I, unfortunately was born with Chronic Icy-Cold Arm Syndrome. It can literally be 90 degrees outside, yet my arms feel downright chilly. I get goose bumps, and the 3 hairs on each arm stand straight up. (I didn’t come from a hairy bunch). Since I’m unable to substantiate when exactly this strange phenomenon struck me, I’m going with my birth at home, December 1950. I have found a couple of photos with me as a normal kid. And I’m baring it all. Well, I mean all of my arms. But I think those pictures have been doctored.

Neese 1953. Pic has been doctored. I’m wearing a hoody…

I thought long and hard about when my unique remedy for this chronic problem actually manifested itself. Seems like it’s been a few years, tops. But then I started going through the old pictures I’ve downloaded on my iPad.

Summer 1955. Lin, me, Doug and Larry. Both Gerritson’s wearing long sleeves…

You know, that’s often the toughest part when I write my blog. Selecting just the right pictures to go with my story. Sometimes I can visualize the picture in my head. But I can’t find it. Every couple weeks I end up hauling a box of old pictures downstairs. This is a learning process. And I’m a very slow learner. I am getting better though. At first, I was so focused on searching for a certain picture, I’d flip through them at warp speed with wild abandon. Where is the dang picture for that paragraph? A few days later, I’d slap myself along side the head as I was writing a new post and think, “ah, you dumb shit. You had that very picture in your hand, yet haphazardly threw it back in the box. Now you need it.” Lately, when I go through them, I stop, frown for a split second and ponder, wonder if I’ll ever need that one for a blog post? See, I’m getting better.

Shannon 5, Joshua 8 mo. Me w/o flannel, 1976…

Anyway, back to the old pictures. It seems as though I’ve been wearing long sleeved shirts for a very long time. Not always flannel, but about 90% of the time. It just feels so good. Soft and snuggly. Especially after they’ve been washed 400 times. They’re used as an apron cooking, baking or canning. And eating. Catching all my spills, keeping my t-shirt sparkly clean. But Job 1, first and foremost, is always about keeping my arms covered and warm.

1979. Adam, 2 months. Mommy with Chronic Cold Arms…

A dozen years ago I took a very nasty spill while walking. So embarrassing. It was still dark out, and I had no business being out that early. The cause of this bizarre accident? I, um, actually slipped on acorns. Yeah nuts. I know how to do shame right. One foot slid out on a dark sidewalk filled with nuts, (me included) and I went down in a heap. Landed hard on my knee, chin and left elbow. My elbow bone took the brunt of it, finally stopping it’s forward progress before getting cozy with my shoulder.

Several days later I had major repair surgery, complete with a dozen attractive staples. The surgeon explained that I would never be able to fully straighten my left arm. It seems the real problem and cause was an old junior high injury. Fell off the parallel bar in Rock Valley, during P.E. class. It had been diagnosed as a simple dislocated elbow. A quick shot of morphine, and it was rolled back to it’s original location. No, not by Dr. Hegg. My childhood hero. Our family doctor, whom I worshipped. He happen to pick that very week, (his first in maybe 5 years) to go on vacation. Timing is everything, and I’ve never had that technique down pat. But that early serious injury had caused a bone fragment to break off. Which had gone undetected and unrepaired for 40 years. Plus this new, complicated break. There was just too much damage. The incision itself caused nerve damage. Most of those little buggers repair themselves, but they their sweet time in the healing process.

Probably 80 degrees! 1995..

After weeks in a cast, I suffered through a month of physical therapy. My therapist was a sadist named Brunhilda. There wasn’t one session during rehab that I didn’t leak tears while she (brutally) attacked my arm. But she’s also the reason my arm is almost un-noticeably straight. She literally yanked on it for the entire month. Thanks Bruiny! You’re the worst-best.

To put things in perspective, easy to understand, I’ll use junk food. The incision area was about the size of a Twinkie. Totally numb like it was chocked full of novocaine. Weird numb. Feels creepy, like ripples, chills or goose bumps sliding up and down my arm. The numb area has been halved in size. We’re talking double-stuff Oreo sized, but still not gone after so many years. And that creepy, ripply feeling lingers too. I don’t feel it when my arm is covered though. If it’s bare and I set my arm down on a chair or table, it gives me the willies. So I keep it covered. Kind of like an arm burka. Sorry, that might be spuuting (Dutch equivalent for making fun of religion, not cool). Ok, enough talk about my fabulous 40 years in flannel high fashion-wear. Living the dream, Baby.

Over 15 years ago, Kathy, a friend and co-worker at McDonald’s moved to Grand Rapids. It’s only about 45 miles away, so I’d drive over after work every few months. Quite close to where she lived was a fabulous new mall called Rivertown Crossing. We’d go to the mall, then have supper together. Even though the mall was new, the area around the mall was not very built up yet. Not like now. But there was an older, small strip mall right between Kathy’s house and Rivertown. A really good Chinese restaurant, named Hunan was located there. Soon becoming our favorite place to eat. Wasn’t long before John was going with me, eating Chinese when we were in GR together. He liked it too.

Shannon, Landon and flannel me, 2002…

After Shannon had Landon, she took an extended maternity leave of about 6 months. Grand Rapids was about 80 miles from her. So we started a mini-tradition. Every couple weeks while she was off work, we’d meet at Rivertown Crossing. We’d shop for a couple hours, then enjoy Chinese food for lunch. She’d drive back to Jackson in time to get Ari from school. I’d zip back home the other direction to North Muskegon. We started this tradition again after she had Peyton in 2004. Although I have missed those days with Shannon and her newborns, I never thought it would be fair to ask for another grandchild because I craved Chinese food. (I’m kidding. She said no anyway). Soon she introduced Tracey and Ari to our Chinese restaurant. Now our whole family loves that place. And we almost always have the same waiter. A young Chinese man, who after 15 years of waiting patiently on me, I’ve yet to learn his name. He does however speak much better English now than he did when we first started going there. I’m so embarrassed. I’m going to ask his name the next time I go there. And how his mom is doing? Make up for some lost time cause I’ve been a jerk.

Me, flannel and Marie, 2004…

John’s sister Elly, her husband Dewey, their married son Ken and Jeannie came to visit us a couple years later. We had lived in their quaint little town of Spencer, Iowa for several years, forging a wonderful relationship and have remained close ever since. Elly is 18 years older than John (the hubs). She got married when John was about 2, so they never really knew each other very well. Our youngest son Adam was born in Spencer. (check out his story called “Party of 5” on my blog archives. Written on his 35th birthday. For all those not celebrating his birthday with us, it was 9-12-14). To our kids while we lived in Spencer, having Elly and Dewey around was like gaining another set of grandparents.

2009 w/Graham. I'm wearing 3 layers. Sigh…

So back to their visit. We had a wonderful time while they were here. Shannon couldn’t come to North Muskegon, but really wanted to see her aunt and uncle. (This is the aunt who used to French braid her hair so tight, Shannon looked Asian for days). So we decided to meet at our mutually loved favorite Chinese restaurant. Got one of those big round tables with the lazy Susan on top that spins your assorted dishes around. That you’re willing to share. As if. We had bragged up that restaurant to Elly for days. And there’s no person on earth who LOVES Chinese food more than Elly. We were all yakking, listening to Ari, 12 and Landon who was about 2. It was only fitting we got our usual and favorite waiter, who shall remain nameless (I’m really mortified here folks). I should make a quick trip there, snarf down some food, so I can at least learn his name. I mean, he’s almost like family. Well, a family member who you don’t care enough about to learn his stinking first name. Ugh. Anyway the coolest waiter dude ever was making his way around our table taking orders. (You know, he could have, at some point in the last 17 years, asked my name too. This can’t be all on me. Shouldn’t I be like family to him too)? When he gets to Elly, she looks up at him and says, “I’ve been hearing about this restaurant all week, so it better be good. I’ll have you know, I drove all the way from Iowa to get this Chinese food!” Without a moments pause, nameless dude shoots back, “And I came all the way from China just to wait on you.”…

Shannon, Elly, Adam, Dewey, Josh. Spencer, Ia. 1980…

–>

I’ve never been ashamed of my age. Most days I’m in awe and a little panicky at how fast the years keep clipping along. But this is my life, and it’s been pretty great so far. No major illness, my family is healthy. Thanks God. I’ve earned every one of my worry lines (ok, more like my fair share of wrinkles). It wasn’t easy learning how to cook when I couldn’t boil water, trying to raise kids when I was so clueless on mothering, and moving around a lot during nearly 46 years of marriage. But boy did I feel old, out of touch, even ancient, when I started thinking about simple pieces of cloth today.

Shannon w/ grandpa Rich. Don’t think he was changing her diaper. June, 1971…

So I’ve been reminiscing about diapers. Weird. No, not the ones for me. Yet. The real vintage ones made of cloth, years ago, when I was pregnant with my firstborn, Shannon in 1970. Although we were still living in the age of stone, Pampers had been invented. But who could afford such luxuries? Certainly not this young couple, who were barely making ends pass through the same time zone, let alone meet. We were broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted. Yikes, these old songs are messing with my head. We were not only totally inexperienced in the marriage department, but thoroughly hapless in our upcoming exploration in the joys of parenting. Back then, Pampers came in packs of 30 and cost about $1.25 a box. About once a month they went on sale for a buck a box at Scott Drug in Sioux City. If there was ever a spare buck floating around (usually not) our tight budget, we would buy one box.

Remember gas was about a quarter a gallon, a carton (that’s 10 packs) of cigarettes would set you back 3 bucks, and change. I think John was taking home about $125.00 a week. He loved his job at KTIV, but we were starving to death. No money in small television station affiliates. You really want to know how backward KTIV was in the early 70’s? The station’s owner refused to run any Preparation H commercials. I kid you not. Whenever a Preparation H commercial was aired on the NBC network, John would have to over-ride it with a public service announcement on KTIV’s air waves in Sioux City.

Sorry, couldn’t help myself…

The only time I could justify using my precious Pampers stash was when we were going out of town. Or if there was a very bad case of diarrhea zipping through our house. And Pampers had no sticky tabs when they were first introduced. You had to use diaper pins. Remember them? Cute, gigantic pins, usually with a plastic animal stuck on the end. It was really hard to get the safety pin through 2 layers of disposable diapers. I was almost guilt ridden, but giddy when I got to open a box. Such an easy, new fangled, modern convenience.

Had to have cute pins for our cloth diapers. 1971..

