A couple of days ago, I mentioned to John that I was working on story # 60 for my blog. Shaking his head in total amazement and wonder he inquired, “what on earth can you still find to write about?” Ugh. Thanks Hon. While number 50 wasn’t a big deal to me, I feel differently about number 60. Huh. So all 4 of you lucky readers get a sneak peek into what makes me tick-and what ticks me off. In no particular order and without further ado:

Two favorites. Potato salad in a Blue Delft bowl…

1. Many of my favorite foods start with the letter P: PRETZELS (soft chewy bread ones), POPCORN with real butter. PIE CRUSTS. Leftover crusts topped with cinnamon and sugar, or those that are tucked underneath fruit and cream fillings. PEPSI (diet) and all things POTATO. Mashed, fried, baked, scalloped, French fries and my number one, Potato Salad.

2. I detest winter. Pretty much any day under 32 degrees.

3. I come from a long line of squinty-eyed females. If there’s snow on the ground or the sun is shining, I’m wearing shades with my left eye partially closed. My Mom, grandma, and great-grandma were afflicted with this too.

4. I hate snow. Every stinking flake. EVERY. STINKING. FLAKE.

5. I truly believe I’m a better driver than 99% of the drivers on the road. Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson are in the other 1%.

6. I loathe frozen lakes.

7. I love the word “supper” and use it whenever possible. For example: “We’re having home canned beef, gravy, redskins and fresh green beans for supper. Let’s not forget my cranberry sauce. Most suppers (only my plate) include this and are better because of it. Yum.”

8. I hate slippery roads, sidewalks and parking lots.

9. I love cake and cupcake sugar topping decorations. To get my fix I nervously wait for whatever holiday has just passed, rush to the store, buy however many that are leftover. Usually now at half price. Yeah, I’m a bargain hunter. Pop them off the cardboard, put them in a snak bag. Carefully dole out 3 or 4 a day until gone.

Godzilla or Princess. Love these. Yup childish…

10. I have this fear (ok it might be irrational) that sometime I’m gonna get the flu right after I’ve eaten one of my 2 favorite meals. Major bummer. But no matter how debilitating this fear has become, it’s NEVER ONCE prohibited me from making, eating and over indulging in either meal. Stay strong Neese! BTW the 2 meals in question (in no particular order) causing all this drool is my own home canned spaghetti sauce with garlic bread, and roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberry sauce. Yup, life is better for all concerned when cranberry sauce is served.

11. I dislike wearing coats a lot. Ditto for hats, gloves and scarves. Haven’t owned a pair of boots in years. Not planning on buying any either.

12. I am afraid of clowns (Stephen King’s It) and I have no fear making this claim. Clowns are sinister, evil and creepy. If you love your children, be good parents and keep the terrifying clowns out of their lives.

For their good mental health, keep away from kids..

13. I hate days when it gets dark by 5 pm. Why God?

14. I keep a stash of a couple hundred assorted cards for every occasion. On second thought I got no card stating, “I’m sorry your rotten neighbor’s dog dug his way under your kennel to knock-up Fi-Fi.”

My stash of cards. Only reason I don’t send one is pure laziness…

15. I get twitchy if I run out of anything. I have been a “quantity” buyer since I found an extra 20 spot in my wallet decades ago.

16. I hate being deaf. Saying “what” 50 times a day. Trying to read lips. Feeling excluded when I’m really not. Feeling isolated, and I am.

17. I thank God everyday since I started losing my hearing. Thankful that it’s my hearing that took a hike instead of my sight. I’d be learning a whole new set of life skills if it was my sight. Kinda old to learning too many things like reading and cooking minus vision. Thanks again God.

18. I’m infatuated with Michael Kors bags, and own a few. Not nearly enough.

19. I tend to hold grudges for a very long time. As in decades. Big problem.

20. My least favorite household chore is sweeping floors. I know, it’s odd.

21. I have very little respect for any organized religion anymore. Another big problem and very sad.

22. I can be “not nice” at times.

23. I am annoyingly loyal to certain products and brand names. Realized recently that my favorite shampoo, conditioner and hair spray are no longer on the shelves in stores. Scoured the Internet and ordered a dozen of each. Yes folks, in just a few short years, you will see this grandma walking around with very dirty, smelly hair. Better enjoy the fragrant eucalyptus while I’ve still got some inventory. And hair.

Part of my recent order. It had better last a long time….

24. I’ve been addicted to Mentholatum Natural Ice Lip Balm for 25 years. Not ashamed to say I have 50 unopened tubes in the house. Panic sets in when the total drops below 30.

