It all started on our vacation trip to California back in 1961. Just Mom, Dad, and me, then 10 years old. Plus 2 paying passengers joining me in the backseat of our 1958 Canyon Pink, Chevy Biscayne. Sigh. A 2-door without air. Sigh. Our west coast relatives did their best to entertain and introduce us to new things. Knott’s Berry Farm and Disneyland were fantastic. Swimming in the Pacific was chilly but unforgettable. They took us out for Chinese food. Mom would only eat the fortune cookies and drink the tea. For me, following her lead, it would mean another 2 decades before John literally forced me to try Chinese cuisine again. Guess what? I love it. But when the relatives took us to the newly transplanted L.A. Dodger’s field for a baseball game against the Cubs, Mom discovered a new exciting pastime in her life.

Mom and Dad in California, 1961…

My Mom. A sports nut. Who knew? She was the most unlikely candidate, to say the very least. I remember she watched tennis on TV. Loved Arthur Ashe and Jimmy Connors. Adored Billy Jean King long before she whooped on Bobby Riggs hiney in the Battle of the Sexes. When I was cleaning out their house after she passed away in 2004, I re-discovered how much she really enjoyed spectator sports over the years. And for so many different teams. Seems like she’d become enamored with a “player” then follow his team for awhile. Mom had hundreds of sports articles saved. Neatly clipped from her beloved Des Moines Register. Dusty Baker, decades ago, chewing bubblegum and blowing a bubble the size of his head. George Brett, going ballistic with the umps over the “pine tar” incident.

Dodgers vs. Cubs in L.A. 1961…

In 1962 we took a camper-trailer (yes, you read that right, the Gerritson’s in a camper, I kid you not) to the Twin Cities. What was she thinking? Mom was not the camping type at all. She was a neat nick, germaphobe who washed her hands 30 times a day. Minimum. Any kind of camping was WAY TOO primitive for her. Gotta give her credit for trying though. Trying to make our small, downsized family unit closer after Larry died and Mona got married. But my Mom? She always wore a dress back then. I never saw her in a pair of jeans. Slacks, when the popular polyester pant-suit made its way into her fashion world. Anyway, on this trip we spent a day at Como Park Zoo which was great. But the highlight of this trip (and our last with our newly bought used camper-trailer) was a Minnesota Twins game. Mom was captivated by Harmon Killebrew. Until he took off his baseball cap to wave and acknowledge the crowd. He was bald. OK, it was time for Mom to move on.

Dad and I eating breakfast in the camper during our Minneapolis adventure, 1962..,

Mom then fell for the Kansas City Royals. Really it was all about that hunka-hunka third baseman named George Brett who played in the major leagues for 20 years. He was really cute, and a superb hitter and fielder. A couple years later, she moved on to the St. Louis Cardinals. She loved their short stop, Ozzie Smith. Watching him snag those thought-to-be-hits from going into the outfield. Mom and I drove to St. Louis to watch a few games. Enjoyed “The Wizard” doing his famous backflips on the field. Although by then I was a die-hard fan of the hopeless, hapless, helpless Cubs. Double sigh. I sure can pick ’em. The Cards were playing the New York Mets during that series. By the time we were done enjoying our 3 game series, Mom was done with the Cardinals. Sorry Ozzie and Whitey Herzog. Mom was moving on again.

Minnesota Twins stubs, 1962. Yeah, Mom saved everything…

Now her attention (and span) would focus on the Mets. Long term commitment for her. Really Mom? How could you embrace any New York team? They’re just so unlike-able. Side note, my Dad always loved the Yankees. Even worse. Steinbrenner. Ugh. Until Dad moved to Michigan. He started watching and rooting for the Detroit Tigers. Mom was smitten with the whole stinking Met team. Mookie Wilson, Gary Carter, Keith Hernandez, Lenny Dykstra. I think she liked Lenny because his name was Dutch. She would have been terribly disappointed in his life choices and business decisions of late. Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden and Ron Darling (who was just that). But when you’re a Cubs fan, it’s a given. You gotta hate everything about the Mets and the Cards. Period. Decades old rivalrys.

Our plain-jane ’58 Chevy Biscayne. Long trip to California hauling 5…

Mom and I did a lot of arguing over baseball. Players, managers, teams and stats. Hard to win any argument when the team you love happen to be the Cubs. They’ve had a couple of play-off worthy years. Should have been in the 1984 World Series against the Tigers. I don’t think the Cubs would have won, but it would have had a better series than with the Padres. During the ’80’s the Cubs were quite notorious in their trading tactics for famous players. Getting rid of youngsters and rookies who just might have turned that team around and into something special one day. What’s the fun and logic with that? Trading them away for high-priced-has-been-players who were long past their prime. By at least 5 years.

Ron, The Penguin’s adoptive family…

Ron Cey was a perfect example. The Penguin (aptly nicknamed cause he looked like one. Unfortunately, ran and fielded like one too. Tough to catch those line drives at third when your arms and legs are so stinking short). Cubs got Cey years after he pip-squeaked. I mean peaked. Ended up lugging around that high salaried tub way too long. It wasn’t like we needed him to draw fans. The Cubs, no matter how many games they finished out of first place (usually last) always had one of baseball’s highest totals in attendance every year. Chicago did have some pretty awesome players during my die-hard years like Ryne Sandberg, Rick Sutcliffe, reliever Lee (don’t-touch-my-fro) Smith, Steve Trout, Mark Grace, and Andre Dawson. Those perennial losers who could never make it past the playoffs when they finally managed to get there every quarter or half century. My love and devotion towards them has waned over the last decade. Just not very interested in baseball or football anymore. Mom stayed devoted to the Mets for the rest of her life.

My Harmon Killebrew Louisville Slugger mini…

But she would also have a crazy long love affair with the Iowa Hawkeye’s too. She really loved college basketball. Remembering Steve Carfino, Bobby Hansen, BJ Armstrong, (half of the twin towers, Michael Payne), Roy Marble, Brad Lohaus and Kenny Arnold back in the day. Mom knew each one of them as well as one could without being related or having ever met them. She was a nervous wreck on game nights against the powerhouse Big Ten teams. Jud Heathcoate at Michigan State (do any of you recall watching Jud years ago when he caught a ball that flew out of bounds at him on the sidelines? He was ticked at the call, and bounced the ball hard on the floor in front of him. Only to have it bounce right back and hit him snack dab in the face. On network TV. Classic). Gene Keady, the great coach at Purdue. Plus the horrible, awful, ruthless, mean, S.O.B. Bobby Knight at Indiana? Iowa’s had a string of coaches since I’ve been watching. Lute Olson, George Raveling, (who managed to lose a game, with under a minute left, and a substantial lead, 6 or 8 points I think. Plus he broke Brad Lohaus’ spirit). Not a good coach. Dr. Tom Davis who ran the team like sprinters. Steve Alford who was just awful (Bobby Knight clone wannabe).

My favorite pic of Mom flirting with Joshua, 1978…

Mom and I were in Chicago for a few days during the late ’80’s. Mom wanted to experience riding the “L” to the end of the line. So we did. Ended up on the south-WAY-south side. Only 2 women on the train. Then we had to get off, walk around to the other side to catch the trip back north. Now that was a little bit frightening. Ah, we were fine. This was the last series Mom and I attended together at Wrigley Field. The Cubs vs. Mets. The weather was fantastic. Nice, but not too hot. Beautiful summer days. We were in the shade. This was just before the Cubs got lights to hold night games. (Sorry, I often feel bad about the lights. Necessary evil, but still have issues embracing this change. It’s only been 25 years. Maybe I’ll get used to it). We were having a wonderful day. There were a two guys in their 20’s sitting a couple seats away. Mom and I were arguing about a call when she looked over at me with a frown on her face. This is how the conversation went.

Mom: “Denise do you smell anything strange? I smell something really weird. What is that?”

Me: “Umm Mom, I think that’s pot you’re smelling.”

Mom: “You mean pot like the marijuana drug pot?”

Me: “Yes, I believe so.”

Mom: “Do you think we should call over one of the attendants? Or go find a policeman?”

Me: “No Mom, we’re gonna just let this one slide.” She was furious and astounded that illegal drugs could be seen and smelled during the day at Wrigley Field while we were enjoying America’s pastime. Sometimes she was very innocent. Oh Mom…

Oh the significance of the numbers 69 in my life! Some lasted several years, others were one-time events. First one. I’m from the class of 1969. You know that always used to have a recent sound to it. Lately it sounds kind of ancient. I don’t feel ancient. It seems I might have slept through about 25 years. Or they zipped by in such a hurry, I didn’t realize that they were already gone. Here’s some memories of being part of the class of ’69.

Holy spit-curls Batman! My kindergarten picture…

I remember walking to kindergarten with Arlyn Hammen. Sometimes Gary Miller walked with us. The school wasn’t quite 2 blocks from my house. My kindergarten classroom was in the old section of the school building. Sitting on little chairs by small tables that sat about 8 kids. The windows in the room were very long. Miss Oliver pulled the shades down when it was nap time. The room got very dark. Arlyn was homesick one day and started to cry. I felt so bad for him. I loved being there.

Half of our kindergarten class with Miss Oliver…

By second grade we were in the brand new elementary part. Most often the door to our room was left open. I was in awe when “the big high school kids” walked past, especially on game day. The cheerleaders wore their cheerleading outfits for the whole day. Becoming a cheerleader was already on my “to do” list. This was also the year that my brother Larry was killed when he was hit by a car riding his bike. Mrs. Ver Hoef was my teacher that year. She was the kindest woman. She caught me after I had quietly delivered her May Basket, and was sneaking back to the car. She gave me a big hug and a kiss. One of the highlights of that dreadful school year. Pretty sure my first crush on Dave Plueger was about that same time.

Mrs. Ver Hoef. My second grade and kindest teacher…

I went home most days for lunch. My Mom worked in town and she came home, so we usually had lunch together. Most often one of us would check the lunch menu at school though. There were some favorite meals at school that the lunch ladies made that I never wanted to miss. And Mom didn’t mind if I wanted to stay and have hot lunch. Topping that list was cinnamon rolls. Didn’t care what the main course was. I was only interested in the huge frosted cinnamon rolls. Turkey dinners were special treat too. I remember watching high school boys go back time after time for extra peanut butter sandwiches. I think they were allowed to eat as many as they wanted. Most of these guys lived on farms and did a lot of physical labor. I think they were unable to ever be really full.