So when this naive 19 year old girl was expecting her first baby, it was 4 dozen cloth diapers that my Mom brought over one day. Almost blindingly white, large soft rectangles. They looked pretty uncomplicated. Ha! Harsh reality check baby. We had no washer or dryer, so I would be hauling them back and forth to the laundromat. I also had no clue how long 4 dozen diapers would last a newborn. I got more instructions on how to take care of diapers than I did on how to take care of the kid. Once those stark white diapers were soiled in any way, there were several procedural steps that needed to be taken. Post haste. My Mom was the cleanest woman on the planet and would not tolerate stained diapers that were not lily white. EVER.

Similar folds this mom used 4 plus decades ago…

We were living in Hinton, which is about 45 miles from Rock Valley. Once Shannon was born (Yay, Mom finally had her first and only granddaughter) she visited quite often. Making sure the diapers had gone through all the necessary steps to maintain their stain-free dazzling white status. Not as easy as one would imagine. You could just bleach the living snot out of them to keep them white. Clorox, however was quite hard on little baby bottoms. And if you used too much bleach, it yellowed fabrics. That I would not be able to live down or go through the embarrassment of cloth diapers that had yellowed. For shame. My biggest goal was nurturing our exquisite daughter, Shannon Marie, but not far behind was my high maintenance diaper duties.

Newborn Shannon Marie. December, 1970…

Actually Mom had some really good methods for keeping diapers clean, white and smelling out of this world. Here’s Florence’s take on everything you wanted to know about cloth diapers, but were afraid to ask:

1. Every diaper (and I mean every one, no matter how soiled) got rinsed in the toilet. Every one. Every single time.

The joy of rinsing out diapers in the toilet. You can just see the diaper pail…

2. They were then placed in the diaper pail. My diaper pail was half filled with warm water, just a titch of Clorox (like a thimble full-see above for delicate baby butts) and Dreft. Don’t know what Mom had against Ivory Flakes, but she preferred Dreft. So I used Dreft.

3. Mom’s secret weapon for sparkly clean, awesome smelling, but still somewhat soiled diapers wasn’t kept in our house. Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you got to do is call. Sorry, I got caught up in a James Taylor moment. But it’s true, no matter what kind of weather we were having, these now semi-clean diapers needed to be hung up outdoors. So, after swishing them around in the toilet, (gross, but I never really thought so back then) soaking them for at least a day in Drefty solution in the diaper pail. Next I’d wring them out by hand. Haul the heavy buggers outside and clip 2 or 3 diapers together with a clothes pin on the clothesline. Leave them outside for a couple days. I couldn’t leave mine out too long, cause I only had 4 dozen. If there was a day when I wasn’t up on my game and discovered a diaper with a permanent stain that had now been set by the laundromat’s hot as Hades dryer, I would be held accountable. It was just easier to bury the thing out in the yard before Mom came back for another visit.

During bleak, harsh Iowa winters, the diapers outside would be froze solid, sometimes covered with snow and ice. Yet, most of my diapers remained pristine white, and honestly smelled like they had been laundered in some kind of expensive, exotic, phenomenal soap. They actually smelled better when I brought them in the house off the clothesline, but were technically still soiled, than after I brought them home from the laundromat. Clotheslines don’t seem very popular anymore, but the smell laundry had after hanging outdoors was really hard to beat. Nothing better than clean-dried-outdoors-in-the-wind-fresh-sheets-on-a-bed.

My Dad was called to clear a path to the clothesline…

Then there were the rubber pants issues to deal with. Horrible little things you pulled over a diaper. So the first time the baby piddles, you didn’t get soaked too. (My newborns tinkled about every 3 minutes). Rubber pants 40 years ago used to do one of two things. Got as hard as styrene and would crack all over, or melt in the dryer if you forgot to separate them from the clean, wet diapers. Rubber pants needed to air dry. So much to remember for this new mom. The pressure was enormous. But nothing in comparison to the qualifications required in my next big hurdle of motherhood. Stay strong, new mommy Neese.

Scuffed shoes, Daddy’s glove, and a humongous rubber pants, 1971…

There is a real art form to folding diapers. Complicated, intricate maneuvers, not for the faint of heart. Only the most accomplished moms pulled this off with real finesse. Quarter folds, triangular, halves, twisting, doubling up fabric for certain “problem areas.” The easiest way to become a professional FYI-er (fit your infant) were exclusive classes held in secret locations throughout the city. New moms were given codes before they left the hospital noting where their first class would be held. As a gesture of good will, the hospital gave new moms their first diaper folding lesson free. It was a universal newborn diaper fold, pretty much fitting any little squirt under 9 pounds. If your kid came out weighing 10 pounds (ouch) you were on your own until you figured out the code, and were up for classes after being discharged from the hospital. Here’s a little known factoid. Pregnant women from China were sent to the U.S. under the loose guise of wanting to give birth here. As soon as the “newborn fold” diaper was no longer keeping baby halfway dry (we’ve got a leak down her left leg) these women used our FYI codes to learn the next needed diaper folding technique. Then they rushed back to their homeland. They, in turn taught others and started using different mediums and textiles. Then slyly changed the name to stay away from lawsuits and copyright infringement. This is where the word “origami” was invented. Yup, snatched from the clutches of our own All-American diaper changing moms.

Ha! Origami my foot. Stolen from American moms diaper folding techniques…

Soon I became proficient in keeping diapers soft, white and speed folding. (yes, there were some stiff competitions held in each diaper size division, nation wide). You’d tuck the clean diapers in your own little antiquated diaper holder that hung over the door knob. All of a sudden I’d realize Shannon’s little tush had grown just enough that this diaper fold was no longer doing the job. Well drats. She was spouting more leaks than an outside sprinkler. Time to go back for another code, more classes and new folding techniques. Sigh.

Shannon and pregnant me, 1974. Josh was on the way…

Shannon was about 2-1/2 when she brought up the subject one day of doing away with her diapers. What? Mommy’s just getting the hang of this. She submitted the proper paper work in accordance with Iowa’s state laws and was approved. Wasn’t long before diapers in the Van Berkum house were but a fuzzy white memory. It kinda reminded me of labor pains. Excruciating and miserable, but once she was born, the unpleasant memories faded away. Soon the cleaning steps, diaper pail, exact Dreft measurements, frost bitten fingers, and wading outdoor to clotheslines through 3 feet of snow were forgotten. Until I found out about a year later, I was preggers again. Got out the diapers, took a refresher course from Mom on the washing “steps.” An easy pregnancy. Major heartburn, and strange cravings (sauerkraut and lemon meringue pie), but labor was cut in half compared to Shannon’s. Plus the baby, rather than being 10 days late was born on my due date. “Denise you have a beautiful baby boy,” my doctor said quietly. “What? Wait a minute,” I shrieked. “What do you mean, it’s a boy? I can’t have a baby boy. I don’t know how to fold boy diapers.”…

Joshua, 1975. I did learn how to fold boy diapers…

Let me set the stage for you. It was May, 1990. We had been living in Michigan for about 3 years. John and I had done something remarkable. Monumental actually. We had both stopped smoking, cold turkey on May 5th. It was about 2 weeks later. Neither of us had yet spoken ONE civil word to each other. But we hadn’t snuck any smokes either. The insides of John’s cheeks (the upper ones in his head) were gnawed and chewed up, resembling ground chuck from chomping gum with a vengeance 24-7. I’d like to say I remained cool, calm and collected, but I was a mess too. Headaches, insomnia, major bitchy-ness plaguing me big time. Joshua was 15, Adam, 10. Shannon was 19. It was the end of her freshman year at Michigan State.

Shannon, Joshua, John, me and Adam. About 1990…

–

Shannon approached me first. Told me she thought she might be pregnant. Dear God, please no. My brilliant, beautiful, over-achieving daughter. She had been dreaming (more like zoned in, totally focused and determined) about going to college since she was 6. Got a couple of home pregnancy tests, both positive. Here’s where I made my humongous mistake. Could not bring myself to break the news to John. So I waited, and said nothing. You think a couple weeks would not make a noteworthy difference in the scheme of things, looking at the big picture. But not telling John right away caused a rift between us of epic proportions. This proved to be as close to a divorce as we’d ever come. Still to this day. Betrayal to him, pure and simple. Now, not only was Shannon in the dog house with her dad, (dog house was putting it mildly) I was on his shit list, big time. (Shit list summed it up about right). And deservedly so. Not a happy home. Shannon got her old job back at The Parlour, where she had worked during high school. No more college. I was devastated for her, but for me too. Such high hopes. Just shattered. Shannon wasn’t living with us, so she and her dad rarely spoke. Like never. Heck, John and I barely spoke. Poor Josh and Adam, they didn’t know what to think. Or say. This went on for months.

Ari, cute as a tulip. 2002…

Ariana Brianne arrived one month after Shannon turned 20. I had just turned 40. How in the world could I ever have thought that this was not just the best thing ever? For Shannon? For me? For the Van Berkum family? For the whole freaking world! Shannon was instantly transformed into the most caring, nurturing, unselfish mother in the world. Joshua and Adam thought Ari was the best thing since Hostess Twinkies. (They were too young to get the whole “sliced bread” thing). Ariana was the most incredible baby ever. And I mean ever. EVER. John was just a titch slower to realize the importance of how much better everyone’s lives were after Ari joined our little realm.

Ariana, 1992…

This is how their two worlds finally collided. Shannon moved back home when Ari was a few weeks old. We had a huge finished family room downstairs, so she and Ari moved in it. Shannon went back to work at The Parlour, while I took care of Ari. Trying to keep Ari appeased (nursing babe who really didn’t care for the bottle) while Mommy worked.

Shannon working hard at The Parlour…

This particular day, Shannon and Ari had been shopping. Shannon brought Ari in the house in her carrier that attaches to the car seat. You’ve seen those car seats everywhere. I think they’re a nation-wide law for infant safety. Mom’s lug them around on their arms. But they’re really handy cause the baby can sorta sit, lay, see what’s going on, all from this position. Anyway, the carrier with Ari strapped in was plopped on our dining room table, while Shannon brought in some stuff. Ari was about 10 weeks old. John walked around the dining room table, pausing for a second at the baby carrier. Just then, Ari stuck her chubby fist up and grabbed John’s finger. This image remains burned in my brain. Like the song, “Just One Look, that’s all it took, yeah, just one look.” Except it was her tiny fist latching on to his index finger. She owned him, pure and simple. She was smitten with his voice, his beard, glasses, just about everything grandpa. From that one simple little moment I captured, I saw and realized how much John loved Ari. They shared a special connection. A bond which has not been broken. Never even nicked. Talk about a mutual admiration society. That’s the Ari-grandpa-show-for-sure.