25. God invented cotton candy so my life would be happy and fulfilled.

26. I’m hopelessly old-fashioned. I love diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. Worse than that. Wait-for-it. I still like and wear YELLOW GOLD. Gasp.

27. I don’t like taking any medication. Ever.

28. I’m amazed every day that I manage to keep any house plants alive.

A baby African Violet I started…

29. I love laying out in the sun. But not when it’s hot out. Perfect day is bright sun, vivid blue skies, green leaves from the trees against the sky and about 60 degrees. Me, a book on a chaise lounge. Perfect. Ok a glass of water.

30. I still prefer (literally) holding and reading books and newspapers.

Books that I’ve read and loved. My favorite way to read…

31. My arms are always cold. Even when it’s 90 degrees out.

32. I loved smoking. Tareyton is better, charcoal is why. I quit 25 years ago.

33. I love eating more. Haven’t quit yet. No plans in the future to do so either.

34. When real, fresh tomatoes are available, I eat at least one a day. Like an apple using salt, or sliced on bread topped with sugar. Often the whole month of August I’ll eat a BLT everyday. And no mayo.

35. Same goes for fresh rhubarb. Peel, sprinkle with salt and eat daily during spring and early summer. When the stalks are small and tender. More drool.

36. I hate gambling. The noise from all those clanking coins and machines nearly drive me insane. I have no problem buying, and wearing an expensive top ONCE. Then decide it doesn’t look good on me. Donate it and never give it another thought. But I am almost incapable of sliding a quarter into a slot machine. Best thing about my trips to Las Vegas were the mountain goats at Hoover Dam. Butting horns. Echoing off the mountain.

37. Old hymns and the lyrics from You Are My Sunshine make me cry. Every time. So do some commercials, especially freaking Hallmark.

38. I’ve loved driving since I was 12.

39. While I hope not many (Oops, I meant any) fall through, I really dislike ice fisherman. And the second city that pops up in my backyard during our long, miserable, frozen winters.

40. What good ever comes from getting into a cold car? Maybe escaping some 50 mph winds from a blizzard. Pretty lame reason. No good comes from cold cars. I hate cold cars. Huh. I hate cold.

41. I don’t tease children. I think it’s mean. Don’t like it when anyone else teases them either. That doesn’t make the kid a better person. It’s mean.

42. On the other hand, I love teasing my son-in-law Tracey. He can dish it out as well as take it. I only tease people I like. In person or on Facebook. He’s 6′ 4″ and has yet to smack me in 17 years. But he’d probably like to sometimes.

43. I don’t like scary movies. If I hear a door creak during a commercial, I flip the channel to ease my thudding heart.

44. I do like psychological thrillers and action adventure movies.

45. My favorite genre in books are cop/lawyers chasing/defending serial killers. Guess I can read scary better than I can watch it. I’m not very brave, adventuresome or daring, ever.

46. I know it’s nearly impossible to fathom, but at times during my life, my sarcasm and sometimes razor sharp wit with has been a hinderance. Go figure.

47. I don’t miss periods. Or commas.

48. You are now an expert in all things Duh-Neese…

In 1958 my brother Larry was killed. I was 7. My sister Mona got married a couple years later. So basically from then on I was like an only child. I was old enough to stay home after school by myself until Mom and Dad got off work. By 5:30 we were sitting down to a big supper. In the span of 2 short years, our once family of 5 was suddenly down to a sad, measly 3.

California trip to visit Dad’s sis and Mom’s brother in 1961. Disney and Knott’s inc…

I don’t ever recall watching TV together as that small family unit. Dad and I watched “The Whirlybirds.” It was a treat for me to stay up late I think. But if Dad and I were watching TV, Mom was doing something else, and vice versa. This was around the same time Dad had accepted Jesus as his Savior. While that was wonderful, sometimes he went a little overboard with the religion in his life. (And mine) He got very involved in the church, and spent quite a few evenings away from home. He was on the Consistory, plus visiting the sick, and members of the church. If Mom minded that he was gone at night, I never knew or heard them fight about it. As a treat, some nights she would make us popcorn. In a small fry pan that Larry had given her as a gift. Shaking the fry pan back and forth over the burner of the gas stove. I can still hear the kernels popping under the lid. That wonderful smell wafting through the whole downstairs. Mom would then divide it up in bowls, adding just a titch of melted butter and salt. We shared a pop too.