But heaven help me if I changed my mind about hot lunch. Maybe I forgot to check the menu. Or Mom had already left for work and I decided that I was going to stay for hot lunch. When the bell rang for our lunch break, my heart would start hammering in my chest until I thought it would burst. I didn’t have my LUNCH MONEY. The school had recently hired a hitman posing as a woman. This was a sure way to intimidate 8 year olds who couldn’t pay for their lunch that day. This woman used an alias to dupe folks into believing she was really Mrs. E.R. Haas. No first name, just Mrs. E. R. Infiltrating Rock Valley Community Schools as the superintendent’s wife, no less. Clever. I could hear my heart pounding as the line crept forward. She sat by a small table just inside the lunch room door. My mouth was so dry I didn’t think I’d be able to speak. Or ever have spit in my mouth again. When this keppi-strunt little Dutch girl finally found her voice, it was squeaky high and jittery. Honest, looking directly into her eyes was like getting zapped by a modern day taser. Her head would spin around a couple times at warp speed. Then a huge-scary-clown-smile because she smelled my fear. Enjoying my panic when my lower lip would quiver. Watching, waiting (and hoping) for me to turn and run. Tongue like a Komodo dragon’s (maybe with the same spit poison too). I had witnessed that 2 foot, razor sharp fork-like-fang hauling kids back to the line to face the music. She would slowly turn her eyes downward, salivating just a bit as she eagerly looked for your name on THE LIST. Oh dear God, there it was. Denise Gerritson. Beady eyes in slow motion easing upwards, locking me under her hypnotic spell. The kids closest to me slowly backing away. A small puff of black smoke flew out of her left ear, at the very same moment a tiny orange flame exited her left nostril. Never the right, always the left. Unseen by staff and other adults. How she managed that was unclear, but never questioned. Her voice was deceivingly soft. She wanted you to lean forward, getting caught unaware. I knew kids who fell for this trickery and still bear the scars. Menacingly she cackle, “This is your second charge. You owe 70 cents! No more charges until your Mom sends you back here with money!” Honestly I went through this for a CINNAMON ROLL. Still have nightmares about her when I was in line without lunch money.

I absolutely loved school until the 5th grade. I still rue the day Eileen Henderson ever came into my life. She was unfair and a horrible excuse for a teacher. Favored boys and picked on smart girls. (Which is why she left me alone-most of the time). One day she walked up behind Anne, who was sitting at her desk with the top lifted up. Mrs. Henderson gave Anne’s long ponytail such a hard yank that Anne’s headband flew off her head and landed in the back of the room. Henderson was just plain mean. Unfortunately 6th grade wasn’t much better for me. I had Mrs. Kosters. She at least treated all of us the same. And she wasn’t a bad teacher, just not very likable to me.

During P.E. class in junior high I fell off the parallel bars, dislocating my left elbow. So unfair that Doc Hegg had chosen that week for probably his first vacation in 5 years to be out of town. Mom had to take to to a doctor in Hull to have it rolled back in place. Forty years later, a old bone fragment was found when I broke that same elbow. I swear Doc Hegg would not have missed that. He was my hero.

I went out for cheerleading in junior and senior high. Really scary. All of your peers sitting crammed on one side of the gym while you do a little routine. Vividly remember wearing tennis shoes, shorts, knee socks and a blouse. One of my first try-outs. Blouse was not tucked into my shorts. Mortified when I did a cartwheel and my blouse flew up, almost revealing-horrors. MY. BRA.

Pam, Shirlee, Neese & Char, about 1967…

Basketball games on Tuesday and Friday nights. The old small gym packed like sardines with parents and students. The concession stand. I would buy Royal Crown Cola and a bag of Planters Peanuts. Toss the peanuts in the pop. Weird. If the games were out of town, I’d pay a quarter to ride the pep bus to and from the game. Some of the memories from those rides are my fondest about school. Singing, shouting, cheering, flirting. Loud, so loud. Mostly on the way there though. Many times on the way back we were too hoarse to be obnoxious. We tried though. Good times. Now when I see a full school bus, all the kids have their heads down. In their own little world with ear buds, phones or Tablets. Man, they are missing out of so much. Sad.

Home Economics class was a real stretch for me. I had never cooked, couldn’t sew on a button. I believe her name was Miss Weiner. Poor thing. Something had happened to her, and she had a wooden leg. This was in the early to mid ’60’s. Before all the advancements made with prosthetics. Plus she had me as a student. She was very patient, especially during the sewing segment. Probably lasted 6 weeks but felt like 2 years to me. I think I sewed the sleeve on wrong at least twice before she finally gave up on me. Ripped it out, sat down at my machine and stitched it on right. Thanks Miss Weiner. It was better for both of us that way. I didn’t do too bad in the cooking and baking part. The kitchen set up was massive considering how small our school was. I don’t remember exactly how many kitchens there were, but I think about 6. We made baked Alaska once. And it turned out great.

I had a very close wonderful friend named Char through most of school. She lived about 3 blocks away. Her family was normal but unusual. The unusual part was her parents had kids who were already grown up and gone. Then they had a second batch of kids. All girls the second time around, and pretty close in age to me. Char was the 2nd kid of this group. Sunday’s were so slow in Rock Valley. The whole town revolved around the many churches that day. The drug store was open for a couple hours, but no gas stations, or restaurants. Wouldn’t have mattered to most of us anyway if they had been open. It was wrong to spend money on Sunday. Period. “Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, and on the 7th day thou shalt rest.” After the morning round of church and Sunday school, a big dinner, the rest of the day went unbelievably slow. When we got back from visiting my grandpa, I’d head over to Char’s house. Her house was bustling. I loved it there. So different than my quiet, somber house. A couple of Char’s older brothers had moved to Colorado, but her married sister Audrey lived in Sioux Center. Audrey and her family came over every week for a big Sunday supper. This put their total at the table at about 10. I was invited to stay most Sunday’s. Man did I enjoy being with that family. They were so good to me. Mrs. Schelhaas went all out for this meal. Usually a delicious roast and either twice baked (the best) or mashed. They mashed their potatoes with a mixer. That was new to this kid. Those spuds were so smooth. Sometimes we had hamburgers. Which were very small. As in 50 cent piece sized. Everyone was talking quietly. Absolutely the best way to spend Sunday’s. Soon everyone was helping clean up because it was back to church for evening services. Char’s parents were custodians for our church. Audrey’s family went back home. The rest of us went back to First Reformed for RCYF and the preacher’s sermon. My time spent with Char and the Schelhaas family are still the dearest memories and highlights of my childhood. My heartfelt gratitude, love and thanks for all the times they included me. Even in their bullhead fishing trips to Minnesota. Don’t get me wrong, this was 2-way street. My Mom and Dad adored Char and included her in most of our family’s outings. Char joined us nearly every Saturday night when we went out for supper. And shopping trips to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. Many times Mom bought Char an outfit, or got us matching tops. Char, still the best bud.

My best friend, Char. Mid 1960’s school pic…

I really wasn’t a bad student. But totally unmotivated. For me school was a social event everyday. I sure should have put in more effort, but that just wasn’t me. I don’t think I ever really tried. I did enjoy English. Yup that was about it for me. Pathetic. Glad my kids were all great students, each one getting their college degree, and more. My 4 fabulous grands are smart as whips too. None of them got it from me. As for the rest of my ’69’s? Well in 5 years I’ll be 69. John and I were married in 1969. A one-time event. Trust me. Plus this is my 69th blog post. Trying to get at least 100. I plan to have my own hard cover book published of all my blog posts. With comments of course, they’re usually the best part. Just for me. You ever walk in a care facility and notice a little old lady carrying around a doll? That she thinks is one of her kids? That will be me, but lugging the book of my goofy stories. Sometimes painful, some funny, but all in all a wonderful, blessed life. A very old Neese, standing by the front door, begging complete strangers to read me the old stories of my life…

We’ve all heard the horror stories. Or maybe you’ve lived through them. Remember the lyrics of that old song, “Mother-in-law” stating, “she was sent from down below?” Couples whose lives are in turmoil, miserable or they end up getting divorced because of a impossible, intrusive, meddling mother-in-law. Mother-in-law’s who assume, demand and insist on running (and often ruining) their son’s, daughter’s or grandchildren’s lives. Fortunately this is NOT one of those stories. When I reflect on the life of my mother-in-law Mag, it’s with deep affection and gratitude.

Joshua, Mag and Adam at Lake Michigan’s beach. 1988…

Mag was born in 1910. By the roaring 20’s, Mag was sort of a flapper. She loved to dance, and met Jim at a barn dance. This was after a painful breakup with another guy. Jim might have been a bit of a rebound romance. Jim and Mag were married on July 9, 1929, which was Jim’s 22nd birthday. Mag was 19. This was just before for the Great Depression.

Jim and Mag’s wedding pic. July 9, 1929…

They had 5 children, Eleanor, James Jr., Leslie, Arlyn and John. John (my hubs) was born in 1948, 18 years after Eleanor. Now that’s what I call spacing children! He was definitely an unplanned surprise for Jim and Mag. Pretty sure I was not planned on either. It happens. Both John and I were the babies of the families. But raised and treated very differently as the youngest. I was a spoiled, rotten brat. Period. John wasn’t exactly ignored, but pretty much left on his own by school age. John was cooking eggs by the time he was 6. Something I wouldn’t accomplish until my 20’s. And then not very well.

Jimmy, Arlyn, John, Elly and Les. About 2000…

Mag never learned how to drive. That still surprises me. I thought she would have found this way too confining. Not being able to jump in her own car and go whenever and where ever she pleased. But that life-long self-restriction didn’t seem to bother her much. It would drive me nuts if I were dependent on rides all the time. Like my Mom, Mag did all the saving, bill paying, and the doling out of monies. Meaning Jim got an allowance of sorts every week. If he wanted to have a couple of beers after work, he’d better plan accordingly. There was only so much in his wallet per week.

4 gen. Lena, Elly, Mag and Carrie, 1934…

My Mom did the same thing with my Dad. There wasn’t a lot of spare money floating around back then. Somehow though Mag always had a stash of mad money for extras. Often as John was leaving the house when we were dating, Mag would slip him a 5 spot on his way out. Heck, back then an extra 5 dollar bill meant 2 movie tickets, including treats. Maybe a pizza and pop at the bowling alley afterward, plus gas money (unless we were walking, which we did a lot).

Mag and John. Visiting us in Jackson, Mi. 1988…

Mag was a very hard worker. When the weather was good, she often walked to to her various jobs around town. I’m pretty sure she was the head cook at Valley Manor for a few years when my Mom worked there. She cooked for the Rock Valley Chamber of Commerce, Warren Cafe, Ray’s Cafe, and a couple of the bars that Jimmy owned over the years. I can remember John and I stopping at a building behind the Chevy dealer’s garage when the Chamber of Commerce meetings were held and eating with her afterward while she was cleaning up. I believe the building was or had been a funeral home at the time when my brother Larry was killed. His visitation was held there in 1958.

Mag in her living room. My future lamp in background, mid 1980’s…

When John and I eloped, we stopped in Rock Valley after our big honeymoon in Sioux Falls. We were on our way back to Sioux City. Mag’s living room was chuck full of stuff for us. The crazy newlyweds. Linens, kitchen utensils, and bags and bags of groceries. She stepped up to the plate countless times with the patience of Job in teaching me how to cook. I needed to be with her though when she cooked or baked.