Ari and grandpa at The Falls, in SD, 2004…

Without any help or a word mentioned beforehand to either John or I, Shannon announced she and Ari were moving out that fall. They were headed back to East Lansing and Michigan State together. Shannon got an apartment in married housing for the 2 of them. She signed Ari up at Spartan Child Development Center. This was the one constantly-mounting-bill that proved most troublesome for Shannon. She’d call me, horribly upset, “mom, they’re going to kick Ari out of Spartan!” Sigh. “Ok Honey, how much money are you behind?” I’d ask, dreading the answer. “Umm, I owe $750.00,” she’d sob. Cringe. (Why not tell me when you’re 3 or 4 hundred behind? Too independent and stubborn). Here’s the semi-smart thing I always did when any of our kids asked for monetary help. Took down the name and address of where our hard earned money was headed. Sent the check directly to the business.

Ari and Landon. '03 or '04…

Shannon took a full load of classes, year round. If Ari was sick, and couldn’t go to SCDC, I’d scoot to Lansing to watch her or bring her to Jackson for a couple days. Shannon took summer classes, graduating with a double major in journalism and psychology. After a year or so, she landed a job working for the State of Michigan as a social worker. Applied and was accepted for her Masters degree program in psychology. Which she attained in less than a year. Then she got promoted at the State to Supervisor of foster care. Ari was 6 while Shannon was getting her Masters degree. What I wouldn’t give for a snapshot of them together one day when I walked in for a visit. They were sitting on the couch, facing each other, at opposite ends. Both of them were reading, (well, Shannon was studying). With their toes touching.

Ari 7, 1998…

Shannon bought a little house in Lansing. Ari was enrolled in a private elementary school. Shannon fell in love with a guy she knew from Jackson High. He had been playing pro basketball in Europe. He’s the same age as Shannon but graduated 2 years ahead of her when he was 16. Yeah, he’s brilliant. Tracey was teaching in Jackson, so he drove 35 miles to work everyday. A couple years later, he was offered Jackson’s varsity basketball coaching job, along with teaching. Shannon was pregnant with Landon, so they started discussing a move to Jackson. Ari was about 10 and looking forward to being a big sister. Besides, while their little house fit Shannon and Ariana just fine, 6’5″ Tracey filled it up quickly. Landon was a fussy baby, with all kinds of allergies they knew nothing about just yet. So they shopped for a new house in Jackson. We had already moved 150 miles west a bit before Shannon and Tracey were married in 1998.

Tracey, Ari and Landon, late 2000…

In 2004, Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) was almost 4 and Shannon was expecting her third child. It was a girl and Ari was delirious with anticipation. At 13, Ariana honestly could not wait for Peyton to be born. The 2 girls have always been very close. Side note. Peyton, now 11 had this conversation with me a couple months ago when the two of us were in their living room together in Jackson.

Ari and Peyton, 2006…

Peyton: “gram, you can never do a story on me unless I get to read it first!”

Gram: ” umm, why not Honey?”

Peyton: “well gram, that whole paragraph in Landon’s story about nipples and nursing. I wouldn’t be comfortable unless I get to edit what you write about me.” (My blog post archives, story on “Landon Andrew,” December, 2014)

Gram: “Peyton you realize there’s only a few people who read this blog, and they’re my friends. They’re mostly grandparents and hardly any of them know you, right?”

Peyton: “yup, but I still really need to read and edit what you plan on writing about me beforehand.” Believe it folks!!! Hilarious.

Before Shannon went on maternity leave with Peyton, she applied to start her doctorate program, hoping to get a degree in Clinical and Humanistic Psychology. That’s a mouthful. From the Michigan School for Professional Psychology. An intensive 4 year program. So during the next 4 years, she basically studied from the time the kids went to bed, until 1 or 2 a.m. Slept about 3 hours a night, drove to Detroit daily, raised 3 kids, and worked part-time. Can’t cut Tracey out of this equation either. He schlepped kids back and forth to preschool, doctor appointments, elementary school, the Y, dance class, little league, basketball camps. Plus running his own basketball program, lesson planning at night, baths and bedtime stories. Shannon could do more multitasking with one arm tied behind her back than I’ve been able to do with 4 arms on my best days.

Ari, sport shooting. Won't let anyone touch her shotgun…

When you finally reach adulthood, you never really think about getting older. I never did. We were always the young couple on the block with 3 little kids. I can’t ever remember thinking, “wow I can’t wait to be a grandma.” Yet besides my 3 incredible kids, becoming a grandma is the biggest blessing and by far my best and favorite life-time accomplishment. It’s not something you actually plan for. Getting Ariana in my life was a surprise since she was not planned at all. But it was one of the best gifts God ever gave me. Who knew? Well, besides God?

Ari and me. The Black Hills, 2003…

This started out as just an Ari story, but morphed into adding the whole Lowder crew. Guess it was sorta the natural order of things. Ari has become a lovely young woman. Inching her way to a degree in early child development. She’d like to have her own preschool someday. You go Ari! She loves a wonderful young man named Josh, and both are happily living their own lives. Although I’m not planning on it, I could very well become a great-grandma in the next few years. Seems young to me, but when I was Ari’s age, I had already become a mom for the second time with Joshua. (Yeah, they are two are different Josh’s. What are the odds in such a small family)? But it’s ok Ari, you can wait a bit longer in becoming a mom and making me a great. Although I’d pretty much like being “great” at anything.

Ari, Christmas of 1992 with her own Vette…

I still think of the little girl, playing with her own battery operated Corvette that John bought her in the early 90’s after he got his 1964 Vette. They used to wash them together on the front yard in Jackson. Last summer Ari did a photo session that turned out exquisite. Since the day I laid eyes on those prints, my mantra has been, “a grandma should never be able to use the adjectives, sultry, sexy or risqué in the same sentence as the word granddaughter!” She’s drop dead beautiful when cute, silly, or sexy. And just as sweet as she is pretty.

Gulp. Sexy, sultry and granddaughter Ari in the same sentence…

My dearest Ariana, I do not love you any more or less than my other 3 precious grandchildren. It’s just been my blessed privilege to have and love you a lot longer…

Goofy grands. Ari, Landon, Graham and Peyton, 2013…

–>

Looking over my blog posts, I realize not many have been about Mom. And most of the ones I’ve written about her haven’t been in a very positive light. Slightly askew. Sorry Mom. I know much of your life wasn’t easy. An unhappy marriage. Tragically losing your 12 year old son Larry in 1958, when you were only 32. I think these insurmountable challenges throughout your life were almost more than you could bear.

Mom and newborn me, early 1951…

I assume I was not part of your master plan. By the time you were 20, Mona and Larry had each made their appearance in your life. But birth control methods were dicey back then. About 2 weeks before your 24th birthday, you became the mother of 3 with the addition of me. Nine bouncing pounds of Denise Lynne. I think you might have regretted many things during your life. Never did I feel you were sorry that I’d been born. Quite the opposite actually. You doted on little Neese. Ok, I admit, I was pretty awesome. Before I became a world class brat. Around age 10.

Mona, Mom and Larry. Before my birth, about 1948…

In my memory bank when we lived in the little house on the west side of Rock Valley, we were happy. A stay-at-home-mom with 3 kids under 8. Most of the pictures I have show us as a close knit group, enjoying family life. Simple trips to the park, swimming pit, celebrating Rock Valley’s Diamond Jubilee in 1954. Day trips to Yankton and The Grotto. Our Lake Okoboji family picture in 1957 depicts a family that really enjoyed doing things together. We don’t look miserable or unhappy. We look like a well-rounded, normal family. We were going to a great church. Larry and Mona were in school, so you devoted all your attention on little old me.

Larry, me, Mona and Mom at Yankton, 1956…

We needed a bigger house but that wasn’t a problem. You and Dad saved up money for the down payment on our house on 15th street. We could each have our own bedroom. Yay. The first 3 years in that house were great. Dad worked on it constantly after his long day at the State shop. Remodeling, making the house into a home for us. I was finally in school, and out of your hair. You started working so we’d have some extra money. Life was good. So what happened to our all-American family?

Okoboji 1957. Larry, Mona, Dad, me and Mom…

I think it all fell apart after Larry was killed. It’s been said even the happiest, most stable marriages cannot recover from the loss of a child. I believe that to be true in our family’s case. Dad found the Lord (a good thing, but he was over the top about it for a couple decades). And you, my poor Mom sunk into a deep depression hole that would take you a couple decades to climb out of. And I don’t think you ever really fully recovered. Had you been encouraged to talk about your feelings of loss with a support group or therapist, it might have changed your life. Not to be. But this isn’t the day to talk about what should have happened over 50 years ago.

Dad, Mom, me and Mona. Canton S.D. 1961…

Here are some positive things about Mom. She never gave up. And she could have. Might have even wanted to at times. She always put on a good front. Good fronts were something she excelled at. Mom always took care of us. Her family suppers (everyday but Saturday night) were always good. Her house was immaculate. (And I do mean spic and span. Nary a germ in the place) She always had me dressed to the nines. She encouraged me. She rarely said “no.” (I love this part, but in retrospect, might not have been the best thing for me. See above: really a brat by age 10). And this was well before I became an angry, belligerent, disrespectful, rebellious teen. Mom taught me how to drive a car when I was 12. She taught me how to knit and crochet. I should have paid more attention to learning how to read knitting patterns, but she was always there to show me how to do it. She was so proud of this loser girl. Awful-student-that-I-was-and-all-around-pain-in-the-ass-shit-that-I’d-become.

Mom thoroughly enjoyed letting me skip school to go shopping for an afternoon (pretty much except for that one awful time). She liked when I brought friends home. To our unusually quiet house. I can remember Randy Vandevelde and I doing a skit for Mom in the living room when we were in high school. We were re-enacting a goofy TV commercial. Mom was in stitches, as were we. She especially loved my friends Char, Wan, and Kay. Tolerated a couple others, one who always managed to scuff up her glorious oak dining room floor. She made me anything I was ever hungry for or craving. Fudge, divinity, popcorn, cinnamon rolls, apple pie. She was immensely proud when I was selected to be a cheerleader. Couldn’t wait for that annual trip to Sioux City to buy my new cheerleading sweater for the season. While maybe some moms might have been fretting about the cost, she couldn’t wait to shell out money for my special outfit.