I loved watching this with Dad in the late 1950’s…

Since Mom was working full time, a lot of house work was done at night after supper. She was the neatest, cleanest, housekeeper God ever put on this earth. We had a wringer washer in the basement. (Until the Rock Valley Laundromat opened. It would be a few years before they bought a washer and dryer). Mom hung the clothes on the clothesline in the back yard. During the most bitter part of Iowa winters, she had to hang the clothes in the house. Dad pounded nails on top of the door trim. He’d hang up thick, white cord from doorway to doorway in the dining room. It was the biggest room and the one we used the least. On the down side, that room was used because of the front door. And you had to walk through the dining room to get anywhere else in the house. On wash day during January and February, our dining room was the equivalent of the modern day corn maze craze.

When the clothes were finally dry, Mom would fill a green 7 Up glass pop bottle with water. She had a cork with a metal top with tiny holes, like a salt shaker that went on top of the bottle. She would sit on the end cushion of the couch with a bath towel on the middle section. She’d place an almost unrecognizable wrinkly piece of clothing on the towel. Then “sprinkle” it with the pop bottle. This just after she worked so hard to get the dumb things dry! But there was a method to this madness. She’d sprinkle the clothes just damp, then rolled them up tight. Now this was before permanent press, so every stitch of clothing we wore was a mass of wrinkles each time they were washed. More so when they had to be hung in the house. Soon she would have a neat pile of clothes. Then she’d tuck the bath towel snugly around them. No steam irons back then. Although I do think the iron had some settings. Pretty sure she ironed the sheets when they could not be dried outside. Clothes line dried sheets was the best smell in the world! Well right after bread baking, and brownies.

Mom used this to sprinkle the clothes before she ironed…

Mom would do a couple other chores before the old wooden ironing board got hauled out of the front closet. She always made Dad’s lunch pail the night before work. A black metal rectangular thing with a clip closure. The top part was round and held his thermos. It stayed secure with a metal band that snapped in place. Dad always brought a thermos of coffee to work. Back then he used cream and sugar when he drank coffee at home, but Mom never included those condiments along in his pail. He either drank it black at work, or they had cream and sugar at the State shop. No sandwich bags either. Waxed paper, squared corners, folded around Dad’s sandwich. She even wrapped his banana (his favorite fruit which was packed almost daily) in waxed paper, so the smell would not seep into his Wonder bread sandwich.

Sort of beat up, but Dad use it for decades…

Mom would let me go to Koster’s grocery store about once a week. Not to get the big groceries, but just a couple things. This was a big deal for 2 reasons. There was always an extra nickel for me to spend on a Hershey bar, Nibs or Mallow Cup. Then I’d zip through the store to the meat department in the back. There stood Thor. My hero. My order was always the same. “A quarter’s (yes folks that’s 25 cents) worth of sliced American cheese please” I’d say shyly to Billy Van Maanen. I had such a crush on him when I was about 8. I’d stand there all tongue tied while Billy worked his magic with that meat slicer. I was smitten. He was probably just out of high school.

Honest Dad ate cheese sandwiches most of the 30 plus years he worked for the State Hiway Commission. Once in a while hard-cooked eggs. Just a way to switch up those fancy lunches for him! Mom peeled the eggs for Dad.(Remembering this is painful, bittersweet and always gets to me. Mom and Dad were not romantic at all. Only picture I have of them kissing was at Mona’s wedding, when it was “required” at the reception. They never teased each other that I remember after Larry died. But the very act of her peeling his hard boiled eggs at night, wrapping them in waxed paper seemed so intimate to me. Then she’d shake a tiny pile of salt in waxed paper and twist the ends like a wrapped piece of hard candy. This always makes me believe she really cared for and about him) I sure hope so.

A big smooch for Mom and Dad at Mona’s wedding in 1960…

Early morning before the crack of dawn, I’d wake up to a Dad sneezing frenzy across the hall. He had horrible allergies. Downstairs Mom was zipping through her daily (though most were unnecessary) chores before work. I’d hear the front screen door slam a couple of times. Then this wop-wop-wop. Mom was shaking out all the throw rugs. EVERYDAY. Really. When every rug was completely free from any “ploujes” and patiently waiting to be put back in the exact same spot with precision of a drill sergeant, she’d dust the kitchen and dining room floors on hands and knees. EVERYDAY. Really. The dining room floor had beautiful narrow golden oak boards. She never used a dust mop or broom in either of these 2 rooms. Using a small cloth, she’d crawl over the entire floor dusting every square inch. Then she’d gather up the whopping 20 grains of sand/dirt, pinching them together between her thumb and index finger until every grain was safely nestled in the cloth. Meticulous.