Magdalene Viola, 1914…

Mag learned to play the piano and organ “by ear.” She couldn’t read music, but if she heard a song, she could sit down and play it. I think that’s the way she was with much of her cooking and baking. Maybe she could taste something, determine the spices and ingredients and know how to make it. If I asked about a dish, she’d happily explain how she made it. But her loose terminology went something like, “put in a little mustard, so.” Now come on. When you’re 19 and clueless, this could mean a half teaspoon or a half cup. If I watched her make a huge bowl of potato salad, (the best in the world) I’d get the drift of the amounts of ingredients. But she eyeballed most of the stuff she made. She knew just how much of something went into her dishes. I didn’t have that ability for decades. At times, John still thinks that ability is missing from my cooking.

This is Mag’s Recipe. Deal-breakers are radishes, sweet pickles and Miracle Whip…

Mag was an awesome baker and made delicious desserts and cream pies. Coconut, banana, lemon. I make a pretty good one too, but I’ve never been able to make them the way she did. She always combined and cooked the milk-sugar-flour and egg yolks at the same time for the pie filling. I tried that a dozen times but my filling never got thick enough. She finally told me to cook just the flour-sugar-milk and boil it for one minute. Scoop out some and combine it with the yolks, then add it to the flour-milk-sugar part and boil for another minute. Ta-da, my pies turned out perfect. But it’s always bugged me that I could never master her way of making cream pies.

Pretty darn close to Mag’s cream pies…

She knew how to stretch food when she was feeding the family. John told me meat wasn’t always served at their house for supper. Sometimes pancakes, eggs, or bread and milk pop were on the menu. (I don’t even know what that is). Whatever she cooked was tasty and filling. She did a lot of canning, like most moms back then. She had a large garden and Jim did most of the weeding. Never cheating like me. I buy all my produce at the local Farmer’s Market. John remembers as a kid sneaking down their basement to her canned goods shelves and swiping a pint of his mom’s sweet cherries. Eating the whole jar, thus destroying any evidence. Wonder what he did with the jar? I’m sure she was ticked when she caught him.

Mag w/parents and sibs. She’s on the right…

When our kids were small during the 1970’s, they would often stay in Rock Valley for a week or so. Most of the time at my folk’s house (my Mom did not like to share her grandkids). But John and I made sure they spent time with Mag and Jim too. Honest there couldn’t have been 2 more different sets of grandparents on the face of the earth. My Mom discouraged the grandkids from doing ANYTHING on their own. Walking to the school playground, or the Bakery, each only a couple blocks away. She wanted and needed to know their whereabouts at all times. She did plan and participate in activities with them. But grandma Florence invented the term “helicopter or hovercraft grandma.” Mag on the other hand, let the kids have all kinds of freedom. They could go to the park or swimming pool unaccompanied. In the back of Jim and Mag’s house was a huge empty field. My kids had free rein to claim that as their play yard too. Josh had a ball exploring their basement.

Mag hanging out clothes. Jimmy on the trike, about 1940…

I knew Mag for 30 years. I can only remember being mad at her once in all those years. And I bit my tongue and said nothing. She was kind and caring to me. On one occasion I drove her to Orange City because she needed to do something at the Sioux county courthouse. Afterwards we headed to a restaurant for lunch, then walked around downtown. We stopped at a gift store and she told me to pick out a piece of Blue Delft for my collection. I picked out a round relish tray. Only piece I ever got from her and I treasure it.

My Blue Delft Relish Tray. A gift from Mag…

When we moved to Michigan, we only made it back to Rock Valley a couple times a year. The year was 1987, and Jim passed away that November. Jim and Mag had been married over 58 years. After that, whenever we were ready to leave, she would stand on her cement front porch. Tears running down her face as we waved goodby. I don’t do that very often-yet. But the lumps in my throat are sure there whenever one of the kids get ready to leave lately. Part of life I guess. Getting more sentimental as I age. Realizing I’m not going to be around forever to wave goodby and watch them leave. Hard. So hard.

Mag, tearfully waving goodby as we head back to Michigan, 1990…

Mag watched Jimmy’s kids quite often. He and Eleanor lived in Rock Valley so their kids spent a lot of time with Jim and Mag. I think John and I were dating when Jimmy bought his mom a beautiful hurricane lamp. Mag would have that lamp on her solid maple tea cart in the middle of her big living room window for 25 or 30 years. I loved that lamp since the first time I laid eyes on it. Probably in the mid or late ’60’s. After Mag passed away, the family decided the most fair way to divide her household stuff was to hold an auction.

Mag’s picture as foster grandparent at Hope Haven…

I didn’t go. It was during the school year, so John went to Rock Valley alone that week. But not without strict instructions from me before he left. “You ask Jimmy when you get there if he wants the hurricane lamp? If he does, fine. If not, do NOT come back to Michigan without that lamp.” There were scads of people at the auction, but anytime one of the family members started bidding on something, others just stopped bidding. Jimmy had no plans for buying back his lamp, so John bid until the auctioneer shouted “sold.” I’ve been sorry since that day that I didn’t tell him buy the maple tea cart too. They did kind of belong together. My mistake. I do admire and cherish the lamp everyday. And have an awesome antique oak oval library table that for the most part does it justice.

Mag’s hurricane lamp now resides with us. I love it…

Mag had a sweet tooth like no other person I’ve ever known. She hid candy around the house, always claiming it was for “the grandkids.” Well she did have candy for them, but it wasn’t the good stuff, like her hidden stash. For the last few months of her life she stayed in Valley Manor, with a couple visits to Hegg Memorial Hospital as her health deteriorated. Whenever I was visiting my folks, I made it a point to visit Mag at dinner or supper time to help with her meal. I remember one visit like it was yesterday. She was done with her main course, and I was feeding her pudding. Butterscotch pudding. Every single spoonful I gave her, she gave this little groan of pleasure. Then she’d say, “boy that tastes good.” Every single bite of butterscotch pudding. Mag passed away on Thanksgiving Day in 1994, at the age of 84. She was loved by many and still missed. Remembering my mother-in-law Mag with much fondness…

Mag and I doing dishes. Probably around 1976…

I met Betty in 2004. A petite, soft-spoken 85 year old who was very active. She had a lovely condo, drove all over, ate out with friends, and helped care for her husband. Hubby was in an assisted living facility. She was visiting him every time I stopped. With memory issues, he had ceased to join our conversations on most days. His input consisted of, “what should we do now Betty?” She was most patient answering him a dozen times during my visit. After she left him, she went to a nursing home to see her grade school friend who had fallen off a swing 75 years before and was paralyzed. Every day.

Such exquisite Easter eggs. Made simply…

This was a second marriage for him, but the first for Betty some 20 years before. Betty had no children, but was immensely fond of her 3 grown step-daughters. One of the girls lived a few miles away, the other 2 near the east coast. They came to visit their dad and Betty often. After he passed away, I would occasionally stop to visit Betty. She really wasn’t on my Parish Visitor’s list yet. She was doing fine, but we enjoyed each other’s company, so we continued our visits together.

Betty, 92 who taught me how to do Easter eggs. Simply but with some flair…

In 2009 Betty was celebrating her 90th birthday in a very big way. Her step-daughter Joan had come to Muskegon to pick up Betty and take her to South Carolina for 2 weeks. There were many parties, get-together’s with friends, family and neighbors. Joan had a special hard cover book published on Betty’s life adventures. Betty was quite an accomplished painter of porcelain dishes, so the book included many pictures. She was so proud of that book. I need to get my kids on board with that idea once I hit a milestone in my life (hopefully before I reach 90, but after I figure out my special gifts).

Start with old silk ties. Silk part is a deal-breaker…

It was soon after Betty returned from South Carolina that I happened to stop to see her. She had many stories to tell how her Joan had spoiled her with parties and sight-seeing. Then she said, “oh Denise I almost forgot. I have something to show you.” She brought out a tiny basket with 3 Easter eggs in it. Not like any Easter eggs I had ever seen before. Simply exquisite. Joan’s friend, Vaida had invited several neighbors over to teach them her mother Emilija’s version of dyed Easter eggs she had done as a child growing up in Latvia years ago. They saved every scrap of silk material throughout the whole year so every child could have at least one colorful dyed Easter egg.

Cut he ties apart and into strips…

Well you all know by now that I am the least crafty person/grandma on the planet. Give me a food recipe and I can usually make it work, but any craft project is totally out of my realm and comfort zone. But I was intirgued. After I got home that night, I wrote down everything Betty had explained about these cool eggs. Easter was almost a year away and I knew my brain would not retain this info. Every few weeks I’d stop at the second hand shops in town. Realized quite soon that Goodwill did not have good-deals for what I needed. I didn’t want to go to fabric stores to buy silk material. I decided that silk ties would be used for my egg project. A couple places here in town had silk ties for 50 cents each. I ended up with 20 ties, different patterns and colors. Though most ties are rather dark with navy and black being the dominant colors. Who knew ties are sewn together with about 10 stitches? Not me. I bought one of those whatcha-ma-call-its that rip out stitches. Cut out the small lining piece, then just cut the tie into strips. Stored them all in a big zip-lock bag.

Bowl with water. Toss in some silk strips…

As Lent was upon us the next year, I began having misgivings. The project sounded kind of complicated. My youngest granddaughter Peyton was then 5 and I could envision broken eggs all over the kitchen table and floor. When my oldest granddaughter Ariana and boyfriend were here a couple weeks before Easter, I asked them to help me for a trial run on the eggs. The 2 of them and John and I each did 3 eggs one afternoon. Holy moly did they turn out fantastic! We were tickled pink. We each had our own little work station. Water in a small bowl, silk strips, and a towel laying on the table in case an egg got dropped. And for all the water drips.

The wet silk adheres easily to the egg…

When Landon and Peyton came and wanted to make some, we had the best time. It’s really funny. At first we tried to differentiate each of their own wrapped eggs. The kids didn’t tie the eggs up, John and I did that part. When the eggs were done and being unwrapped, Landon and Peyton would get into some pretty heated arguments about which egg was theirs. (Are you kidding me)? No I am not. When one turned out extra pretty they argued. They each won this argument one time. Eight yr. old Landon decided he wanted an egg with all the same material. Into the big bag of silk strips he carefully sought out enough of one pattern material to finish an egg. He did it with a kooky orange and red striped tie. No doubt about that one. With PJ’s different pattern, she chose a tie I had found that had teddy bears all over. She painstakingly cut out several teddys, so her egg was easy to spot after it was unwrapped too. But they still fuss and fume about the rest of them. Each wanting credit for the ones that turn out striking. Goofy kids. Not one egg was dropped. Graham was putting on the silk strips when he was 2. He was OK not doing the muslin wrap or tying it up with string. He unwrapped them all. Flinging soggy silk strips all over and having a ball.