Faye, me, Kay and Diane, 1968…

Although Mom was most unhappy with my choice in the husband department, she adored the grandchildren our union produced. (I think she preferred to believe I managed to do this part all by myself. Think immaculate conceptions, times 3). When our then small kids visited Mom and Dad in Rock Valley, it was usually just one kid at a time. So they could really spoil the heck out of each one. Let them be the big cheese separately. Mom and Dad never enjoyed or tolerated their sibling rivalry. Shannon, Joshua or Adam would come home with happy tales of the things they did. Baking tiny sugar cookies, the size of my thumbnail together. Trips to Sioux Falls, the Zoo, the Falls, parks, restaurants, malls. Taking them to Sioux Center, Canton or Rock Rapids. Never doubted how much Mom and Dad adored my kids. Not always in a healthy way, but for the most part idolized my kids.

Joshua, Adam and Shannon, 1979…

Mom and I pretty much had a complicated relationship our whole lives. The older I got, it was as though she couldn’t help herself by intruding, interfering and manipulating in our lives. But I always knew she loved me. Mom, this is to assure you, I always loved you too. No matter what…

Made in school, Mother’s Day about 1958…

The poem inside my card to Mom, 1958…

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She just appeared one Wednesday morning at staff meeting. Curious, we gawked and waited. Preacher man, alias Two Fish for those keeping up with my blog, introduced us to Becca. She would soon be graduating from seminary with a MDiv degree. Our children’s director position had been open for a couple months again. TF had canned the last two directors since I’d been working for him, maybe 3 years. Which was odd since we hardly had any children in the congregation. Guess he thought he should just keep hiring people until one miraculously started mass-producing kids from thin air for our aging church.

Becca, 2008…

After our meeting, some of us met in the library with Becca to give her a feel for the church and staff. I should have warned her by shouting, “run Farrester, run.” But she was enthusiastic, optimistic, and filled with the Holy Spirit. I liked her right off the bat. She was the same age as my kids. Her mom lived in Oregon. Perfect. Since my days, nights, weekends were filled with everything elderly, this new friend was gonna be a nice change for me.

Becca knew how to win people over. She laughed out loud when I told a story about my Dad. The time he insisted he got into a friendly argument with John Wesley (who was born in like 1703) over predestination. Get this, Dad said it was during a Billy Graham Crusade in the 1970’s, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota of all places. Not gonna repeat the story. But it is really cute. If you want to read it, go back in my blog archives to July, 2014. The story is called, “The 3 Amigos.” Becca’s smile was infectious. She won me over, hook, line and sinker. Becca’s plans at the moment were going back to school for a few weeks, graduate, then start her new job/career with us.

John Wesley. Dad was convinced that he attended a Billy Graham Crusade, 250 yrs after his birth…

You gotta understand some things about our staff first. We were all old-school. Back then, I was just getting comfortable using a computer and email. But I had never heard of Facebook. And I was one of the younger people on staff. So when Becca joined our weekly meetings, she brought along her laptop. (AND USED IT DURING STAFF MEETINGS) Sacrilege. She’d type in meeting times, calendar events and took notes. (ON HER COMPUTER DURING STAFF MEETINGS) Blasphemy. The frown and worry lines were apparent every time TF glanced over at her. This was not on the approved behavior list for our staff meetings. Holy smokes, maybe she was secretly playing solitaire, just trying to look like she was paying attention. That whole techie-computer-stuff at staff meetings was disconcerting. It just wasn’t right. Or natural. Funny though, at one of the last staff meetings I attended, 3 of the higher-ups were all holding iPads, gabbing like junior high students about playing the game Angry Birds.

There were a few people Becca’s age in our church, so she made friends quickly. Soon after she started, she asked if she could go along visiting with me? She was a full-time employee, but with less than a dozen kids in church, how was she going to fill up 40 hours a week? I said sure. Happy for the company. Many times “my little people” read the newsletters about new members, staff or changes at the church. But since most were home bound, they never actually got to see any of these changes or meet new people. Becca enjoyed visiting. (She may have loved kids and youth, but what I witnessed was someone connecting with older folks with love and empathy. Seriously, she might have been trying to squeeze me out of my job. She happily tagged along several times during her first couple months. Meeting and visiting many folks she would never see inside the church.

Becca, God makes her smile like that…

Soon new signs cropped up in the church hallways. All about activities for the kid’s ministry. You could not fault Becca for her bubbling excitement. But that so-called euphoric feeling you get with a new job was over way too soon. She called me while I was at Shannon’s house for a couple of days. In tears and in a panic. TF had called her in the office, very upset about some assigned tasks Becca had supposedly messed up royally. Some of the staff were planning a trip to New Mexico for a seminar. Part of Becca’s responsibility were securing all the plane tickets. Although Becca produced documentation proving she had followed through with her part of the responsibility, TF was not convinced. “Denise, I think I’m going to be fired,” she sobbed. I actually laughed. “Becca, honey, you’re still in the honeymoon phase. He’s not gonna fire you after 4 months. We don’t even know you yet. Please don’t worry.”

Well guess what? He did. And with his usual, off the reservation flair. He told Becca that SPRC (staff-parish-relations-committee. Are you kidding me? Replace the word “staff” with preacher, then you have the real substance of that committee) was meeting that night to discuss her disappointing job performance thus far. He would call her in the morning to let her know the outcome. Could he even manage to do that right? Meet her calmly in his office at a reasonable hour? Of course not. At the time, Becca was house sitting for a friend/church member who lived about 15 miles out of town. TF called her after 9 pm saying the SPRC committee had come to a decision. He and the 80 year old committee chairwoman drove out after 10 pm to relieve Becca of her new 4 month old job. My gut feeling was that this was really a monetary decision, handled horribly. I think TF was in panic mode because the church finances were in such a mess. Overspending, but membership and money was down. He just realized that the church could not afford her salary BECAUSE WE VIRTUALLY HAD NO KIDS.

Devastated, jobless, homeless, no severance package, thousands of miles away from family and loved ones, Becca’s outlook might have looked grim. But that’s not the end of her story by any means. It was really just the beginning for Becca. Our dear mutual friend, whom I’ve written about a couple of times, Rosemary, offered Becca a place to live until she found a job. Rosemary, who had the biggest heart in the world, also had an exquisite new home. (By the way, Rosemary would have celebrated her 51st birthday this week. She died almost 5 years ago from cancer). It would take a couple months, but Becca was by no means down and out. She found a part-time children/youth director’s job at another church about 40 miles away. Supplemented her income by substitute teaching. Rosemary and I drove over to see Becca one Sunday, because she was singing a couple of solos. This church was proving to have a positive, healthy work environment. Who knew there were such places? In a church? She also went back to school to acquire her Elder status which would enable her to do pastoral ministry rather than be limited to children/youth. Soon she met a great guy, who was going through a tumultuous divorce. She and Jeremy were married a year later. Becca wholeheartedly stepped up to the plate in the role of stepmom with his 2 young children. After getting her Elder degree, she became the full time pastor here in Michigan. Jeremy then went back to college and just graduated. Guess what? Now he’s headed to seminary. As soon as he’s done, Becca’s plans are to go back for her doctorate. These overachieving young people. It’s mind-boggling to witness how much Becca’s, Jeremy’s and their kids lives have changed in the last few years. One amazing God, bringing them together.

Becca and Jeremy…

Becca’s been after me to come hear her preach. She’s being moved to a different church a couple hours away this summer. Since John was gone for the weekend, I decided it was a good time to scoot up and hear her. Wow. Just wow. What a blessing in her message about Peter. How lost he was after Jesus was crucified. What did he do? What Peter knew and was comfortable doing-he went fishing. With some of the disciples. But they caught nothing all night. Their nets remained empty. When Jesus called out to them from the shore the next morning, none of them recognized Him. Jesus told them to throw their nets on the other side of the boat. This was Becca’s take: guys, stop throwing your net on the “good Friday” side. Start fishing on the “Easter side” of the boat. It was then they caught their boatload of fish. Suddenly Peter and the disciples knew the time was right, and they were more than ready and willing to spread the word of Jesus. I bawled through most of the sermon, and the special music. Which was Becca singing. Wow.

Becca from the pulpit…

I still have grave misgivings about the Methodist church in general. Really, how can one remain optimistic about the church and it’s ministers when I had 4 in a row that were not great (and I’m being kind here) in the “boss” department? But hearing Becca’s sermon, watching her “Christ-like glow,” doing God’s work, has given me new hope.

I didn’t realize that Becca kept up with my blog. She rarely comments. Two of her comments though have had a huge impact on me. The first time was on my story, “Called.” This is what she wrote: “Love the poem. And love that you were called to visit. You know that’s the hardest part of my job, but it’s also the greatest joy. So much of my ministry is about politics, putting out ridiculous fires. And then I sit down with someone and just listen, and realize that THIS is what pastoral ministry is all about. It gives me encouragement, hope, fuel to keep going. Thanks for dragging me along with you a few times. You taught me how to do pastoral care.”

The second time was on my painful blog post called “Two Fish.” Here’s Becca’s comments: “Forgiveness isn’t about them, it is about us. You don’t have to get to a point where you say, they didn’t hurt me, or they aren’t evil. Forgiveness is getting to the point where you say, I’m letting go of the negative impact this is having on my life. It’s about you and God, and not the other person. The truth is, God is the one who forgives and forgets. As humans, we are called to forgive, but we don’t have (and I usually find it is impossible) to forget. So, my prayer for you is that you can slowly open your hand that has been holding onto that hot coal, drop it, and allow the healing to begin. That fish-shaped coal will still be ugly, hot and capable of great damage. It just won’t be able to damage or impact you anymore.”