She had a floor polisher for the dining room that resembled a vacuum cleaner in size and height. Two circular disks that spun around. There were different attachments for the polisher. First Mom would put on a coat of Johnson’s paste wax on her hands and knees. Again. The last step was snapping felt like disks to the buffer to get a really good, glossy shine. She was ever so careful NOT to have the round pattern lines from the polisher be noticeable. She wanted the floor shiny, but without any lines. Just shiny. Holy moly that floor would be slippery. We all fell a time or 2 after she did the floor. (Several years later, she could tell if someone had been in the house with me after school. This was before she got home from work. I had John sneak in naked so he didn’t leave any DNA. Just kidding. He always donned a shower cap. Duh. This was the prequel inspiration to all those CSI programs. You’re welcome). After supper, Mom would be sitting in the living room. I truly don’t know how she could see any scuff marks without her eyes watering. The glare from that awesome floor could be blinding. And the lighting in our entire house was horrible. She could spot certain scuff marks, then she’d remark, “Diane Wilson was over after school wasn’t she? She sluffs when she walks. That girl has got to learn how to pick up her feet!” Maybe meticulous wasn’t a strong enough word.

At the dwindled down family supper table, I did most of the talking. What happened during my exciting school day. Dad always had a long prayer before our meal. After we we done eating, he would read a chapter from the bible and have a longer prayer. At least then our food wasn’t getting cold. While we ate, sometimes one of them might tell a story from about work once in awhile. But it was usually just me keeping them abreast on the happenings at school.

Remember how folks driving around northwest Iowa always had such a strong inclination to validate and empower every other driver they happen to meet on a highway, gravel road, street, alley, or sometimes even in the driveway? My Dad’s acknowledgement of other drivers on the road was a subtle lifting of his right index finger off the top of the steering wheel. This was his “hello.” I guess maybe he figured the scripture and prayers were enough talking at the supper table for him. I would be in the middle of of a truly mesmerizing story when Dad would do something so irritating. Really kind of rude. He would use his index finger like when he was driving in the car. But not in his friendly hello greeting way. During supper he was indicating something was missing from meal time. Used to infuriate Mom. Suddenly Dad would stick his index finger in the air. Sorta indicating what cupboard might be responsible for that missing item from his meal. Mom didn’t roll her eyes, but would grace him with a good healthy glare from time to time. Slowly her eyes would turn and follow the general direction of said index finger. Soon she’d spot what it was this mute-eating-man was trying to convey. Butter, pepper, once in a while salt. It was our job to get up and retrieve it. Really hadn’t thought about Dad and his pointy index finger at meal time for many years. Huh…

So I’ve been thinking about this wonderful institution of marriage. Actually I was cleaning up the kitchen after supper. I was sliding bread crumbs off the cutting board into the garbage. We had homemade vegetable beef barley soup with a slice of crusty bread. On the counter sat this tub of Olivio. I guess it’s a buttery tasting concoction made from olive oil. John’s eaten it for a long time. This after years of eating “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.” Ugh. I believe it. Right next to the Olivio sat my little Rubermaid container. Cuddling 2 sticks of buttery stuff. Called butter.

Butter versus Olivio. No contest says me, the butter lover…

My Mom rarely ever had margarine in the house. She used butter for everything, even when she baked. I’m not that extreme. I use Imperial Margarine when I bake unless the recipe calls for butter. But this isn’t about butter or Olivio. It dawned on me how different John and I really are. He’s rarely without a big glass of ice water (iced tea all summer long). I can barely choke down 3 ounces of water to take my one pill a day. I have been drinking Diet Pepsi for decades since it hit store shelves. John prefers Diet Coke, but he doesn’t drink very much pop. (So my grocery list includes 2 kinds of pop and 2 different spreads. No, I can’t call my butter a “spread.” Sounds like something that goes on top of our bed). I hardly ever put extra salt on anything. Not on sweet corn or a baked potato. And very little on popcorn. (But all three HAVE to have real butter or I’ll go without). John salts everything before he tastes it. In his defense, after 45 years of my cooking he knows what everything is going to taste like. Therefore knows what’s needed to make it edible. And that obviously includes a lot of salt. I would be happy making a big pot of spaghetti sauce, homemade soup or beef stew and eating it 4 nights in a row. John might give a fleeting glance in the fridge at something I made 2 days ago. But the dish has lost all appeal now because it’s a leftover. So it’s usually me scarfing up the leftovers.