Snug in muslin with crochet thread wrapped everywhere…

I always made a dozen to take along on my visits once we were into Lent. I bought a fancy Easter basket, filled it with pretty grass and 8 or 10 different patterned eggs. Kept it in the fridge until I was heading out the door for a day of visits. If I was walking down the hall of a nursing home or hospital, doctors, nurses, visitors would stop and ask if they were real? Then how do you make them? After I got past the part where the wet silk strips were covering the egg, it was time to wrap it in a piece of muslin. Taking crochet thread and wrapping it snug, so the silk pieces didn’t come loose when you boil them. At this point their eyes would glaze over. Shoot, I lost em. Finally started carrying around one egg still wrapped in muslin with string wrapped around it. And several copies of written instructions to hand out. What a conversation starter! I’ve given classes in nursing homes. My neighbor is a special needs teacher. I spent a half day in her class room helping her students to do the eggs. They each got to bring home 3. They were by far the most thrilled with the project.

During boiling, some dye sneaks out. Not to worry…

This will be my 6th year making silk dyed Easter eggs. Graham just asked if eggs were one of our “craft projects” this year when we were face-timing? “Yup Buddy, we’re doing them this weekend,” I assured him. My friend Jane is having her granddaughter stay with her for spring break. I suggested Easter eggs as a project for them to do some afternoon. I’m bringing Jane the directions and enough silk to wrap a few eggs with Camila. Although I’m not very crafty, this is a old world craft I want to live on in children’s lives. And in mine. Thanks Betty, Vaida and Emilija. So much prettier than the horrible store kits Shannon used to bring over Easter weekend. Why did those kits always include glitter? I’d still be vacuuming up glitter 3 weeks later. Argh. With silk dyed eggs we spend time together doing a craft we all enjoy, making something gorgeous. For this grandma that’s a win-win…

Bringing both baskets to friends for their Easter decorations…

I day dream when I walk. I’ve got my Bose headphones perched on my head. (Thanks Rosemary). Making me look like Mickey Mouse. Listening to my funky, hip-hop music to keep my slow feet and slower following butt moving. I’m usually singing along. Smiling, glancing at the sky, lake, ground, or oncoming traffic. Making up my own lyrics along the way. Cause I don’t have a clue what P!nk, Maroon 5, Pitbull, Flo-rida, Ke$ha, or Enrique are really saying most of the time. Ah, the joys of being severely hearing impaired. If someone is nearby, I hope my made up lyrics give them a laugh.

Headphones, lip balm, iPod, key. Umm yup it’s a knife and some mace go walking with me…

Winter’s strong hold on our weather has finally lost it’s grip. Amen! After a not too bad January, February just knocked me for a loop. Much colder than normal temps, topped with lots of new snow. Which is finally melting. Years ago I was so dedicated to my walking routine, if we were having a blizzard, I’d slip and slide 10 miles in the car to walk indoors at our mall. Sigh. Wish I had that kind of determination and dedication now. But I do not.

I started walking in 1998. Seventeen years ago! Holy cow. John had just been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. We were both heavy and needed to make some lifestyle changes. We live at the bottom of a hill on Muskegon Lake. To get to any sidewalks, there’s no way around it. You got to get your hiney to the top of the hill. Well that’s about as far as me and my hiney could muster. And I was puffing like a steam engine. Along with a pretty strict diet, I lost about 75 pounds. But it was the walking that gave my spirits, my whole outlook on life a wonderful new perspective. Not that there hasn’t been plenty of bumps, potholes, black ice, broken bones, and surgeries trying to block my walking path. But in 17 years of pretty consistent daily walks, I can count on one hand the number of times I felt worse instead of better after my walk. I find that amazing and smile worthy. Thanks God.

I used to be quite brave and never gave it a thought to walk at 5 in the morning or 10 at night. Not anymore. Along with my severe hearing disability I have Meniere’s Disease. A fluctuation of inner ear fluids which affect my balance. If I look up to watch a hawk in flight, a couple yards later, I may be walking 3 feet to the left. I’m wobbly on ladders, stairs or just not paying attention to what I’m doing. I’ve finally come to terms that I need to walk on relatively dry pavement. And in broad daylight.

Reflecting back on my walking journey is like reading an old diary. Certain days, accidents, events, some pleasant and poignant, some miserable and painful. But all part of what makes me-me. As it got easier to reach the top of our hill, I ventured further away. One day I was about a mile away. I noticed a woman walking towards me. She was on the outside of the sidewalk with a dog on a leash on the inside. I glanced at her again when she was closer and noticed she had moved the pooch to the outside, on the grass. I smiled as we met, but kept my same pace (I was much faster then-sigh) with my arms a-swinging with every stride. I had already passed her when I felt this humongous tug. Stopped me dead in my tracks! I whirled around to find her standing with her dog between her legs. Squeezed tight. This crazy animal was snarling, snapping, wiggling, and yelping to get free and snack on my face. What? She said, “are you hurt?” I wasn’t sure of anything right then. She was trying to get her dog calmed down, but he was still going berserk. I felt my back, tugged my t-shirt around and found a gaping 4 inch hole in my shirt. Wow. He had torn a hunk of shirt but missed a piece of Neese. She said, “oh give me your phone number and I’ll send you money for a new t-shirt.” “Ah, no thanks. How about keeping your /?!%$/! dog off the /?!%$/! sidewalk?” Oops. Sorry bout that. I later noticed a “dog whisperer” at her house several times after that little dance we shared.

North Muskegon, (Snootyville) is in between Muskegon Lake and Bear Lake. Most of the residential area is quite narrow, block wise. We have one main street through town. You can imagine how busy this street is while soccer moms, doctors, lawyers, business owners are vying to get anywhere. Their time is SO much more valuable than mine (the lowly walker). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come THIS close to getting hit by a car. (I argue I’m the pedestrian and have the right to cross a street. If they are turning, they need to yield to me. John insists I’m going to be “dead right.”) If it weren’t so dangerous and pathetic, it would be funny. Most of the time I’m pretty safe cause I’m on the sidewalk. Not during the winter though. Since many flee this miserable area during the long winter, none of the side walks get shoveled. If the weather breaks for a couple days, walking must be on the side of the road or through 3 feet of snow on the sidewalks. Which is probably better for the chubby thighs, but no thanks. I routinely see people driving with reading material wedged between their steering wheel. Gals applying make up or doing their hair. One 30-ish dude driving a Hummer has a big bowl held high on his chest and eats cereal every morning. Guess he steers with his knees. Another dude has his tie flung over his back so he doesn’t get a spot on it while he eats what appears to be a nice home cooked breakfast. Not to worry. This only accounts for about 25% of the morning drivers. The other 75% are texting, talking, emailing, Twitting or Facebooking on their phones. So dumb. And that’s doing 30 mph through town.

Muskegon Lake on the left, small Bear Lake on right. Glorious Lake Michigan on top…

After the first couple years of consistently walking 5 miles a day, my feet started to protest. My body seems to have 3 problems spots. One of course is my ears. Or head. If the noises weren’t so loud in my head, I would be able to understand what people are saying. Second is my constant problems with my right foot. It’s just one thing after another. Surgery on my big toe requiring several months off from my walking routine. A chronic “hotspot” swelling on the bottom of the ball of my foot. Plantar Fasciitis requiring 400 dollar orthotic inserts. Now I’ve got a hammertoe on the same foot. Plus I get blisters on the same 2 toes every couple weeks. Ugh.

Then there’s my left elbow. Four years into walking, I slipped on some acorns on a dark early morning walk. Embarrassed to admit that. Landed on my left elbow. I finally got myself into a sitting position, but could not stand up without help. My elbow bone was somewhere near my upper arm. A man riding his bike to work stopped to help, and called John to come get me. That little spill required surgery with twelve staples, and a couple pins putting things back in the right place. The specialist said I would never be able to straighten my arm again. But with painful-tear-squirting-physical-therapy, I’m happy to say, my arm is almost straight. Much better than Doc ever hoped. Yay! Forward about 8 years, dang if I didn’t clip a rock on the side of my shoe and went down again. Got back up, felt all my parts, which appeared intact. Adjusted my headphones which had flown off and kept on walking. It was almost light out (no, I hadn’t learned that valuable lesson yet). After another block, I started seeing spots. Wow, this felt weird. If I could just make it to a small sign post and hang on until the dizziness passed. Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and was on flat on my back in a patch of sumac and weeds along our new walking/bike path. Huh. Time to head back. Made it home, then noticed blood running down my shirt sleeve. Huge knot-wouldn’t you know it. My left elbow. Dreaded waking up John who always preached that I should walk during the day. Or going back to the specialist again. Yup, broke the same elbow. Not nearly as complicated this time though. But that was the last day I walked without good lighting. Takes me awhile to learn my limitations.

My favorite tree at Niagara Falls, warts and all…

When I’m packing for any trip, it’s unusual for me not to include a bag with all my walking paraphernalia. Some of my favorite walks have been in locations that are new to me. A couple times I’ve stayed at Niagara Falls and did my daily walk along the Falls. How many people get to do that? Ever? Absolutely awesome! One of the days it was pouring down rain, but I would not or could not give up that morning walk. I was soaked but exhilarated. (My walking shorts were stiff as a board for the trip’s duration). Since the weather was so ugly that morning, I virtually had the Falls to myself. How many people get to say that? Ever? You do have to pay attention there though. The asphalt is quite uneven. It’s the only time while I’m walking that I occasionly stop to gawk at the Falls for a minute, then move on.

Niagara Falls. Sorry Sherman Williams. Only God can make this color…

When John and I went through Michigan’s UP a few years ago, I experienced some of my most memorable walks. We were staying in Munising. It was late June and their lilacs were blooming (that happens here around Memorial Day, a month earlier). Walking along the shore of the exquisite emerald green Lake Superior. Almost intoxicating. Too beautiful for words. Then we crossed over to Duluth, Minnesota. They have shipping docks filled with 1000 foot tankers below where I was walking. It’s amazing when I see one pass in our backyard, but a hundred of them in one spot was awesome. Next we headed to our good friends Dale and Beth Duits in Minnesota. They had just bought a vacation home, so we stayed there instead of their farm. I walked the shores of Lake Ottertail. Moving west and south we stopped at our nephew Ken’s house near Spencer. (I think he owns the little town called Langdon). Some of the best farm land in the world. So I walked gravel roads, along crops of corn a little taller than knee high. A quicky visit in Le Mars at Les and Mary Jane’s house. Walked down the boulevard with beautiful homes. Got close enough to see Well’s Blue Bunny’s multiple, massive plants. Ice cream capital of the world. Last stop was Sioux Falls for a couple nights. Nice hotel in that expanding city. So I walked through a new housing addition. Each one with their own take on landscaping. Which I like to critique to myself. “Ick, what’s wrong with them? Or, love that! Gotta look up the name of that shrub.”

