might just have to just list that little asset as totally gross. Roomy linen closets holding one bath and one hand towel. Nope to room for that big old wash rag. I loved her sarcasm. She wondered how you ever get away from someone if your house is but 250 square feet? There have been times during our long endurance marathon called wedded bliss, that Hubs needs to be a lot farther away from me than a mere 250 square feet. If his intentions were to remain on this earth for an extended period of time. And if he wished to continue breathing.

 

Maybe a man cave, but not a real house to live in…

 

 

Downsizing has many different meanings. If I’m physically trying to downsize, it means I’ve finally found THEE most elusive man on the planet. Namely Will Power. Can’t shed those unwanted pounds until you find out where he’s been hanging his hat lately. Probably been lead astray by someone else with fairly chubby cheeks, (both sets) instead of helping me out. Men, they’re all alike.

Snuggling early in marriage and parenting. Still had to have some breathing space…

 

When you’re downsized from a company, it’s usually painful. And costly. The job you held for years suddenly snatched from you. The company was bought out, now has too many employees. Closing plants, moving people elsewhere or out. Your number is up. That happened often during our marriage and John’s career. Tough to accept and keep a positive outlook on the future. Most often it meant another move. Uprooting the family, losing touch with neighbors and friends.

 

Downsized from Davenport, 1987. Hated so much to leave…

 

We were recently at Adam’s and Sarah’s, taking care of our 5 year old grandson, Graham. Sarah’s best friend is moving to Texas in a couple weeks. Yeah, Sarah’s really bummed. The Michigan, soon to be Texas family of 4 just purchased a house down south, so Sarah showed me some pictures. Oh my. Six bedrooms, 4 baths, pool, ceilings sky high. Simply fabulous. I think everyone dreams of a humongous house like that now and then. But that’s what it is to most folks. Just a daydream. The opposite of downsizing.

 

Larry 1952. Dad might have started something with tiny housing…

 

Anyway, that crazy blog got me thinking. This is exactly what John and I are experiencing right now. Not that our house is big. Rather plain and small in comparison to most. Our house is 2200 square feet. Still big enough. Especially for 2 people. It’s really not that much fun cleaning 3 toilets. One which goes unused 99% of the time. And there lies the rub. For at least the last 5 years, John and I have lived in 40% of our home, 90% of the time. What a huge waste of space. My formal living room (“the museum” as Hubs coined the room) is off all by it’s lonesome. The room has no other doorways in or out, so you must walk in there on purpose. I love that room. At one time, it was filled with so many antiques, you’d been hard pressed to find room to lean an umbrella against a bare spot on a wall. There weren’t 3 square inches anywhere to be found in that room without a piece of antique oak, a picture wall consisting of at least 100 old photos, an ornament or an antique toy. When we were ready to list the house Mary, our realtor walked in and exclaimed, “Denise, this is just lovely. Get rid of most of it please. People looking at your house are unable to visualize what their stuff is gonna look like when they’re too busy looking at all your stuff.” (I’m telling you folks, peeps looking at houses these days have zero imagination. And want things absolutely perfect). So we hauled out 8, yes 8 pick up loads of FURNITURE from this house. And into a storage unit. Almost 3 years ago.

 

Living room, pre-realtor. It was crowded w/o gifts and family…

 

For months I was in mourning. I missed my stuff. Our master bedroom is a prime example. A massive room (my favorite) which easily holds several large antiques. At one time we had 10 pieces of furniture besides our king size bed. And it wasn’t overly crowded in my (humble but not requested) opinion. My house felt like a dear friend had moved far away. The rooms echoed from emptiness. Gave my hearing aid fits for a few months.

 

Fabulous bedroom, virtually empty now. Bare walls too, ugh…

 

Gradually I’ve gotten used to seeing less of my beloved stuff around. But I still miss the way things used to look. I know once we move, I will have to seriously pick and choose my antique furniture favorites. Way over half are going to have to find new homes.

 

Downsizing this wardrobe would be tough. Massive but I truly love it…

 

 

Which brings me to the downsizing part. In my head, I know what I want. A smaller house, close, but not too close to our 3 adult kids and 4 grandchildren. Who all live within an hour of each other. Except for us, the mom and dad. We’re about 2-1/2 to 3 hours from them. No reason to stay here. Our house is 2 story, (who needs that anymore) too big, too expensive and the only thing holding us here. We need a house half this size, one story, within a half hour of them. But that’s a mighty big area we have to choose from over on the east side of Michigan. The really heavily populated areas don’t do much for us. But schools districts don’t matter to us anymore either. Yay. Hubs still enjoys yard work, or I’d really be pushing for a condo. I am ready and could easily do condo.

 

Keeping this for our spare bedroom. We’ve had the bed over 30 yrs…

 

I think we will probably rent for awhile. Check out all the little surrounding townships. See where we might best fit in. Once we get settled, I will seriously have to whittle down what I love and CANNOT part with. What fits in the new joint, and how to get rid of the rest. My hope is that each of the kids have their eye on a couple antique pieces, and are patiently waiting for us keep what we want, then offer the rest to them. But they’re all pretty established by now. Some really don’t care for the whole antique look. It’s just not their style. (Now that makes me a little sad). What we can’t keep or they don’t want will be sold.

 

Lovely sideboard, but not many years of our history. Going…

 

 

Quite a few will be hard to part with. I have an exquisite oak sideboard. But I’ve only had this piece a dozen years. There’s no family history of one of the kids coloring on it or bonking themselves on the head running full tilt when they were 2. I have no problem getting rid of this particular piece. It is lovely though.

 

Curved glass China closet. One of my faves since 1979…

 

 

In comparison, we bought a curved glass china closet 35 years ago. From a lady in Canton, South Dakota. One of the curved panes of glass was broken. We dickered over the price for weeks. Back then we didn’t have very much money to splurge on antiques. John had lowballed an offer and kinda insulted the gal. I had to tap dance around his harsh offer. She and I finally settled on a fair price. Lugged it back to Spencer. Stripped it. (No I don’t care that I removed some sacred patina. I want to see and enjoy the gorgeous grain of the oak wood. I don’t give 2 hoots if it’s worth 300 dollars less because I supposedly ruined it during my stripping abomination). Maybe added a bit of stain, and tung oiled it for a month. Couldn’t afford to order a new piece of curved glass until Adam started crawling, and pulling himself up, causing me to worry. Now that piece will be one of the last I ever part with.

 

Mag and Jim’s ranch in Rock Valley…

 

 

John and I have very different views on downsizing. I envision a house much like the house John grew up in Rock Valley. Nice size, 2 or 3 bedroom ranch, garage, not a huge yard. But after the last 20 years with a 30 inch deep basement, don’t want to do that again. Full basement please. A quiet neighborhood. John, on the other hand sees himself on an acreage. Ugh. With a pole barn. Yuk. Wants to build a hot rod. Oy vey. Outside city limits. Gross. It’s becoming more clear that renting something for a bit will let us look around for what’s in the best interest of Denise. I mean us. My hope is once he has a smaller yard to mow, less shoveling, snowblowing, no maintenance, he might come to enjoy that lifestyle. We shall see. First we gotta get this sucker sold…

 

21 years in our fairly nice lake home. Ready for a change…