But it’s not just food where we differ. I’ve always been an early riser. Never slept in, even as a kid. John requires much more sleep than me. I get up about 5:30 or 6. Drink a cup of coffee, read the paper. An hour later eat a toasted whole wheat bagel with yup, butter. Almost everyday. Then start working on a new post for my blog or read for awhile. John wanders downstairs about 9. By this time, I’ve been up so long, the coffee pot has already shut itself off. I really should change that feature. Eh, he likes his coffee tepid anyway. He says I have no tastebuds cause I drink hot liquids-hot. Duh. So I’m now ready to head back upstairs, make the bed, take a shower and tackle what the day has to offer. When I mosey back down, he’s done with the paper and in the kitchen making breakfast. What in the world? It’s 11 o’clock. I’m ready for lunch. He’s eating eggs, sausage and orange juice and I’m making tuna salad, chips with a Diet Pepsi. Ah, the odd eating habits of our retirement. We do always have supper at the same time. But rarely sit by the dining room table anymore. Kind of sad really.

2 of the same pillows. His is now a round ball, mine remains in it’s original shape..l

He beats the living snot out of his pillow every night. Before my “new” pillow 3 years ago, I used the same one for 15 years. It just fit me and my head. He needs a replacement pillow 3 or 4 times a year. He’s a night owl. My head’s bobbing all over “my nest” after 9 pm. He comes from a large boisterous family that enjoyed a bit of drinking. My family was small, house always extremely quiet. And no drinking. He likes to work outside. Putzing around with yard work, mowing. He wants, needs and insists on the greenest, weed free lawn this side of the Mississippi. If I have to be outside, I want to be laying on a chaise lounge, reading a good book, getting a tan. I know, I’m terrible. He likes to hunt. He loves being on a boat fishing. I get seasick just looking at a rocking boat. I do think this has a lot to do with my hearing loss and Miniere’s Disease. Problems with my inner ear fluid imbalance. Causing me well, balance problems.

John’s first fishing boat. He said it was too small for Lake Michigan, ugh…

He’s still listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Beatles. Nothing against either, especially the Beatles. Best band ever. But I’ve moved on. After I started walking daily in 1998, the tunes I still had on my Walkman by 2005 were literally putting me to sleep. I coerced John into making me cassette tapes of mixed music. Not an easy task. I’d line up about 6 CD’s with written instructions. Ok, I want track 2, 7, and 10 from CD # 1. Tracks 1, 3, and 5 from CD # 2. I’d have to add up the time of each song and get as close to the total minutes and seconds as the cassette allowed. If it cut off a song, I’d be ticked. For awhile I tried using a personal CD player attached to my waist. It was so finicky, when I blinked it skipped. Soon Josh (tech wizard) was making me tapes. He’s really the one who started me on today’s pop music. He’d add some songs he liked with a good beat to keep my feet moving. Now I listen to P!nk, Maroon 5, Enrique Iglesias and Pitbull. And I make my own playlists from iTunes on my itsy-bitsy iPod. Such a big girl.

How do 2 such different people stay together for 45 years? Or is it because of our differences we play off each other and get along pretty well for the most part? He’s much more opinionated than me. That’s a fact Jack. Or at least about voicing his opinions. He’s amazing at fixing about anything this house, car, truck or yard equipment can throw at him. I can’t, won’t or don’t fix anything. Except food. He watches a lot more TV than me. We do have programs we watch together at night. Shows we record so we can zip through them without commercials. But I would certainly give up the TV before my iPad or Nook. Doubt that’s what John would choose.

We have a lot in common too. We both love movies. Although 98% of the time if it’s a star, name of a program or movie in question, I’ll have the answer. In the trivia department I rule. He says I still make him laugh. He’s been good to me. Denying me very little over the years. And I’ve asked for plenty.

John and me years ago. Good times…

The last 45 years hasn’t always been a cake walk. When couples loudly declare they NEVER fight, I can’t help it, I just don’t believe that to be true. Even couples head-over-heels in love and lust have to get irked at each other sometimes. Our marriage journey has been a bit bumpy at times. I was always more lenient with the kids than John. That caused some spats. And 90% of our arguments were about one kid. (He-or-she-who-must-not-be-named). We went through a rough patch at about year 20 that was scary tough. But we were committed to each other, our kids and our marriage.

One of my pet peeves is reading about lavish weddings. Spending enormous amounts of money on a stress-filled-money-sucking-waste-wedding that lasts a few hours. Just nuts. If couples invested as much time and effort into the first 3 years of marriage as they do planning that idiotic event, the divorce rate would plummet. Don’t misunderstand me. I know not all marriages are made in heaven. I’m not against divorce at all. Actually my parents should have divorced. They were not a happy couple together. And it wasn’t all because of Larry’s death either. But divorce was rare back in the 50’s and 60’s. Especially in a small Iowa Dutch town, so they stuck it out. Sometimes you just marry the wrong person. Move past it and try again. Or not.