So this amazing young woman of God named Becca, who has yet to celebrate 4 decades on this earth is also wise beyond her years (and mine). She forgave “Two Fish” a long time ago. Without him and what happened here, her life might have been turned out very differently. So how come my hardened heart seems incapable of doing the same? It’s true, I’m not nearly as bitter as I was, and 6 years have passed since my big run-in with TF. But I can’t seem to let it go completely. I think it’s because I truly believe TF purposely went out of his way to hurt me. This man of the cloth. For now, I cling to the thoughts I carry from Becca’s message last Sunday. I asked her if she could please send me of her old sermons for awhile? Something to help change and soften this hurt heart of mine…

They were both retired when they moved back to Muskegon, 20 some years ago. Ann had an aging mother, and a spinster aunt living here, both of whom needed help. Bob and Ann had lived most of their married lives in Greenville, which is northeast of Grand Rapids. Muskegon is northwest of Grand Rapids. They were familiar with the area and had their church papers transferred back to the same church they had attended when they lived here years ago. It was like coming home. There were many renewed friendships, and this move fit them like a glove.

Ann and Bob, about 2000…

Ann had taught elementary school for many years. Helping form young minds. She loved her work. Bob had been an engineer. He was also an avid golfer. Playing as often as he could since he retired and could conjure up a foursome. Ann stayed busy caring for her mom and aunt until they both passed away. Plus she was involved in several organizations, like retired teachers and PEO. They had 2 grown children. Their daughter lived about 150 miles away. Their son was on the west coast. For the first couple of years of my Parish Visiting stint, the only time I saw them was in church. They had gotten well into the swing of our aging congregation and were active participants.

They were not on my radar because they were doing fine. I really took no notice of them. My plate was full enough with an ever growing list of elderly, not doing fine for me to visit. Our church didn’t have a lot of young people, youth or kids. I was then in my early 50’s and John and I were some of the younger members of the church. But you know how that goes. Things change, we all age, and pretty soon their name popped up.

Preacher said it had been brought to his attention that Bob and Ann had been absent for a few weeks. Would I be so kind as to stop there and see how they were doing? Sure. They lived in a beautiful condominium complex. Actually about 6 couples from our church were living in that string of condos. A couple days later, there I was, driving 8 miles an hour, trying to find their address. Got out with my little basket of goodies. Bread and Butter pickles, pickled beets, and an assortment of jams and food. Honest, that’s probably the only thing that got me in the door. Holy moly, Ann was hot, and I was the (un) lucky recipient of her wrath. What in heavens name did I do to deserve this? Plain and simple, I got reamed that day.

Guess they had actually missed 4 or 5 months of church in a row. And no one from the church had called on them, or at the very least, given them a phone call. One of their neighbors had been in the church office and casually mentioned that Bob and Ann were noticeably absent from all activities lately. The church had measures in place to insure this would not happen. During the church service, you were supposed to fill out this little welcome form. It got tossed in the collection plate, separated and brought to the office. Then someone was supposed to track members attendance during the week, letting the higher-ups know WHEN AN OLDER COUPLE MISSED 16 SUNDAYS IN A ROW. Or maybe a titch before 16 weeks had passed. Wow, that ball had been dropped. All I could do was apologize. And promptly put all the canned goods, cookies, soups and bread on the counter as a small peace offering, and wait for the dust to settle.

Typical goodie basket I brought folks when visiting…

From that day forward, they were on my parish visitor list. And the friendship that grew was extra special, considering our rather rocky start. But Bob was failing. Legs were messed up, losing strength. He’d perk up for a few weeks, then have another relapse. A couple hospital stays thrown in. He was losing ground. After one particularly bad bout, he had to spend some time at a long care facility. (Don’t care for 2 terms used frequently in my line of work. Nursing home is one, so I usually say long term care facility. Makes it sound like you might just get out of there yet. The other one even more problematic for me. Shut-ins. So gross, hate it. I say home-bound which is about as bad, I guess. But to me it doesn’t sound quite so hopeless or helpless). Sorry, I digress. Now where was I? Oh yeah, Bob was moved from the hospital to care facility for some re-hab.

I totally remember the day. I stopped at the care facility, which was right next to the hospital to check up on him (them). Their daughter was just leaving as I walked in. Bob seemed to be doing pretty well. We were having a great visit. There was a dusting of snow on the ground. Bob’s bed was right next to the window. As we were discussing various local assisted living centers and the the possibility of Bob moving as soon as he was stronger, a (bunch, herd, flock, gaggle?) of wild turkeys started strutting their stuff right outside his window. A wonderful distraction and some lively conversation ensued.

After work, I headed out of town to spend a couple days in Jackson with Shannon’s family. I was only working 20 hours a week, which I usually tried to complete in four days. Unless a broken hip, illness, ER visit messed with my loosey-goosey schedule. I wasn’t at Shannon’s a day when I got an email from Mary. She was in charge of the congregational prayer chain. Many times a person on my visiting list or a family member would call me before they called the church or Mary. Whoever got the call first passed it on or called the appropriate people. This disturbing email said that Bob indeed had been moved, but to a new Hospice facility in town. Massive stroke. Not good.

I got home from Jackson late the next night. No more news from Mary, the church or Ann. By the next morning we had 6 inches of new snow. Yuk. I hopped in the car about 6:30 and slid my way 10 miles south to the mall because they open their doors at 7 for walkers (not of the Walking Dead variety). As I’m chalking up my laps, listening to hip-hop, I planned my day. Going to slide my way back home, shower, turn right around, slide my way back. Practically to the exact spot I was right now. Our new hospice facility, Poppen House was about 3 blocks from our mall. Wait a minute. That’s really dumb. I should just stop while I’m already out here. Would Ann or Bob really mind that I’m wearing sweats, and my hair is crazy-scary from wearing my oversized Bose headphones? Probably not. But I hadn’t showered yet, or found some plaster to make my face presentable. Bonus points though cause my teeth are sparkly clean. Well, heck with it, I’m gonna risk it.

Your signature is required and who you’re visiting when entering Poppen House. I signed in, asked for Bob’s room number and slunk through the familiar halls as inconspicuously as possible. A nurse was in his room. She turned to me and quietly asked, “are you his daughter or family?” “No, I’m just the Parish Visitor from his church.” She curled her finger for me to follow her to the hall. “He’s not doing well at all,” she whispered. “Um, have you called Ann? Or his daughter,” I asked? “Yes we have, but with the weather, Ann doesn’t want to drive and is waiting for a ride” she continued. “Do you want me to go get her?” I offered. Hesitantly she said, “I don’t think Ann would want Bob to be alone. And she will be here as soon as her ride arrives.” “Alright then, I will not leave Bob’s side until family comes, ok?” Clearly relieved she said, “That would be great, thanks.” I stopped in one of the all-purpose rooms where families can gather and picked up a hymn book. Or else it was another trip trekking back out to my car where I kept one. I pulled a chair next to Bob’s bed, clasped his hand in mine. Started singing in my awful, off-tune voice my favorite hymns. His breathing got slower and more shallow by the minute. I assured him that God, Ann and the kids loved him very much, and everything was going to be ok. Forty-five minutes after I got there, Bob breathed his last.

I found the nurse, then called our minister. Explained what happened. Told him I really didn’t want to break the news to Ann, period. Especially looking like I belonged on the set of The Walking Dead. He said he’d jump in the car and come as quick as he could. I left. He made it there before Ann did, thank heavens. Traumatic for me, but so glad I was there. Still wonder about that odd morning. Racking up my 3 miles, listening to hip-hop, when I suddenly decided to forget what I looked like, and just stop in for a minute to see him.

Ann and I continued our close friendship after Bob’s passing. Some time later I invited Ann and a couple other gals over for a soup and salad luncheon. It was a beautiful spring day. They loved coming to my house, watching the lake. I set the table with my fancy china. Ann walks in with an old Sass shoe box, covered with masking tape. Barb walks in with a pretty African violet for me. Ann plunks the box in my hands. “What’s this?” “Ah, open it after we eat,” she says. Such a nice afternoon. When they were getting ready to leave, Ann instructs me to open the box. Inside is a stunning piece of Lladro porcelain. Ann held up her finger to shush me. “You know I’m moving out of the condo, and into independent living. I asked my son if he wanted the Lladro? He said no. Asked my daughter? She didn’t even know what it was. Remember the time you stopped a couple years ago? We were busy talking, when all of a sudden you piped up, “Ann, is that a Lladro? Well, when Bob and I were in Spain, we bought this piece and I carried it on my lap in the plane. We were traveling with friends who also bought a couple pieces of Lladro. They had theirs shipped. They never got them in the mail. I don’t know anyone else who’d love and appreciate it like you will. Don’t say a word Denise. Not one word.”

Lladro gift from Ann. Mother and Baby…

Ann’s had a couple setbacks of her own. Fell and had to wear a neck brace for several months. Later had to have gall bladder surgery. But she’s still doing ok some 7 years after losing Bob. She was one of my staunchest supporters when the big church snafu occurred. Stood up, grabbed the microphone and said, “Denise has one of the most important jobs in this church. She is loved by many, and eliminating her job would be a grave disservice for those of us that she visits regularly. She’s really the umbilical cord from the church to those who are no longer able to attend.” Wow.

My retirement dinner. My son-in-law Tracey talking with Ann. 2013…

When I decided to retire, the church had a lovely luncheon for me after a Sunday morning service. The phenomenal amount of cards I got was unreal. Even more so, the stuff people wrote in the cards. Here’s how Ann summed hers up:

D-elightful: She visits the sick and the 60+ group.

E-nergetic: She makes to give; pickles, jams and soups.

N-ostolgic: She wants to return to her dear family.

I-mpressive: She imparts: CUM does care about me.

S-miling: She brings sunshine into one’s day.

E-njoyable: She arrives, chats, and too soon AWAY….

My retirement thank you card from Ann. She is special to me…

–>

I’m really ready to move on. The hurt and anger are just a dull ache lately. And that’s good. For you Johnny-come-lately’s who haven’t kept up with my blog, (for shame) this is the final installment (I promise) about lamenting over my 4 lousy bosses. Yes, I wrote 4. My work was a terrific mission. I can’t really call it a job, it was more like a calling. Definitely not the last you’ll hear about my little people. It was work that I loved, and was very good at it. Most of you know how I feel about elderly people. They have been close to my heart since I was a little girl.

A yearly luncheon held for the home bound and guests when I was Parish Visitor…

I worked at 2 different churches for the span of a dozen years. I had 4 bosses. All of them were preachers. Every one was a subpar boss. By the time I was working for boss # 4, I wondered what the odds were that I would get 4 in a row who were hopeless? They all had different gifts. I recognized their strengths and weaknesses. In a nutshell: # 1 preached good sermons. # 2 was the only one who enjoyed visiting my little people and was good at it. (But he was the worst boss). Now it’s time to move on to 3 and 4. Already did painful stories on the first 2, One Fish, Two Fish last year. We’ll call the last 2, Red Fish (RF) and Blue Fish (BF). Yeah, I’m clever like that.