Lake Superior and Pictured Rocks. It’s really emerald green…

Some days when I walk, odd things happen. I was walking very early when a older lady I know opened her front door. She was stark naked. When I stopped and picked up my jaw off the sidewalk I said, “morning, do you need some help?” She looked at me, but was not seeing me. I called her son when I got home. She moved in with her daughter right after that. Another time a heavy-set older gal was walking towards me. She held up her hand as she got closer. Like, stop-halt! Which I did. Slipped off my headphones. She said, “I don’t know if you realize what an inspiration you’ve been to me and some of my friends with weight issues. We see you walking everyday. Without fail. We notice you’re shrinking month by month. You really have no idea what that means to the rest of us. To just keep plugging along. Thanks so much.”…

There are special people in my life who are in it for the long haul. Others, through no fault of their own, flit in and out. I read a quote stating people in your life are a blessing or a lesson. Since I’ve been married (to the same guy) for 45 years, I would venture that John is “in it” for the duration. Except for some teenage angst years, Shannon, Joshua and Adam have always been in my corner. These four have always had my back and are true blessings.

Josh, Adam and Shannon, 1984. BTA (before teenage angst)….

But this isn’t about them. This is about a special couple who came into my life through my job as Parish Visitor. How and why God placed them by me. And who still benefits from the blessings of this supposedly short term relationship. When I started as Parish Visitor at my second church, we had a senior pastor and a chaplain. Which meant I didn’t do very many hospital visits. They did. After I got to know my group of people, I always visited them when they were sick or had surgery in the hospital. Usually though, I saw folks in their own home, independent, assisted living or a nursing home.

I went to Wednesday staff meetings, reporting on who I had seen the previous week. Always tried to tell a story or 2 (that’s me, Duh-Neese, the storyteller) about a couple of my visits to make them more human and give them some depth for the staff. Many of the staff didn’t know this group from Adam. These were the people who no longer attended regular church services. Before I tell you about a very special couple, let me tell you just a little story about someone else.

Her name was Ann. Not legally though. It was “Norma,” but she always went by Ann. She lived alone about 15 miles from me. Her husband had died several years before. Ann was about 88 when I started visiting her. Not an easy task. Her house had been vandalized years before when she was on vacation in Florida. Since then she had become somewhat of a recluse. A little bit suspicious, and really didn’t like leaving her home. Or strangers. It was a tough sell the first couple visits. She was cordial, but cool. She had a little Yorkie named Babe. (Yes, Babe was her real name) Babe hung her tongue out of the side of her mouth constantly. Looked kinda weird. After the first few awkward visits we grew to love each other. (Me and Ann, but Babe was OK too)

Ann (legally Norma) about 85 years old…

Over my 12 plus years of visiting, I would guess about 200 different people on a regular basis, I can truthfully say about 10% of them ever asked a question about me. Nothing wrong with that. Older people have a tendency to dwell on themselves. (Now that I’m older, you can probably tell that about me too). These folks wanted to know what was going on at church. More specifically, certain members who had once been their dear friends. Many of them were literally starving for a little conversation. And needed to talk, so I listened. Of all the possible topics, well anything about Denise wasn’t high on their list. But Ann was different. Always asked how my kids and grandchildren were doing. Never forgot to ask about my Dad after he moved to Michigan. Not just to be polite. She was genuinely interested in my life. I am humbled and dumbstruck by this notion. And eternally grateful. Ann started failing about 5 years ago. Couldn’t live alone anymore, and moved into a long term care facility. I had not seen her for 2 years since I retired. Her son called me a couple of days ago and said she had passed away at the age of 99. Wanted me to know how much her family appreciated all the visits and food I brought. Ann had talked about ME to her family. I’m so glad God gave me Ann (legally Norma) for awhile. I was much more deeply blessed having her in my life than the other way around. That happens to me so often lately.

Ann (legally Norma) seated holding a cutie. In her 90’s…

Back to my lead story. During these staff meetings after my report, preacher man would give his own report. During my first couple months of work, an almost weekly report would be about a guy named Kent. He’d been in the hospital for an extended period of time, but I hadn’t met him yet. One week both the preacher and chaplain were going to be gone. Preacher asked me to visit Kent at the hospital. Sure thing Boss. Got to the hospital and there was no patient named Kent. Thought maybe he had been discharged. Nope. Found out later that his legal name is “Raymond.” In Michigan, if you can’t state his real name at the hospital’s front desk, you are NOT getting his room number. No one had told me his legal name.

Several weeks later preacher says, “Denise, Kent has finally been discharged. Would you put him on your visitor list?” “Sure thing” I answered. A few days later I walked up to their front door and rang the bell. Call me shocked. A beautiful, light auburn haired gal close to my age opened the door. Assumptions. We all make them when we don’t have all the facts. Since Kent had been in the hospital for a long period of time, I assumed he was 80 or more. Either he had robbed the cradle or was a much younger man. Well Kent was about about a dozen years older than me. He had suffered a debilitating stroke a few years before and had to retire. He was coping with heart problems, diabetes, eye and kidney issues, now requiring dialysis at home. Kent was funny, gregarious and talkative. He spoke often about a eccentric brother who reminded me of my sister. We found lots to talk about. He was an avid hunter, and had been a super jock in high school sports.

Kent and Jo on their 25th anniversary. 1984…

His wife Jo was very quiet. I know she realized the visits were for Kent, but rarely joined our kooky conversations. Well, she had a lot on her plate. Sometimes she’d zip to the store for a couple things while I was there. Her nights were totally messed up. She was often on the verge of collapse. Caregiving. One of life’s toughest jobs. Kent was on dialysis during the night and the equipment made constant noises. I remember after he passed away she said the dialysis machine noises that drove her nuts during the night keeping her awake were still driving her crazy. Because the machines were now silent. Jo kept waiting for those too familiar noises requiring her attention. Not anymore.

About a year into visiting them, Kent landed back in the hospital yet again. He had a sore on his foot that was not healing. After several days of tests, the doctor had bad news. Kent’s foot could not be saved. They would have to amputate. Kent decided he was done. Lost his will to keep fighting. At 67 he was too tired and sick to go on. Ready to meet his Savior face to face. With heart issues, eye problems, diabetes, dialysis, and the long term affects of his stroke, losing a foot was the last straw. He was done with treatments and wanted to go home. After one final dialysis treatment, he was discharged home with hospice care. He didn’t last a week. Kent was one of my first losses, passing away a couple months after my good buddy Charles. (Charles-in-Charge post from September of 2014 if you got a hankerin to know a real quirky character). Now after a dozen years and losses of over a hundred folks who I visited from weeks, or months, to almost a decade, losing these 2 guys within 60 days of each other were still among the toughest. The ones that have affected me the most along with Rosemary and Pat who I lost a month apart. Each one of them so different from each other, but each made a huge impact on me during their lives and in their deaths.

Kent (legally Raymond) in much happier, healthy days…

Jo had a lot of support. Four grown kids, 3 live close, and one only 40 miles away. Several grandchildren who doted on her, often spending the night at grandma’s house. Distracting Jo from not hearing Kent’s dialysis equipment noises. A few weeks after Kent passed away, I stopped over to see Jo. Mentioned that it might be nice if we went out for breakfast or lunch sometime. Jo was game. She was no longer interested in cooking for one. We started meeting once a week for breakfast. Soon it was lunch a couple days later. For nearly 10 years we’ve met once or twice a week. Becoming dear friends. Learning about each other’s families, keeping Kent close in our hearts. We both agree Kent is smiling down from heaven every time we do something together. He is thrilled beyond belief that he was the conduit for our treasured friendship.

Jo and I took a trip a couple years ago. She wanted to attend a family wedding out east. She wasn’t keen on flying or going alone. I jumped at the chance. We drove, starting our trip by staying at my favorite spot, Niagara Falls. Jo and Kent had been there years before. We stayed several days in New Hampshire visiting her relatives. I was against attending the wedding. I wanted to stay in the hotel with a good book. (Plus you know how I detest getting dressed up. Ever. “Jo, if you insist, can I please wear capris, a t-shirt and my Keen’s”)? But Jo didn’t want to go alone, so I trudged along. I knew 1 person besides Jo. Her cousin Fred who was father of the bride. It was a lovely wedding. And the food was great. Steak and cake. Two of my favorites. Doesn’t get any better than that! What to bring as a gift was a problem since I didn’t know the bride or groom. I decided on my old standby. A pretty basket with a dozen jars of my home canned goodies, wrapped with nylon gauzy material and a fancy bow. Tell you what, I had more people stop to ask and compliment me on my basket. Yup, I was a surprise hit that night. Well my canned stuff was. Since I had not been to many of these states we did some sight-seeing. We drove right through downtown Boston just a couple days before the Boston Marathon bombing. Terrible tragedy.

Jo and I discovered some odd things in common. She and Kent were married on August 22, 1959. John and I were married September 22, 1969. A decade and a month apart. They had just celebrated their 46th anniversary a few days before Kent passed away. Recently Jo was hospitalized. No, she’s healthy as a horse and takes great care of herself. But a couple of her parts are wearing out. She had knee replacement a month ago. We met for lunch a couple days before she went to the hospital. It was a cold, miserable, snowy day. As we were walking through the parking lot to our cars, I turned to say goodby and give her a hug. A little teary she said, “Denise, don’t forget if you come to the hospital. When you stop at the desk to get my room number, my name’s not really Jo or Joann. Legally it’s “Marilyn” …

You ever have one of those epiphany moments? I experienced one this morning. The light bulb was so bright, I’m still wearing my shades. A giant piece of the “why is she so stinking weird?” puzzle has been solved. I’m here to share the good news. You remember the TV series Bonanza? It debuted in 1959 and ran until 1973. Guess when I saw my first episode? Late fall of 1969. After I got married. Ben Cartwright’s oldest son Adam had already left the show! That’s right. I missed the first 10 years (that’s a decade) of Bonanza–people. Why you ask? Because I was in church.

This was the addition where we sat after RCYF…

I always went to church on Sunday nights. When I was little it was Clavin Christian Reformed. This was a small congregation and tight knit. They had a service in the morning. After the service, you went home, changed out of your good clothes, and had a big dinner. Sunday afternoons were S-L-O-W. Mom was bushed so she took a nap. Dad didn’t change clothes because he did things for the Lord on Sunday afternoons. He would visit people in the hospital, and stop by to see his folks for awhile. I couldn’t ride bike, go swimming or watch TV. Lots of “do nots” on Sunday. S-L-O-W.