John and I do whole heartedly agree on quite a few things. One biggie is that we have been blessed with 3 amazing kids. And if that weren’t enough, they in turn have graced us with 4 fantastic grandchildren. Thanks God. We weren’t the best parents in the world, but we tried hard and loved them always. Shannon, Joshua and Adam all have college degrees (and then some) and are responsible, giving, ambitious, hard-working, caring adults and parents. The family as a whole has been blessed with good health. Another biggie. We have an enormous amount of love and pride for all of them. There’s really not much in my life I would change…

Zipping thru year 11 with Joshua 4-1/2, Adam 3 mo. and Shannon 10. 1979…

I started my blog 8 months ago. Several months before that I had been invited to join an open group (thanks Ray) titled, “If you grew up in Rock Valley.” As in Iowa. Which I had. When I signed up, the group consisted of 30 various aged people. (Now there’s over 500) Writing little stories about our childhoods. Snippets of school shenanigans. Many are hysterically funny. Growing up in that quaint little northwest Iowa town. After someone posted, most of us would write comments. That’s always the fun part. Comments continued sometimes for days. Often a hundred or more. What a hoot! Some of the posts were a bit ahead or behind me, but there weren’t many posts where I didn’t comment. Always love to add my 2 cents worth to the total.

Rock Valley’s elementary school when I was a kid. It was new then, now it’s gone…

And I posted quite often. While most folks would write 2 or 3 sentences, I would write 20. Took me more than 3 sentences just to say hi, let alone get to the subject matter. During the span of a couple days, 2 gals from the group asked if I was doing any writing? (Shouldn’t they have been able to tell by the 20 sentences?) One said, “you should write a book about Rock Valley. You’ve got a great memory. I’d buy it.” Bless you woman. The other one said, “what takes someone else 20 words to describe, takes you 100. But that’s not a bad thing. At the very least, I hope you’re writing a blog.” (I did not know what a blog was). She suggested I read a couple.

The famous playground slide. Still used by kids in Rock Valley School…

So I thought about this blog business. I have an app on my iPad called Notes. That’s where I first wrote my posts for the Rock Valley group. Had to read it several times, change words, re-write and proofread it. (I know what you’re thinking. How is it possible after all that checking and proofreading she still continues to make so many mistakes?) I wonder too. I cringe when I see my mistakes. Just be happy knowing it makes me nuts. And I did some writing in my Notes. Mostly stories about my early childhood I wanted to get down before those memories leave me. No, my memory is pretty good. I have a severe hearing loss, so I’m kind of a loner. Writing has proven to be satisfying and fulfilling. I keep reminding myself that the blog is for me. I try not to hurt anyone’s feelings, but this is my story. Ok, so the posts about my four lousy minister bosses weren’t very kind. But then neither were they.

I got a techie son named Joshua. He owns a business in Detroit. He always has the latest gadgets. I don’t think he stood in line for hours to get the new iPhone 21, but he aquires them pretty darn quick. He said he’d help me set up my blog. The trouble with that little scenario, he’s very busy and I don’t see him that often. I’m very slow to catch onto things. Especially things he assumes I should know. Which I don’t. My friend Marlys (The “I hope you’re writing a blog” gal) said she would help me. She lives 45 minutes away. By the way, we were young childhood friends, but she moved from Rock Valley when I was about 10. We reconnected some 50 years later on the “If you grew up in Rock Valley” group. How cool is that? Thanks God. So I traipsed to her house for lunch with my new iPad hoping she could get me started. There were tons of words and stories swirling around my head. Trying to get out. Hmm, I may be deaf, but I hear those groans loud and clear. (Josh has helped me immensely since I started my blog. Countless hours sitting beside me, always on my good side so I can hear him. Always patient. Thanks Josh)

Joshua, CEO. Still patient with his mom on her blogging issues…

Holy moly there was a lot involved (even before I could start writing). The blog had to have a name and domain. What? I live in my house Doofus. When I was a kid, my nickname was “Neese,” short for Denise. “Duh” (That was my other nickname) I thought the blog name should maybe have Neese in it. (As opposed to “Duh”) Something like “Nifty-Fifty-Neese-Notes.” I was born in 1950. Ok so it wasn’t very clever. But the pull from my home town of Rock Valley, and acknowledging it was flirting with me. Until a couple months ago, Rock Valley had one stop light. One stop light in the entire town for over 50 years. Just couldn’t let that one go. Thus my blog became “Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town.” It was a great choice. I don’t know how good the stories have been but I really love the “One-Stoplight-Town part. When I think about it, I only lived in Rock Valley for 18 years. More than 2/3’s of my life (so far) have been living elsewhere. But the ties that bind and much of what makes me-me happened in Rock Valley. That’s where it all started.