Our church was in turmoil. Attendance was down, money coming in was way down. As a member of the church staff, I had been highly critical of boss # 2. Probably too vocal. Ok, not probably, flat out, I was too vocal. I was very critical when he went off the reservation. I made a point of telling him in front of several other people that he had lost all credibility and to please stop shooting himself in the foot. He had just fired another staff person. Then contacted all the area churches warning them to steer clear of this person. Ugh. I believe in my heart after I sort of belittled him, he made it his mission to get rid of me. Which he tried to do but was unsuccessful. Instead the congregation supported me, and started a petition to move the pastor. It wasn’t kind for anyone involved. Very painful and unchristian like for all of us. Yeah, I can be an ass like that.

Enter boss # 3, Red Fish. We were assured by our District Superintendent, RF had been trained in healing broken congregations. He was an interim pastor and was slated to spend 2 years with us. He didn’t last a year. He might not have done any harm, but he sure didn’t help either. In his defense, why try and embrace a job you know is temporary? His head definitely was not in the game. My ladies circle asked him to speak about his calling to be a pastor, his goals and gifts. During his talk he became animated and engaged over 2 subjects only. The rescue dog he had just adopted and the novel he had been writing for the past several years. Which he wore around his neck on a flash drive. At all times to keep it safe. Yeah, I can be snarky like that.

During my tenure as Parish Visitor, it wasn’t very often that I called on the pastor to help me out. To be honest, most of the folks I was visited on a regular basis were not hankerin’ to see the preacher. Let’s say someone had been home-bound for the last 5 years. Over those 5 years I had probably stopped in to see them 75 times. Brought them soup, canned goods, cookies. Plus news from the congregation, keeping them in the loop as much as possible. During that same time frame, they were lucky if they had seen the minister 5 times. Really, 5 would have been a stretch. But in the minister’s defense, this was the Parish Visitor’s job. My job. My little folks respected, loved and looked forward to my visits. And I felt the same about them. If they were going to confide in someone, more than likely it would be to me, not the preacher. But on occasion I did ask for help. If someone was facing something very grave about themselves, or a close family member, I’d request that the boss visit them. Usually wait until staff meeting, or email my request. Describe what was going on in their life and ask him to please make a point to visit. Yeah, I could be thoughtful like that.

Opal at our Golden Circle luncheon. She was in her late 90’s here…

A few of my folks were going through some very rough patches. I emailed Red Fish and requested he visit 2 ladies. One had slipped on the ice and broken her ankle very badly. The other had just lost her infant great-grandson in a tragic accident. I sent the details to him, including that they lived just a few blocks apart. He never answered or acknowledged my email. Meanwhile one of my favorite little guys had broken a hip for the third time in 2 years with yet another fall. He was in a nursing home facility re-habbing. Another much younger guy on my visiting list had just been given a terminal diagnosis on his lung disease. Yikes. If I was feeling overwhelmed, think of these 4 poor souls. So I emailed the pastor again. Brought him up to date about the last 2, then reiterated the details on the first 2 again. “Hey, haven’t heard back from you about the first 2 gals I requested you visit last week. Now I’m adding a couple men. Probably plan on this taking you most of an afternoon. Call or email if you have any more questions about them. Thanks.” Waited several days. Did not hear back from him. Yeah, I can be assertive like that.

This is what transpired at the following staff meeting. RF wondered if anyone (about 10 staff members at the time) had any issues? Yup, me. I asked if the church’s Internet service was working? It was indeed. “Then why when I sent you a couple emails over the course of several days have you not responded to any of them?”

RF: “Where’d you send them?”

Me: “To your email address.”

RF: “Which one?”

Me: “The one that’s printed in the bulletin and newsletter. Where all our church business correspondence to you is supposed to go!”

RF: “That’s the wrong address. I never check that email address. That’s the secretary’s fault. Here’s the one I use.” (Brings me an email address).

Me: “Shouldn’t you make a point or priority to check your other inboxes if that’s the one the congregation and staff assume you’re using? And make sure the email address is correct in both of our publications? It’s not like I ask for your help very often.” Did I mention that I can be a smart ass like that?

He never responded. (BTW, during this whole exchange not one word by any other staff person was uttered. RF walked out of staff, and the building. Then the rest of the group erupted). “Way to go Denise. That needed to be said months ago. He’s not doing his job. Thanks for calling him on it.” (No, really thank all of you for stepping up to the plate and voicing your support with me. Your total silence 5 minutes ago helped me immensely).

Here’s the real problem. Not ONCE during that exchange (or anytime after) did he ever say, “holy mackerel Denise, what are you talking about? Who are these folks and what are their needs? Talk to me after staff meeting so I can jot down their concerns, and get their addresses. Thanks for following up on this. I dropped the ball. I’m sorry.” (Dude really, was that so hard)?

It was announced soon after he was leaving. Don’t know if our little heated exchange had anything to do with it. Not surprised if it did. But I do not care one whit. Yeah, I can be horrible like that.

Yay! We’re now down to my last mediocre-at-best-boss! Enter stage left, boss # 4, Blue Fish. Not much say about the only female of the group. I worked for her for 3 very long years. She had her own agenda. BF was there ONE year when she fired our office manager. Under the guise of wanting that position to do more of the bookkeeping duties. Thus saving us thousands of dollars. The office gal was a member of our congregation and 62 years old at the time. When trying to justify this to us during a congregational meeting, BF’s hubby stood up and offered this tidbit. “Let’s get down to brass tacks here folks. She should have never been hired in the first place. She wasn’t qualified. And you should never hire someone from the congregation!” Wow! We were all just speechless. He was now an expert on our congregation and staff after worshipping with us less than a year. I still feel awful for not standing up and defending our secretary. Then giving him what for. (Note to spouses of clergy: Don’t ever do this if you’re relatively new to the congregation. Better to keep your lips zipped). I would have loved to have been a fly in their car on the ride home. Hope she read him the riot act. But I doubt it. Yeah, I can be sarcastic like that.

So here’s the deal. Had I known Blue Fish was being moved in June, (after only 3 years, which was unusual) I certainly would not have retired that February. While the high death count of those I visited was nearing a hundred, and taking a huge toll on me, I would have remained their Parish Visitor a while longer. I still miss visiting the folks a lot. I’ve stopped attending the church. Any church. That resentment hasn’t left me. Kind of down on organized religion lately. Need to restore my faith in the church. My faith in God is doing just fine. But politics in a church can be worse than Washington. The only time I’ve gone back is to attend a funeral, or drop off some of my canned goods that UMW sells on Sunday mornings for mission work. I do wonder if I were still visiting, would I be working for another lousy boss? That would make it 5 in a row. More than likely. The odds lean heavily in that direction. Yeah, I’m skeptical like that…

This special couple, one of many, have been part of my life for one reason or another in recent years. Many folks for years or longer than a decade. One lady, only a few minutes, some a few weeks or months. Each have made a lasting impression. God put them in my life for a specific reason. I have been immeasurably blessed by each and every one of them. Maybe one of the reasons is telling you a snippet of their story. Guess I won’t know the reason until I ask Him. Hopefully that will be much, much later.

Bob and Nancy, hopelessly devoted. Around 2000…

Bob and Nancy weren’t on my parish visitor’s schedule. Yet. They sat a few pews away during church when I first noticed them. When Nancy spoke, I thought maybe they needed a little help. Because when Nancy spoke up, rather loudly, it was smack dab in the middle of the preacher’s sermon on Sunday morning. And the conversation wasn’t directed at him for something she disagreed with. Nancy just no longer realized she was in a church service and should be quiet. That filter in her brain had been short-circuited or disconnected. Bob quietly hushed her, grabbed her hand and scooted out the door. With as much patience and dignity as he could muster.

They lived pretty close to me, so late one afternoon as I was on my way home, I decided to make a quick stop. Bob answered the door and I explained that I worked for the church and just wanted to introduce myself. He cordially invited me in. Nancy was at the kitchen table. She took one look at me and quickly walked down the hall and into a bedroom. As Bob and I conversed, I could see Nancy occasionally peek her head out, watching me. Thus began our friendship. Nancy did get more comfortable in my presence. Especially if I brought cookies. She’d snack on a half dozen, quietly sitting near Bob. With an ever watchful eye on the stranger in her midst. Bob was lucky if there was one cookie left by the time I was leaving. And he’s the one who really needed them.

One afternoon Bob and I were visiting while Nancy was watching us from the hallway. I noticed a pot holder hanging on their kitchen wall. I had one very similar hanging in mine. I had bought several that I wanted to give as gifts at our church bazaar. Much more than a simple pot holder though. Really more of a intricate mini-quilt. Soon Nancy was sitting next to me, no longer wary. Plus I think she was enjoying the compliments. And Bob’s explanation on what a magnificent seamstress she had been.

Beautiful, intricate mini-quilt pot holders. Nancy made them by hand…

Bob was frail physically, but sharp as a tack. Nancy’s body was fit as fiddle, but mentally she was losing ground. They had no children, but so far Bob was attending to most of Nancy’s needs. Usually once a day they went out for their big meal. Some favorite local restaurant. That came to an abrupt halt when Bob fell down the basement stairs, cracking his head a good one. He was in ICU for a couple weeks. Nancy, unable to be on her own, was quickly moved to a local assisted living facility. I visited them both, reporting how Nancy was doing to Bob. He finally recovered, but more frail than ever. No way could he be home on his own, let alone care for Nancy. Bob moved in with Nancy at the care facility. While Nancy had been twitchy in this new, unfamiliar place, she settled down as soon as Bob was near.

Just a couple weeks into his re-hab, Bob seemed to realize that all of Nancy’s needs were now being met. He didn’t have to worry about her living arrangements. She had help with daily grooming, dressing, meals, and showers. More importantly, she was safe. His reason for living, helping Nancy, the love of his life navigate through the last stages of Alzheimer’s was now being managed by others. He just let go. Passed away quietly in his sleep, not long after moving in. Nancy appeared not to have noticed at first. She still ate my cookies when I checked on her every couple day for the first couple weeks after Bob’s death.