Later in the afternoon, after her nap we’d go to Sioux Center. My Mom’s dad lived there. Grandpa Wanningen had a 3 room house. Wasn’t because he couldn’t afford something bigger or fancier I don’t think. He owned an airplane (which was about as big as his house). Grandpa had been widowed twice. His first wife, my grandma Coba died at age 22, 10 days after having my Mom and her twin brother. Grandpa was pretty bitter about that. He didn’t try to raise the kids either. Left the child rearing to grandparents. Both sets wanted to raise the babies. Grandpa (Gerrit, but Lakey to his friends. This because he was well over 6′ tall) remarried when Mom was about 7 (Mom’s twin, Floyd was 7 too). All of a sudden Lakey wanted to raise the twins. That didn’t fly with the kids. They tried it for a few weeks, then went back to living with Lakey’s parents, but spending a lot of quality time with the Berghuis’ too. (Coba’s parents, who lived just a few blocks away).

I digress. Lakey’s house. When you walked in you were in a small, narrow kitchen. Apartment size fridge and stove, sink and just a couple of cupboards. The living room was nice sized. Had a fantastic antique oak crank telephone hanging on the wall. The bedroom was in the back and as soon as you walked through the doorway, off to the right was a toilet. Not a separate room, no door, no sink. Just the pooper. (I always made sure I peed before we left Rock Valley). Grandpa would make coffee, we’d sit around and not talk much. Excruciatingly, painfully S-L-O-W.

Da plane, da plane. Grandpa Lakey’s airplane, about 1940…

When we got back to Rock Valley, it was time for a light supper, change our clothes (again) and go back to church. I know. But this had an upside. Because the congregation was small and cordial with everyone, it was RARE that we went home after church. We were almost always invited to someone’s house after church. This wasn’t real early either folks. I believe church started at 7:30, so by the time you visit with 10 people on your way out, get in the car and drive to the host’s house it was 9 or 9:30. But this was a huge social event. Every Sunday night. Honest. If Mom had made some special dessert on Saturday, she would invite a family to our house instead. Not nearly as much fun. Many of our members were farmers, so to this city slicker, going to a farm was a big deal. It was not unusual for us to be heading home after midnight. Work the next day for the folks and school for me. In all honesty though, this was about all my Mom and Dad did for entertainment. For them it was essential for their well being.

Mom and Dad about a year before we lost Larry. Happier times…

When “Neese the Brat” became disenchanted with this tight knit group, I entered a year long battle with my folks. The word here was “zhanick” and it became my mantra. My life goal. Zhanick is to whine, beg, plead constantly for something. Until your parents went nuts or gave in. I wanted to change to a different church. I was the only kid going to Calvin who didn’t attend the Christian School. I don’t know why my parents didn’t send me. Maybe they couldn’t afford it. But I was going to public school. All my friends went to public school. When I went to Catechism class on Tuesday’s, I was teased. I was an outsider. The boys called me Dennis. I just hated it. Larry had died a couple years before, Mona had gotten married, so I was the only kid in the house. Not sure if it even took a year of my constant zhanicking.

Most of my friends went to the First Reformed Church. A huge church with a big congregation. Sometimes I feel guilty about this. My Dad adjusted very well. He taught Sunday School, was on the Consistory several times. There were a lot of programs he was involved with and he was quite happy. Mom. It’s just hard to tell about Mom. After we lost Larry, she became much more introverted. Could be that the size of the congregation was overwhelming. And she did have some very close friends when we were at Calvin. I took that away. She was working so she never joined any women’s church circles. We did visit after church on Sunday nights at First Reformed. But I think she was happier or more comfortable at Calvin. Much of this was because of losing Larry. Calvin wrapped our small family unit in a cocoon. I don’t know if Mom would have made it without Calvin’s members or their minister, Rev. Doornbos. Most attentive, sincere Christian man who ever lived. But that’s enough guilt for the day. My fault, it was all my fault.

So by age 11 or so we were members of the First Reformed Church. I went to Sunday school. On Thursday nights we had youth choir practice. Think our tough taskmaster was Mrs. George Van Beek. She must have had a first name. Maybe Anna Marie? I loved it. Not choir so much, but being welcomed and accepted. This church had so many activities. One of the biggest church events of the year was Easter week. Maundy Thursday service, Good Friday service that got you out of school if you attended. Easter Sunday sunrise service with a huge breakfast for the whole congregation. Followed by a wonderful Easter service. Whenever I remember Easter services from First Reformed, the first thing that comes to my mind is, “Up from the grave he arose. With a mighty triumph o’re his foes.” Gives me goosebumps.

Once I hit junior high, there was RCYF. This was a youth group that met before the evening service at church started. Had our meetings in the basement. First Reformed had a HUGE youth group. Our meeting would last until about 1/3 of the evening church service was done. We would all march upstairs together, filling up the new side addition to our building. Just in time for the scripture and sermon part. About the same time as Bonanza started. Argh. But we did some awesome things in this group. We attended a Jewish Synagogue for their service one Friday night in Sioux Falls. It was fascinating to witness such a different ceremony than how we worshipped. When I reached high school and started dating, the Gerritson rule was if Rich (Dad) did not see John Van Berkum’s head sitting with the RCYF group for the duration of evening service, there was no dating Denise that night. Period.

Wow we were young. About 1965. That’s a lot of hair…

OK, so there were maybe a dozen different churches in Rock Valley back then. No they weren’t all Reformed or a clone. About half had church services on Sunday nights. And most parents required their children to attend. Holy moly, that’s a bunch of kids in town at night for something other than a school function. After the folks got to their appointed coffee get-togethers, what remained were a couple hundred cars. Filled with hormonal teens riding around downtown Rock Valley. Which was about 8 blocks. And that was stretching it. Plus all periodically stopping at my now famous ONE STOPLIGHT.

A word about my wonderful, story inducing, one stoplight in town. I got my driver’s license in December of 1966. I was cruising around town a few weeks later. Don’t believe it was a Sunday night though cause there wasn’t much traffic. Tooling around in my Dad’s 1963 Chevy, 3-speed on the column tank. I was heading east on 14th Street. I believe OUR ONE STOPLIGHT changed to a yellow blinking light going north and south and red flashing light from east and west about 10 pm. As I neared Valley State Bank, (where the famous stoplight is located) I downshifted to second, tapped on the brake and cruised through the-red-fricking-blinking-light. Didn’t make it as far as De Boer’s Station (1 mere block) before I was stopped by another set of flashing lights behind me. My knees were shaking so hard, I didn’t think I could push in the clutch. The emerging cop was none other than Casey Wagner. All 6 and a half feet of him. Imposing and intimidating. He didn’t give me a ticket, but I did get a verbal warning and a severe tongue lashing about not making a COMPLETE stop for the blinking red light. Yikes.

You might be wondering why this weekly teenage ritual always took place on Sunday’s? Why not on Friday’s after a game or the ever popular date night on Saturday? We did ride around on other nights too. Just not near as many, or with the same fervor and enthusiasm as on Sunday’s. Plus on the popular nights there were scads of things to do and keep us busy and out of trouble. All the restaurants, bowling alley, gas stations were open and hopping. In Rock Valley during the late 50’s and ’60’s, the only establishments open for business on Sunday’s were buildings belonging to the Lord. End of discussion.

Usually on Sunday nights, every car, passenger, license plate and driver were known by everybody else. I don’t know why Rock Valley was so darn popular. For some reason RV was the hotspot. Many times kids (hoodlums who always thought they were better than us) from Sioux Center (mortal enemies), Hull, Inwood, or Canton would come to Rock Valley just to ride around our LOOP. In OUR town. AT MY ONE STOPLIGHT. We did have the neatest, widest Main Street in the country. Plus all of us locals were extremely cute, handsome, and super cool. Guess that’s why they chose to ride the loop and gawk at us. But at the time we really didn’t appreciate all this attention. Many of the boys were testy and offended. Don’t be coming to our town and flirting with our cute girls. The cops were always on our case on Sunday nights. They should have been bored spitless on the deadest night of the week in our little town. Instead they were kept busy watching us ride around a few blocks. So they made some of their own rules for our busy Sunday nights. You can only ride around the loop so many times. No stopping, standing, congregating, or horsing around. It was enough to drive us out of our own town. After awhile we felt compelled to find a nice, quiet, peaceful cornfield in the country. Yup, we all had our own little make out spots. Highly regarded secrets. Still…

I’m so glad I grew up with the freedom of living in a small town. During the ’50’s and ’60’s I didn’t have the run of the town, but close to it. My town was safe. I was safe. I lost some of those freedoms after Larry died. Mom was a little over-protective. But there were still many things I could do. I guess we were free-range kids back then. There was no cell phone app to keep track of our every move 24/7. We played outside as long as it was light out and weather permitted. Folks were pretty lenient too about the weather part, considering it was northwest Iowa. We headed home when the whistle blew.

Me strolling Cindy Schmidt, 1957…

Along with being able to play outside unattended, I had the advantage of practically living in downtown Rock Valley. About a block and a half away was our big metropolis shopping district. Which was about 4 blocks long. Main Street was extremely wide, with stores on both sides. Plus stores down the side streets. Smack dab in the middle of these thriving stores was our one stoplight. (The inspiration for the name of my blog). Keeping heavy traffic moving. (Heavy as in tractors) It was an awesome town of about 2,500. It’s now at least doubled in population. Since we were pretty far from any big city, (Sioux City was about 60 miles south, Sioux Falls about 45 miles west) our various stores met most of our needs.

The stop light in the middle of our very busy town…

Included in the mix of grocery, hardware, bank, restaurants, bakery, even a movie theater were the businesses of 2 very important men in my young life. Each had an office at the tail end of our shopping mecca. I’ll start off with our town dentist, Dr. Jim Schroeder. When I was in elementary school, every fall, each class would line up at school, walk the 3 plus blocks to Dr. Schroeder’s office. Our whole class. Every year. I don’t know if he had some kind of contract with the district or not. I always assumed he volunteered his services. Great way to increase his business, but it was a lot of work too. One class at a time. His waiting room was small with a few steps once you got inside the door. There was hardly room for 20 plus kids to sit, so we all just stood quietly in line (‘cept Neese) waiting our turn. It didn’t take Doc very long. I don’t remember him having any help in writing down all the information when doing this large scale of kid teeth checking. Either I brought home a card or Doc mailed postcards stating what kind of condition my teeth were in.

My favorite dentist, Doc Schroeder, late 1950’s…

Unfortunately I never had good teeth. Which would mean Mom needed to follow up on his report. Fortunately I loved Doc Schroeder. And my parents had enough money to have my teeth worked on constantly. He was a wonderful man. From the time I was 8 or so, I went to the dentist to have Doc work on my teeth all by myself. I loved watching him work from that beautiful dark wood (maybe walnut) dental cabinet. It had a marble top and was almost shoulder high for Doc. All those little drawers with the cute knobs. And he knew exactly which drawer held just the right tool for Neese’s tooth problems. I’d give my eye teeth (sorry Doc, bad choice of words, plus I can’t afford to lose any more teeth. You’re probably surprised I’ve still got this many) to have his dental cabinet sitting in my house.