The only stoplight in Rock Valley. The widest streets too

A couple days after my lunch with Marlys, I posted the first story on my blog. It was about my big brother Larry, who was killed riding his bike in 1958. He was 12. My entire life has reflected losing my brother when I was 7. I’m sure had he not been killed my family’s whole life story would have been very different. So I learned at an early age about life-changing loss.

Third grade pic of Larry. My favorite. He died in 6th grade, 1958

You see now how I write. Six paragraphs in and I’m finally getting to the subject of this blog. Yikes. Too wordy. Got to do better than that in the future.

When I read the paper lately, often several of the obituaries are folks who are younger than me. Wow that’s scary. My Rock Valley class of ’69 has been hit hard with loss. John’s class of ’66 has only lost one. A couple years out of high school, one of my classmates Laura passed away. Later we lost Tom, Randy, and Pam. Gone. Could be more. I’m hopelessly out of the loop, and we haven’t had a reunion since our 40th in 2009.

Accumulating losses. That seems frightening enough. Being a mom and grandma, my biggest fear has always been about my children’s and grandchildren’s health and well being. 2015 is not yet 5 weeks old. Two of my Rock Valley classmates have lost children in 2015. None of us parents have yet to reach the age of 65. We’re too young to be losing each other, let alone our kids. Nothing on this earth can be as devastating as losing a child. Nothing. I can’t imagine the anguish they’re going through. Whole-heart-breaking-loss. I can’t stop thinking about them and the kids they’ve lost.

As a parish visitor for many years, the deaths of those I regularly visited piled up. Visiting the elderly you know it’s going to happen. When I added up how many I lost, it averaged about one a month. I grew to love these folks over the years. Their deaths were hard on me. But most were not a surprise. Or unexpected. Some were not old, a couple younger than me. That put a different perspective on my fragile life circle. But most of the folks were elderly, and had lived a full life. They were ready, even eager to meet their Maker. We don’t feel the same about losing children (like Larry only 12) or young people. We want and need them to live long healthy, happy lives. As parents we certainly want to pass away many years before our children.

I lost a dear friend, Rosemary 4 years ago to breast cancer. She had just turned 46. She was a true fighter and never gave up trying to beat that horrible disease. A few months before she passed away I was at her house for the day. She was failing, but hadn’t stopped fighting or treatments. I made her lunch. We were talking and I was about to pick up her dishes and clean the kitchen. I glanced at her and saw big elephant tears rolling down her cheeks. (She wasn’t easily moved to tears) I grabbed her hand and said, “honey what’s wrong?” Lip quivering, she quietly cried, “I’m so scared Denise. I don’t want to die.”

I read something in a booklet about the stages of dying. And I witnessed it countless times, especially with my Mom and Dad as they were nearing the end of their life on earth. The day to day stuff just started fading away. Each had more important tasks on their agenda. With my Mom, she slowly stopped asking about the most important things in her life. Her grandkids. It seemed odd at first when she stopped inquiring about their lives a couple months before she passed away. But those things were no longer on her top ten list. Same with Dad. His sense of worth concerning his preaching and teaching in the prison system held the top priority when he moved to Michigan. Soon after his 91st birthday, that changed. The focus of his life (or death) shifted. The importance in his daily routine of preparing for his bible study, or sermon now seemed trivial and overwhelming to him. It was just time for him to stop. His mind was filled with more important details I was not privy to. But they had lived long lives. The utter devastation of losing children causes us to question why God needs them so soon? When we’re not near done loving and watching them grow. That leaves a very bitter taste…

It all started when Shannon was very young. My Mom loved buying her fancy clothes. Mom finally had a granddaughter. Frilly dresses, little coats to be worn only on Sunday. My job, more or less was to keep Shannon in everyday clothes. When Mom bought something really fancy, I’d make an appointment at Olan Mills for a photo shoot to capture the moment forever. We had a lot of pictures taken. I’ve even saved some the of adorable outfits.