Only 2 pot holders left. Now so stingy, I don’t want to give them away. Greed, it’s ugly…

Soon it became very apparent that Nancy not only was going downhill quickly, she knew something was off. I always tried to visit folks in long term care facilities on different days and times. Trust me, if you visit someone every Thursday at 2 pm, that resident is going to be “company ready” on that day and time. I really thought of these visits (the folks with serious mental health issues, who could not carry on a normal conversation with you. Or tell you if something was amiss) as well “baby checks.” Remember when you brought your baby to the doctor just for a checkup? Nothing was really wrong. The doc would check the baby’s growth and development. And I mean that in the kindest, most sincere way. To me, my job for these folks was as an advocate. Especially the folks who didn’t have children, or relatives that lived close. My long term goal was to see that their life was comfortable and make sure their needs were being met. That meant surprise visits at 10 am or 4:30. On any day of the week or weekend.

One such surprise visit came about 6 weeks after Bob passed away. I used the security code to get in the building during the late afternoon on a week day. Found Nancy wondering down the hall. Glasses were nowhere to be found. She was barefoot, hair helter-skelter, standing straight up, every which way. Hearing aid was missing. Her partial plate was gone, and remaining teeth looked like they had not been brushed in a couple days. I brought her back to her room, sat her in a chair and gave her a cookie. Stomped off in a royal huff to find someone to ream. I realize that glasses and hearing aids could be misplaced, probably by Nancy. Maybe even her socks and shoes. But she looked like she had just gotten out of bed after spending 3 days being very sick. That certainly wasn’t her fault. Found a nurse in the office and told her, not so nicely, about Nancy’s shabby appearance. These were bare minimum, essential daily grooming needs that were not being met for Nancy. Went back to her room, grabbed another cookie and offered it to Nancy. She looked at me blankly, then just a tiny smile touched her lips. She took the cookie. While she munched, I held her hand and told her about my day. Just the part that happened before I walked in to visit her.

After I got to my car, I called my boss. Number 2 in the line of my 4 not-great-bosses. All of whom were ministers. Don’t get me started. We’ll just continue to call this one Two Fish. If you want or have to catch up on our complicated relationship, you’ll have to read my story on him. Think it was back in October of 2014. Anyway, told him how distraught I was about Nancy’s inadequate care. Part of the problem was lack of family and visitors for her. TF said he’d contact her 2 nieces who both lived about 50 miles away. In TF’s defense, he was the best visitor (and only) of the 4. Went out of his way to keep track of the senior members of the congregation who no longer attended regularly. It was pretty on his priority list too. TF called a couple days later and explained that the 2 nieces had stopped to see Nancy, and had talked to the staff. One had called TF back, and thought Nancy would be better cared for if she were closer to them. They were checking out facilities and would get back to the church when the final decision had been made.

Unfortunately, the move would not be in time. With that tiny glimmer of clarity still poking through for Nancy once in a while, she too gave up. Must have realized that Bob had gone on before and without her. And she was having none of that. Just a few days and couple visits later, I found her in bed. Eyes closed, both hands grasping up in the air for things or people unseen by others. Could not coax her into opening her eyes. Not even for a cookie. Nancy slipped away just shy of 2 months after Bob. Gone were the separations, hospital stays, strange care facilities that would never be home for either one of them. Finally neither one had a worry in the world. As it should be when you got each other’s back and now call heaven home…

I have been a collector of “stuff” most of my adult life. Not borderline hoarder, but getting close to needing an intervention to stop. Maybe a long term program to ease me slowly off that addicting “hunt” which usually concluded in the one piece to make my life complete. It took me many years of pretty intense collecting to realize I had acquired the inner fortitude to say quite honestly, “I need to think about this for awhile.” Or the skills needed to just walk away from the deal completely. Couldn’t and didn’t do that 30 years ago.

My beautiful oak wardrobe. Only had it 20 some years…

Shannon was born with this same collecting gene. Certainly not for anything old when she was in the throes of teenage angst. I remember her stomping through the house and loudly proclaiming, “I’m never owning anything old. My house is going to be filled with chrome and glass.” But she quickly grew out of that quirky stage. Soon she was a single mom (to our incredible granddaughter Ariana) and back getting her first degree at Michigan State. Her budget was limited, but she had an ace up her sleeve when she bought a piece of junk furniture that had real possibilities. Good old mom and dad to work on it’s restoration. As John and I kept collecting nicer antiques, Shannon gladly adopted our hand me downs.

Shannon & Ari in our hot tub in Jax, 1992…

The trips started soon after Shannon had Ari in 1991. When Michigan State was done for the summer, we’d drive to Iowa to visit the grandparents. My folks were still doing pretty well as was John’s mom. They all thought the world of Ari. Our hypnotic, exotic, stunning new addition to the Van Berkum clan. We’d shop our way across Michigan, Illinois and Iowa. Always stopping in Davenport for a day or 2. I’d see my old bowling buddies and play double deck Euchre. Shannon would visit with her oldest, dearest friend Angie who had a couple of kids of her own.

We were both hooked on Coach handbags. In the 90’s it was unusual to see anyone carrying one. They were expensive and unique. We always made sure to stop at any Outlet Mall on the way to Rock Valley to check out Coach. I remember giving John a hard jab in the ribs at least 20 years ago. We were following another couple into a very nice restaurant. The gal had a beautiful Coach bag on her shoulder. I whispered furiously to the clueless wonder, “Coach!” John’s eyes darted everywhere BUT her shoulder looking for some famous sports coach. For the last decade Coach has over saturated the market with mediocre, non-descript bags. I haven’t bought one in years.

After our mother-daughter infatuation with Coach, Shannon and I oddly parted ways. I became enamored with Michael Kors handbags and Shannon’s smitten with Kate Spade. I tried to like Kate, but her bags are just too stiff and structured. Exactly meeting all of Shannon’s requirements. A nursery-room sized bag that holds exactly one metric ton. My needs are more slouchy and smaller. The older I get, the fussier I am about my dumb purses. I refuse to buy anything with 2 handles. The double straps always fall off my shoulder. I like bumpy leather, not smooth. And not boxy, more hobo or ergo styling. I want several purses in an array of different colors. So does Shannon. As long as all of hers are black. Blech. She takes after Henry Ford when he claimed you could order your car in any color you wanted. As long as it was black. What’s the fun in that?

So most summers Shannon and I took at least one road trip together. Along with her kids as she had them. Josh and Adam too until they were older. Which meant not a whole lot of shopping at first. Really, kids just don’t want to wander slowly through an antique shop or an outlet mall. Or be in a car for 12 hours. Ugh. When the kids were along, the highlight was usually a hotel with a pool. And vending machines. They loved buying the same sweet and salty treats as you had at home. This way they got way less for way more.

Ari and Landon in our hotel, 2003…

Here’s one of the strangest things that ever happened on the way to Rock Valley. It happened about 12 years ago. We were getting close to the Williamsburg, Iowa Outlet Mall on I-80. I’m driving, Shannon’s trying to keep Ari and Landon occupied. Suddenly Shannon shouts, “mom, look in the field.” As God is my witness, there in an Iowa corn field was a young black bear chasing a white POODLE! The dog seemed to be having fun teasing the bear. The bear thought maybe he was supposed to be having poodle casserole for lunch. Honest both of our jaws dropped to the floor. And the carpet wasn’t that clean. Funniest scene I can remember. I mentioned to a store clerk about our out-of-this-world-weird-bear-encounter. She said there had been other sightings, some who had called 911. We couldn’t do that as we were unable to speak coherently without either of our bottom jaws. The explanation she heard was that when a boy bear gets a couple years old, he needs to have his own space. They kind of get pushed out of the neighborhood, which was probably Minnesota. This hormonal, hungry, teenage bear was now trying to call I-80 and central Iowa his home.

By now Mag had been gone for a few years, and my Mom had just passed away. Dad had moved to Michigan to be closer to me (ha, we know it was the inmates who wooed him here) and the family. Not many reasons for Shannon and I to be road-tripping anymore. That’s when we came up with a novel idea. Why not go away together for a few days without the kids? Splendid. Sounded pretty good to us. But. Ah, there’s always a but. Number one, it was pretty tough on Tracey. The first year Shannon and I went away was during the summer. We thought it would be easier with the kids out of school. Wrong. By now they had 3 children. Peyton had just wormed her way into everyone’s heart. We’d usually leave on a Thursday, coming back on Sunday. Tracey was running his butt off taking 3 kids to 15 different activities. Plus I think he was teaching summer school. After that first year, we decided it was easier if we went during the school year. PJ was in daycare, Landon and Ari were in school. That way, he just had to pick everyone up, run them to their various activities, get supper, help with homework, baths, bed and lunches. A snap. Yikes. But he never complained about it. At least I didn’t hear about it.

Ariana, Landon & Peyton, Christmas 2004…

It was my job to plan the trip itinerary. This was the time period when Shannon had quit her state job and was in school full-time working on her PHD. (Probably the reason Tracey was teaching summer school). She just didn’t have time. I’d Google Outlet Malls in the area and state we were headed. Instead of antique shops, I had better success if I specified antique MALLS. We didn’t want to drive 75 miles out of our way for one piddly little shop. Rather find an antique mall that boasted 100 dealers. That way we could spend a couple hours at one stop. We did trips through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and most parts of Iowa during different years. We (meaning Shannon) had some very unusual requests. Since we usually stayed 3 nights in different hotels and cities, sometime during the day we’d have to find the movie theaters. The only movies those days that Shannon was watching were animated G rated Disney. A requirement of hers was that we see at least 2 R rated movies while we were gone. Something with adult dialogue and content. If we were near the Quad Cities, it got worse. Before we’d go into the theater, we’d have to stop at Whitey’s Ice Cream (her fave) and she’d buy a large watermelon shake (blech) to smuggle in. Luckily that wasn’t a problem with her metric ton sized purse.

The sign in front of Dr. Shannon’s offices…

We were traipsing our way through Illinois. Stopped in a little town where I found one of my all time favorite antiques. An oak dresser with claw feet and a beveled mirror. Gorgeous piece. We were driving John’s pick-up and on our way home. It was raining like we should have been trying to find Noah and climb aboard. I wanted the dresser so bad, but the thought of 6 hours of rain beating on that gorgeous wood before we got back to Jackson was almost a deal breaker. The owner of the store wrapped the entire dresser in Saran Wrap. When we hit Jackson, I backed the truck bed just inside the garage and went in to sleep. Next day I drove home, and the dresser was no worse for the wear. Other trips have scored beautiful Waterford and Orrfors. One little town in Indiana had a resale shop filled with Longaberger baskets. The car filled up fast with baskets before we scooted out of town.