When I was about 11 I got a terrible tooth ache. Mom called Doc and made an appointment. I stayed home from school cause my mouth was very swollen. Doc had some bad news. I had an abscessed tooth. One of my permanent front teeth had to be pulled. Either this was before root canals or Doc didn’t have the training to do this procedure yet, which I find hard to believe. Mom was called in to talk it over. Doc recommended having a false tooth which would be bridged to the next tooth. Holding this bridge in place was gold. Holy moly. The cost was $60. A lot of money. Mom asked if she could make 5 dollar payments. Doc said that would be fine. I was quite a celebrity for about 3 minutes when I showed up at school with a tooth surrounded by gold. Pretty flashy. I never ever had any fear when I had to go see Doc Schroeder. To this day, I’d still rather see the dentist than the doctor.

About the time of my abscessed tooth. Neese and nephew (ha-ha) Brian, 1962…

Since I’ve lost so much of my hearing, my wacko brain didn’t know how to cope with my ever growing silent world. So my (strange) brain started making up its own noise to make up for all the sounds I don’t hear. One of my most consistent and constant sounds for the last several years is the high pitched noise of a dentist’s drill. Doc’s drill. Although the noise is enough to drive me insane at times, I have to smile when I think of my favorite dentist, Doc Schroeder.

Even more important was one of our home town doctors. Dr. Lester Hegg. I was devastated to learn that he did not deliver me. All my Mom’s fault. The year was 1950. Rock Valley did not have its own hospital yet. I think Rock Rapids, Le Mars and maybe Sioux Center did. Dr. Hegg wanted to deliver babies in the hospital. Mom had my older sister and brother at home and did not want to go to a hospital to have me. About 6 months pregnant, she switched to an older guy named Dr. Lock, assuring another home delivery. Wasn’t very long though after my birth that our family physician was again Dr. Hegg. Some of those years Doc Hegg was the only physician in town. Back then if you needed a surgeon, OB-GYN, urologist, orthopedic specialist or an ER with the highest qualifications in the world, Doc Hegg was your man. He preformed surgery in his office. One of my friends got hit with a shovel accidentally when she was a toddler. Almost cut off her nose. Her family rushed her to Doc Hegg’s office just as he was leaving for the day. Opened the office back up, put Betty to sleep with ether, and carefully stitched back her nose. Perfect. He was so proud he would call her house when he had other doctors visiting in town. Ask Betty to come to his house to show off her perfect little nose. Always giving her a quarter when she showed up.

Since his office was a few buildings north of Doc Schroeder’s office, I went to see Doc Hegg by myself too. Doc took out Mona’s and Larry’s tonsils in his office, but I was just a baby, so I missed out on that little ether party. I was sick quite a bit when I was a kid. I would stay home from school with another throat infection. Mom was at work just a few blocks away. She’d call during the day, and come home for lunch, but I usually stayed by myself when I was sick after I was about 8. Before that I would stay with my neighbor Bessie Jacobs. She loved me and I adored her.

Dr. Hegg’s office, Rock Valley, Iowa. 1950’s…

Anyway I knew darn well when I went to Doc Hegg’s office I would be getting a penicillin shot. Which I really didn’t want. But I was feeling so lousy by then, it was almost a relief to get the shot cause I’d start feeling better right away. Didn’t have to call for an appointment either. Doc Hegg had a one story brick building. When you walked in the door you were in the waiting room. U-shaped upholstered seating along 3 walls. No sign in sheet. You sat nearest the door you just walked in, and slowly slid your way to another door. Doc would crack open the door and say, “who’s next?” As that lucky soul went in, you slid a little closer to the doc-who-could-fix-it-all-door. Once in awhile an emergency would warrant someone cutting in line. John’s dad had a hunk of steel fall on his hand, cutting off most of his pinkie. Someone from Van Zee’s wrapped up his hand and dropped him off at Hegg’s office. Jim slid in last place to wait his turn. Soon it was apparent by the dripping blood on the floor that Jim should go next when Doc opened the door.

Dr. Hegg and wife Palma, 1955…

Doc didn’t always have the best bedside manner. He was rather gruff, and didn’t talk much. Constant cigarette hanging from his mouth or adorning the edge of one of his cabinets. (This was the late ’50’s and early ’60’s. Smoking was still being endorsed in advertising by doctors on TV) If Mom was along for the office visit, he didn’t always look at her when he talked. His eyes would peer at the ceiling as he was making his diagnosis. He knew everybody’s name in town, but in the office he’d often just say, “well Mrs., Denise has tonsillitis. I’ll give her a shot of penicillin. She’ll feel better in a day or so. Think about getting those tonsils taken out.” Then Mom would ask how much she owed and Doc would say 3 bucks.

Since Rock Valley did not yet have a hospital, I believe most of his patients that needed hospitalization went to Le Mars, about 35 miles away. It was a beautiful fall Saturday and Doc was just coming back from checking on his hospital patients. There was an unusual traffic jam about a mile from Rock Valley on Hi-way 18. Doc stopped, hopped out of the car, running ahead, and stumbled on the accident when my 12 year old brother Larry had just been hit by a car. Not much for Doc Hegg, the miracle worker to do that day though. Larry had been killed instantly.

One of Larry’s last school pictures…

Dr. Hegg was instrumental in getting Rock Valley our first swimming pool. He felt it was detrimental to a child’s well-being to swim in our dirty sand pit with a herd of cattle nearly. He was a faithful, beloved servant to our town and surrounding area for decades. Rarely took any time off. Always ready for an emergency.

Beloved Doc Hegg near the end of his career….

Doc Hegg was the first recipient of the Man of the Year award in Rock Valley. He was held in the highest esteem and loved by the residents he served for so many years. I don’t think he lived to see Rock Valley’s hospital completed. I sure hope before he passed away he knew the hospital would be named in his honor. Hegg Memorial Hospital. I’m lucky and proud that I was one of his (frequent) patients when I was a kid. Thanks Doc…

It’s funny what you lug behind after you leave home. You don’t even realize that “they’re” along for the life ride, let alone maybe a bit different or strange. It may take years before you discover “they’re” trying to kick their way out in the open and have some say. Some of these threads are from my home town of Rock Valley, Iowa. Back in the ’50’s and ’60’s this was a pretty small, somewhat isolated, mostly Dutch community of about 2,500 folks. Much of our population was farmers, though I was always a townie. Other threads were instilled in my home as I was growing up.

Neese sitting in front of the house I grew up in. Rock Valley, Iowa 1959..

When I was small, I thought the whole world was like me. Mom and Dad were Dutch, so I thought nothing of their strange words and phrases. I assumed the rest of the world talked like we did. We watched The Huntley-Brinkley Report or Walter Cronkite for our news, but I never realized they did not use the word “kaup” instead of head, or refer to Nikita Khrushchev as “aggawase” instead of saying he was stubborn and pig-headed. Every mom must have told their kids to make sure and put on clean “broekje’s” (Bru-kees, underpants) before you went anywhere. Certainly every house had wooden shoes, crocheted or tatted doilies and Blue Delft brought over from the Netherlands. Each with its own history and story.

Blue Delft w/ floral motif. I don’t care for windmill scenes. Gasp…

Many of my attached threads had to do with our language from Rock Valley. Though primarily Dutch, there were certainly other ethnic backgrounds and traditions in town. But when you’re a kid, and Dutch, I assumed that’s what was used in every home. Phrases like “oof-da” meaning heavy or too much of something, or “heh-tah” meaning simply good grief were used daily. It would be years before someone questioned what I was talking about when I said, “look at all the “ploujes” (plu-shees) John left on the carpet when he walked across with his black socks on!” (Ploujes are fuzzies on clothes or carpets).

Saucijzbroodjes (sah-size-a-broach-ease) Dutch delicacy…

But the Dutch traditions in foods and cooking were even stronger and perhaps stranger than our ways of expression. Just try this one on for size: “saucijzbroodjes.” Yeah, that’s a mouthful! And quite delicious. The Dutch seem to throw around an awful lot of c’s, j’s, and z’s in their words. It’s really not that hard to pronounce. (Sah-size-a-broach-ease) They’re pigs-in-the-blankets. A traditional ground beef and pork mixture, snugly wrapped in a pie-crust like blanket and baked to a golden brown. Usually eaten hot, but excellent cold right out of the frig. As if they ever last that long. Another Dutch delicacy are Fet-Bols. Similar looking to donut holes, these balls of dough have raisens and are dropped in hot oil to cook for a couple minutes. Plopped on a paper towel for a few seconds, then rolled around in sugar, or cinnamon-sugar mix. Best eaten warm. Traditionally made for New Year’s Day. My Mom made them, but I don’t remember if it was celebrating New Year’s. Some Dutch dishes have never found favor by my palate. One is Balken Brei. Made from pork cracklings (exactly what the heck is that anyway?) John makes this occasionally but he uses cooked, shredded pork roast, buckwheat flour, and several spices like cinnamon. Mixed, packed, and patted in a cake pan, then refrigerated, sliced, and fried like bacon. Covered with syrup. Gross. I don’t ever remember Mom making it, but I do remember eating it. Once. I was very young and spending the day at Wilma Van Zanten’s house. Pretty sure Mom and Wilma exchanged babysitting favors. Must have been my turn to stay there. Never ate it again. No offense Wilma.

Dutch Fet-Bols in a Blue Delft bowl. Pretty and good…

Some popular Rock Valley foods may not have been Dutch either. I think they were only popular or named as such in northwest Iowa. One of my favorites is a Tavern. Served on buns, it’s simply lean ground beef, browned with diced onion, drained, then add a titch of yellow mustard and brown sugar, with enough Heinz ketchup to kind of hold them together. When I moved just a couple hundred miles away in the mid-’70’s, no one on the east side of Iowa knew what I talking about when it came to Taverns. By the time I moved to Michigan in the mid-’80’s, if I mentioned the word Tavern, everyone assumed we were headed to the bar. Sigh. Taverns are like sloppy joes. But vastly different than a loose meat or maid rite. And much better. To this day when I open my weekly Rock Valley Bee, I still spot Taverns on the school menu or as an advertised soup supper sandwhich held by a local church. That hasn’t changed in over 60 years, probably longer. Only in northwest Iowa. It warms my heart when I spot the word “Tavern” in the paper.

Rock Valley still enjoying Taverns at school. Rock Valley Iowa paper, 2015…

After leaving Rock Valley, some threads were easy to sever. Dad’s unrelenting rules on movies, make-up, dances, and dating someone who didn’t meet his approval. It was a relief to put some distance between Mom and me. She liked knowing and being part of every facet of my life. I mean every part. Could be stifling. Had to admire Dad’s convictions though. If he felt something was wrong to do in Rock Valley, (example, swimming on Sunday’s) he’d never allow me to do it any where else either. Example: on vacation 2 thousand miles away. He never made exceptions to his high standards.