My gorgeous oak dresser w/Shannon’s dress. A road trip find…

We enjoyed our trips immensely, but we weren’t compatible about everything. I’ve always been a morning person. Shannon, like her dad, is a night owl and likes to sleep in. When we checked into our hotel, I’d get my early morning walking paraphernalia, plus the key card, and store all in the bathroom. When I woke up at the crack of dawn, I’d get dressed, slip out of the room (although hotel doors are fricking impossible to ease shut). After walking for an hour, I’d stop in the lobby, drink a cup of coffee and watch or read the news (I looked like crap, sweaty, hair not combed, but hey, my teeth were brushed). After what seemed like an eternity and surely it had to be at least noon, I’d slink back in our room. Find clean clothes, shower and be ready for whatever the day held in store for us. Finally Shannon would crack open one eye. “Mom, I’m on VACATION. If it’s not at least 10 o’clock, you’d better not say one word!” Complete silence on my part because it was edging close to 9 am.

Then something kind of odd happened. We switched places. John’s company went bankrupt during the crash of 2008. Our house was already so full of antique oak furniture we barely had room to walk. I was only collecting bits of Waterford crystal. Shannon, now with a Dr. in front of her name was acquiring antique oak furniture with purpose. Our roles had reversed. She was flush with cash, I was watching my spending, and trying to downsize a bit. Weird.

The trips have since stopped. Shannon’s got her hands way too full and is spread way too thin. She running her own full time clinical psychology therapy practice, plus owns 2 office buildings with a couple of her peers. The 3 have hired several therapists to work for them. Landon’s heavy into basketball and has joined a travel league that takes the family all over the country to tournaments most weekends. Peyton, 11 takes a couple dance classes, piano and voice lessons every week. Tracey, now the principal of a huge Ann Arbor high School has a job that requires a lot of his time. The older your kids get, the more stuff they’re involved in. I get it.

The last trip we took was almost 3 years ago. Josh was getting married and Erica’s family was having a shower for them in Pennsylvania. Shannon and I decided to go. She had never been to Niagara Falls, and since it’s my all time favorite spot, we stopped there first. Plus they have an awesome Outlet Mall. Kors and Spade stores. Another perk was walking by the Falls during my early morning outings. And it was my duty as a diligent mother to introduce her to The Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York. Where buffalo wings originated. She was impressed and has since taken Tracey (the wing man-as in chicken) and the family there and to my famous Falls.

The Rapids before my beautiful Niagara Falls…

R-rated movies together. Blizzards before noon. Suppers un-interrupted. The unlikely mother-daughter duo shopping trips which always included upscale stores, and cluttered antique malls. An odd combination indeed. It worked for us. The trips were great fun. A way we stayed connected without hubs, kids, and sibs. I treasure those moments and memories. But I miss our yearly road trips. A lot…

I chide myself for stuff I didn’t do when I was younger. More often though about stuff I did and wish I hadn’t. You’re all familiar with many of those incidents and events because I declare ownership on all by putting them in print. Sometimes in excruciating detail. Ugh. One of my silliest regrets is that I didn’t run away from home to attend some concerts as a teen. Three to be exact. How I wish I would have gone to see the Beatles, Doors, and Johnny Cash. Cash is a strange one for me since his music should not appeal to me. But it does and I love him. The first “real band” I saw in person were the Buckingham’s. Lake Okoboji at the Roof Garden, about 1967. “Kind of a Drag.”

Neese at Lake Okoboji. Roof Garden, John, Buckingham’s, 1967…

Guess I just wasn’t into music that much. I listened to the radio, and watched Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on Saturdays. But I never had rhythm. If only sarcasm were a dance move, I’d been top dog for like 3 minutes. Couldn’t dance as a teen. Still can’t dance as a gram. Music was never very high on my list. I joined high school’s choir just to be part of the group. Never had a good singing voice. Now it’s just hopeless. The more deaf I become, the worse I sound when I sing. So I don’t. Except when I walk. I sing my heart out. I don’t care who’s listening or watching. Deal with it.

At First Reformed Church youth’s choir, I was required to take part when I was a teen. We had practice after supper, so most my friends were there too. Another social outing for me. Yay. Got me out of the house for the night. Maybe we’d go to the bowling alley afterward to get something to eat. My favorite? Our bowling alley made a fresh homemade pizza that cost a whopping 60 cents. Or we’d ride around the loop in Rock Valley. Which, I might add included “our one and only famous stoplight.” I played snare drums in Rock Valley’s High School band, but it was a lackadaisical career. I never really tried very hard. For me, being a part of the group was front and foremost in importance. Not doing particularly well in any group never really mattered. Being in the group mattered.

Our one fabulous Rock Valley stoplight. Wow what wide streets…

I’ve gone to a few concerts over the years. Lamented with Kenny Rogers begging “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” I took a bus from Davenport to Chicago to hear Neil Diamond croon “Sweet Caroline.” Love that man. Sang along with 3 Dog Night, who warned me repeatedly, “Mama Told Me Not to Come!” The Pointer Sisters got “So Excited” they had to “Jump!” Ray Charles was thinking bout “Georgia On My Mind.”

But music did not really become important to me until I started walking daily in 1998. Hmm, that was about the same time I started losing my hearing. Coincidence? Don’t know. A lot of people enjoy the sounds of outdoors when they walk. Or maybe it’s the indoor sounds they don’t hear while they walk. I walk on a rather busy street, so the sounds of cars zooming by and birds chirping weren’t cutting it. I needed something to keep my feet moving, and take my mind off of all those steps I was taking. Music was the answer. For several years I listened to the Beatles, Doors, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the Pointer Sisters. You got the part about several years right? Bored out of my skull with the same tunes, year after year. While John made me cassette tapes of music we already owned, my techie son Joshua introduced me to music from the years 1995 forward. He’d make a tape of singers and bands I’d never heard. Black Eyed Peas, Train, Offspring. (I gotta feeling, Hey Soul Sista, Gotta keep ’em separated). After awhile, if I liked a tune, I’d research the band’s music and buy more songs. First on Rhapsody, then on iTunes. Finally something I could manage without Joshua’s constant help.

One of Ari’s graduation pics. Same time as Lady Gaga concert…

A few years ago, Lady Gaga was just becoming a hot commodity. She’s got great walking tunes. Joshua and I went in kahoots and bought a Lady Gaga concert ticket for Ari’s birthday. Plus one for each of us to watch her in Detroit. This just amazes me. Seriously, I’m amazed. Here’s a hip 34 year old uncle, Joshua, and his super cool, beautiful 19 year old niece, Ariana. Plus me, mom of Josh and gram to Ari. Unbelievable. Going to a hip-hop concert. Together. Honestly, nothing better. Or cooler. Maybe not to them, but it was to me. They might have been mortified to be seen in my company, but they covered it up nicely all night. Besides they were both kind of impressed that I knew the words to her songs. Well, Denise’s hard-of-hearing version of the lyrics. Might not have been what was originally written, but I stood up, swaying and singing along. It was an awesome night. Jason Derulo was Lady Gaga’s opening act. I had never heard of him until that night, but I was impressed. Bought one of his songs. “In my Head.” Nice choreography, and he had some sweet dance moves. As bizarre as Lady Gaga sometimes appears, she is a gifted musician, songwriter and singer. She played the piano on her haunches. Squatting with her butt one inch above the piano seat. Her legs splayed out like a frogs across the piano bench. Fabulous talent. Ari and I stayed overnight at Joshua’s. We had breakfast together the next morning before Josh went to work. Then I dropped Ari off in Jackson and drove back home. Maybe a titch more deaf.

Ari’s big purchase on the way to P!nk. Isn’t she just the cutest Hawkeye???

A couple years ago, I came across an article on the super talented singer, P!nk. She was starting a concert tour after releasing her last wildly popular album called “The Truth About Love.” I texted Ari on a Sunday morning to see if she had an interest in going to a P!nk concert? Her answer was plastered on Facebook. Something like, “my gram just asked if I wanted to go with her to a P!nk concert? Umm, yes! Coolest gram ever!” By then Josh had gotten married to marvelous, lovable Erica. Joshua begged off, Shannon had no interest, Sarah and Adam had to work. So our new cozy three-some was Ariana, Erica and tag-along gram-mother-in-law. Me. Ari and I spent the day in Detroit shopping while Erica was doing her car company engineering job. We all met for supper at a restaurant close to the Palace of Auburn Hills. There’s just not the right words to describe a P!nk concert. She spent a third of the concert, swinging from a trapeze attached to the several stories high ceiling of the Palace. In a rather nude body suit. Singing. She was utterly amazing. Plus I knew all the words again. My version. Great concert. Ari and I drove back to Jackson and I spent the night before driving home. Maybe a titch more deaf.

P!nk flying thru the air SINGING. Concert 2013…

I’ve been crazy about Adam Levine and Maroon 5 since I bought “Payphone “and “One More Night.” When I heard they were going on tour, I looked up when they would be in Detroit. Asked Ari and Erica if they were in? A resounding yes from both. Ari’s boyfriend Josh (not to be confused with my son Joshua. Really, what are the odds?) wanted to go too. Our seats were the best so far of our 3 Palace of Auburn Hills concerts. I drove to Ari’s and Josh’s apartment in Ypsilanti, and rode with them to Detroit which is just a hop, skip and a jump away. Of course we met Erica after work at the same restaurant as the P!nk concert. That’s now a tradition. The Maroon 5 concert was quite different than Lady Gaga’s or P!nk’s. Those 2 performers spent thousands on elaborate costume changes and sets. Adam Levine came out on stage in a black-non-descript-jacket, white T-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. After song number 3, he tossed the jacket. Never changed clothes. Never stopped singing. That’s really what I pay for. Still, gotta give it up to Lady Gaga and P!nk for their “wow” entertainment factor. It was a great concert. A wonderful night. All 3 of them have been. I went home with Erica and spent a couple days with her and Joshua. Maybe a titch more deaf.

Maroon 5 ticket with Ari, Josh, Erica & me…

While we were eating supper at the restaurant, before the Maroon 5 concert, Erica said she and some friends are planning to attend a Madonna concert in Detroit this fall. Ari turned to me and asked, “who else do you want to see gram? What’s next on your concert bucket list?” Without hesitation, (fully expecting and thoroughly enjoying their dropped jaws) I casually replied, “Pitbull.” …