If he got called to the State shop during a Sunday blizzard, and Mom hadn’t made up his lunch pail, he would not stop at a restaurant in Canton, Sheldon or Perkin’s Corner with the other guys he worked with. If he worked 12-16 hours, he’s come home starving, but would not break his own rules. He would not eat in a restaurant on Sunday, period. Mom would save his supper on a glass or metal pie plate, covered with tin foil. He’d pop it in the oven for a few minutes. Always had his usual prayer, scripture reading, even if he was eating alone and it was 10 at night. It’s not hard to admire his unwavering faith.

My Dad’s lunch pail. Carried it for decades…

Other threads from Mom and Dad I have clung to like a life preserver on the Titantic. Especially as I get older. I appreciate Mom’s great love and total dedication to elderly people. Her whole life. I got this gene from her since I too have loved older folks. Maybe it’s because she was raised by 2 sets of grandparents after she was just a few days old. Dad for his faithfulness to his parents. It was a rare day in his life when he did not stop at his parents house, drink a cup of coffee, and visit for a half hour. I went along lots of times. Some days they didn’t even talk much. But it was out of respect. Making sure they were ok, or seeing if they needed something. Dad was devoted to his folks.

Great-grands Arie & Bessie Gerritson w/ Shannon, 4, 1974…

Mom and Dad both had a wonderful ability to save money. They could be lavish with their gifts and spending. But saving was vital to them and they did it well. Always tithing to the Lord. That’s giving back to God 10% of everything you bring home. Without fail. Since before I went to school. It was just part of their budget. When they got paid, Mom had envelopes lined up in a small box. Very little was put in their checking account. They hardly wrote any checks. Mom and Dad paid cash for most things, even bills. Either one would make monthly stops at IPS, the phone company, and 2 gas stations. Mom always preferred De Boer’s, Dad liked Doc Ver Berg’s. Don’t know why they continued for years to charge gas at both stations. Loyalty I guess. Or Dutch stubbornness. Money went into another envelope for the weekly church collection. They never varied from their own rules and standards.

I wonder how many invisible threads our kids are getting from us? Shannon shares my love of antique oak furniture. Her house is stuffed even fuller than mine! Several years ago, Joshua asked for some of my recipes. He said, “Ma, how do you make banana cream pie? Just email me the recipe will ya?” But I just couldn’t do it. I bought a Longaberger Recipe Basket and wrote out about 30 of my recipes. It was somehow vitally important that he have these recipes written in my half/cursive, half/printing scrawl. When I’m gone, I want him to appreciate having those hand written recipes. Knowing that I took the time. I did the same thing for my granddaughter Ariana. When she opened Her recipe basket she cried. So did I.

Banana Cream Pie. Josh makes his own now…

But our kids grew up way different than we did. None of them ever got to stay in one place very long. Twenty plus years in North Muskegon is the longest we’ve ever lived in one house. Adam, our youngest, was already 15 when we moved here. I only moved once while living in Rock Valley. John and I rarely use Dutch words anymore. None of the kids have ever made Saucijzbroodjes, Fet-Bols, pea or bean soup. Heaven forbid if I could get them to try Balken Brei. They all like Taverns. And Penuche, which is a brown sugar fudge my Mom used to make with her grandma Berghuis (on Sunday’s, oops a minor sin) in the 1930’s. But I think all 3 kids still prefer fudge…

Brown sugar fudge called Penuche…

My great-grandma Berghuis’ Fudge recipe. Still made frequently…

I wonder what ever happened to good old-fashioned family card games? Do families still play certain card games when they get together? We didn’t play cards at my house when I was a kid. Pretty sure that wasn’t on the approved activity list. But I played cards everywhere else. By the time I hit my mid teens it was one of my favorite past-times. OK, sneaking smokes was number 1, but cards were definitely number 2. Well, maybe after boys, but it was definitely number 3. Yeah, we’ll let cards stand at number 3.

Pinochle game 1970’s. Jim & Mag Van Berkum, Eleanor VB & Elly Lawrence…

Does anyone remember the card game of Rook? When I was dating this Dykstra kid, it was the game his family played all the time. I played Canasta with Loie Ymker and her sisters constantly. We were addicted. Then we morphed into playing something similar to it called Bolivia I think. More decks of cards involved as I remember. Hours just flew by having scads of fun playing cards. (Plus sneaking those smokes).

Once I started dating John, there was an unwritten Van Berkum law you were not accepted in “the family” (geez, sounds like the mafia) unless you could hold your own in the game of Pinochle. One Christmas Eve about 1966 or ’67, I was at John’s house. The Van Berkum’s always opened gifts that night. Usually followed by going to Midnight Mass at the Catholic Church in Rock Valley. Stunning church with a beautiful service. Another “thou shalt not” at the Gerritson house. Mom and Dad were afraid if I went to even one mass a year, I might just turn Catholic. Really? Anyway the little house of Jim and Mag was packed like a can of sardines. And not everyone was family. (Not even me for another couple years). Arly was on leave from the Navy, and one of his buddies, Randy Timmer had stopped to visit him. It had started snowing earlier in the day. It snowed, and snowed, and snowed, accompanied by howling winds. I had no intention of going home early. Home meant no tree, no presents. My house was solemn and quiet. It soon became apparent that no one would be leaving the Van Berkum house that night. Across the road, the snow drifts were about as high as the baseball stadium’s cement wall. It must have been impossible for my Dad to get to the State Highway Commission shop which was right down the block from John’s house. Dad would have yanked me out of that house and hauled me home before he went to work clearing Hiway’s 18 and 75.

Arly on left, Jim, John, and Jimmy playing cards in RV, mid ’70’s…

Although the house was full, no one ever worried about running out of food. My future mother-in-law Mag kept enough groceries in her house to feed a small third world country. For a month. Minimum. From the time we realized nothing was moving outside besides snow and wind, there was a triple deck game of Pinochle with 6 people playing constantly until 12th street was free of every flake. If you needed to sleep, eat some food or use the bathroom, there was someone waiting in the wings to take your place at the card table. Really, using the bathroom was the biggest problem we had. One bathroom and about 25 people in the house. My Mom called often, worried that John and I would be doing some inappropriate stuff besides the minor sin of playing cards. Honestly we couldn’t have gotten 30 seconds by ourselves anywhere with that many people in that house. But she was convinced my reputation would be ruined. Huh, she must have missed the memo. Long gone by then Mom. That ship sailed.

Mag clearing the table in warp speed so we can start playing Pinochle, 1975…

When it was just a Van Berkum family get together, John’s older brother Jim was the one to watch. He’s a very good card player. But a hot headed one too. I think he counted cards. Not on the scale and brain power of Tom Manning. John swears when a bunch of guys played cards at the bowling alley, if Tom was at the table, he could tell you what you had in your hand right after the cards were dealt. But the Van Berkum’s had some pretty good Pinochle players. As good as Jimmy was, he was shocked if the tricks didn’t fall as he thought they should. More shocked and outraged if he got set. Man did he hate going set. (I rarely go set cause I’m such a conservative bidder. If I bid 6, I probably have 7. Keppi-strunt even in cards). Jimmy’s wife Eleanor was very quiet and soft-spoken. God never put a better person on this earth, which she left much too early and young. She was also a very good card player. She set Jimmy on more hands than he’d ever care to admit, even now. And she did this without a sarcastic word, smug look, not even a smirk. Just those dark, dark Baatz eyes of hers twinkling, with just a hint of a smile. Something I could never pull off when I knew the other team was going down.

Card game in Sioux City, 1973. Shannon 3, me, Helen Reinke, Dale Duits standing…

After John and I eloped, playing cards were a big part of our entertainment. Actually about the only thing we could afford. We were so broke in the beginning. The first few years of marriage, the big treat for Shannon and I was picking John up at work every other Friday (pay-day). Stopping at the bank to cash his check (which literally was gone already) and going to the McDonald’s in front of Sunset Plaza in Sioux City! Yay! Any other eating out or movies were not part of our budget. Instead I’d make a nice dessert, brew a pot of coffee, buy a six-pack of beer if the grocery budget allowed. We would have 6 hours of fun playing cards. Doug and Helen Reinke, Barry and Jeanene Kuiper, and Dale and Beth, sometimes Dale’s folks Bert and Wilma Duits. Great people and good card players. Always played Pinochle. And never any babysitters. That would defeat the purpose. Plus the no extra money ever part.

I remember a time when we were playing cards at Gary Junges’ house in Sioux City. Shannon was about 3. They had a son (this was 40 years ago and cannot remember his name) about the same age. We were in the middle of a heated game (husbands versus wives, naturally) and the 2 kids were playing somewhere in the house. But it had gotten very quiet. We went to check on the little stinkers. They were not in the playroom. Bad sign. And the master bedroom door was closed. This did not bode well. We opened the door and couldn’t see a thing. A complete whiteout. Eventually we spotted them both standing on the bed. With huge smiles and the biggest, emptiest plastic bottle of baby powder. The entire room and them completely shrouded in Johnson’s Baby Powder. The floors were so slick we could hardly get to the kids. We called this Pinochle-interrupted.

Sioux City, 1973. Bob Smith, Dale Duits, Elton Hammock. Lots of smoking, YIKES…

I’m pretty sure we played Pinochle with the neighbors when we were living in New Vienna, but don’t remember playing at all in our next 2 moves. Worthington, Iowa was a quicky, and not friendly town at all. The other stop was the farm in Cascade, which I’ve already written about. We would have had to teach the hogs to play to get enough for a card game there. We played some Pinochle in Spencer with John’s sister Elly and her hubby Dewey, but card playing was in a definite slump. I don’t know if there were fewer people around us who played cards, or we just got into other things. Too bad either way. Someone, somewhere had to teach me how to play double deck Euchre because once I got established with the bowling gang of gals from Davenport, we played that card game in earnest, and often.

We’ve been in Michigan for over 25 years and I don’t think we’ve played cards a dozen times. What happened? When we lived in Jackson the neighbors were friendly and we chummed around a lot too. Well, the kids were growing up. That was a biggie. Hauling them to football, baseball, cheerleading, jobs before they could drive themselves. Extra activities at school. Still many nights were free, but no card games with other couples. After Shannon married Tracey, and Adam and Josh were still single, our family holidays often included a night of poker when the house was full. The boys would invite a couple of their friends over and the guys would have a night of cards. Drinking and teasing the snot out of each other. But there hasn’t been couple’s night of cards at our house for way too long. Anyone up for a night of Pinochle, or Euchre? Please come over. I’ll make pie.

When the family was here for Christmas I decided that it was time for our 14 year old grandson Landon to learn at least one card game. Sarah, Adam, Landon and I played several games of double deck euchre. Landon struggled a bit with learning about the bowers. If hearts were trump, the 2 highest cards of trump would be the 2 jacks of hearts. But the 2 jacks of diamonds were the left bowers. Confusing for him until you played it several times. But he loved it and wants to keep playing. I think we may be able keep the family-card-game-playing-tradition for at least one more generation…