Shannon in pj’s looking silly. You can bet grandma Flo did NOT buy this. 1971…

It’s the early ’70’s. Dad was still mowing shoulders and ditches, plus plowing snow for the State of Iowa Hiway Commission. Mom had been in the hospital. I think it was a skin disorder that actually ended up being quite serious for a couple years. It was called Mycosis Fungoides. How do I even remember that? I surprise myself sometimes. Mom would get deep, debilitating cracks (called fishers) on her hands and feet. For awhile it was so bad she couldn’t walk. I think it’s a form of skin cancer. She went to Mayo Clinic several times for treatment. Used this black tar-like cream on the cracks. Twenty odd years later she would develop non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Wonder if Mycosis was a precursor? I digress. Anyway, after one of these hospital visits Mom brought home this plastic, styrofoam covered water jug. You remember the ones nurse’s aids brought a couple times during their shift to patients? It wasn’t a fancy or pretty jug. Harvest gold, chintzy plastic covered in foam to keep the water cold, and help eliminate sweating on the hospital tray tables. The spout has little plastic spaced tines. So the ice would stay in The Jug.

The Jug, now over 40 years old…

Mom decided not to toss out The Jug. She started throwing her change in it instead. Not all of her change mind you. She never put in quarters. She saved quarters in another one of her jerry-rigged banks. Mom and Dad both had dentures. They used Polident Tablets to clean them at night. I think they owned stock in the company. Polident Tablets came in tall green cylinder shaped tubes. With a screw lid. After the tube was empty, Mom would start filling it with quarters. The quarters fit in the tubes perfect. Each tube held $18.75 in quarters. This was Mom’s mad money. Meaning she usually spent it on Shannon. Buying those fancy dresses, coats and outfits. She had some funny priorities. Thought nothing of buying Shannon a dress that cost about as much as a dress for herself. Do you think she would spend $1.98 on a new paring knife? Nope. Or have a car with a radio or air-conditioning? Nope. So quarters were off limits in The Jug. She kept The Jug on the counter of her very neat kitchen at all times. Whenever she came home from shopping, she’d empty her billfold of all change. Separate the quarters and plunk them in the green Polident tubes. The rest she would slide between the tines of the pour spout. She soon had Dad talked into dumping his change into their unusual banking system. I don’t think he jumped on her quarter bandwagon though. Since there were never any quarters in The Jug, I don’t remember or know what he did with his.

One of Mom’s fancy dresses for Shannon when she was 2-1/2. The Olan Miils pic is packed away…

Whether it was a trip to Koster’s in Rock Valley, or Shriver’s in Sioux Falls Mom did the same thing every time. Didn’t matter how many stops she had made that day. If she bought something that totaled $4.01, she would hand them a 5 dollar bill. The change compartment of her billfold might be weighted down by then with 10 pounds of pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. But she NEVER EVER took out a penny for the .01 part to get back a dollar. She’d rather have the 99 cents change. That would add up to 3 quarters for Polident, 24 cents for The Jug. She was an awesome saver. An even more awesome shopper. She could out-shop me by hours, miles and bucks when I was 34 and she was 57. By then I was usually invited along for 2 reasons. She would occasionally ask my opinion on an outfit. But usually it was clothes for her as opposed to something for Shannon. My opinion wasn’t asked or needed when it came to what she wanted to buy for Shannon. The other reason I was along was my eyes. Mom wasn’t vain, but she really needed reading glasses and hadn’t bought a pair. She couldn’t read the price tags on the clothing.That was my job. Traipsing after her in the Alfred Dunner, Sag Harbor or Koret of California aisles. Letting her add up the totals for a pantsuit and a new blouse. If something was on sale, she could figure out what 25%, 30% or 33% off was faster than I could say the prices. It always irritated Mom when she overheard a customer asking a clerk how much something was if there was a percentage off sale going on. She’d kind of roll her eyes in disgust if a jacket cost 50 bucks and was 20% off. Holy moly that didn’t require 3 seconds to figure out. Mom was very smart, and good with numbers. Read our entire World Book Encylopedia set.

Mom decided the money in The Jug was for Shannon. Just a little something extra Mom wanted to do for her. Mom chose high school graduation as the date when the money would be turned over to Shannon. Hopefully to be used for something at college. When The Jug got filled to the rim the first time, she hauled it off to the bank. Started a savings account in hers and Shannon’s name. The bank had one of those coins counters. Mom would bring the now light as a feather styrofoam jug back to the house, place it in the same place on the counter and start all over.

Shannon on Grandma’s back. Hopelessly devoted in early 1972…

I didn’t know what would happen when Joshua was born 4-1/2 years later. Mom loved her grandchildren, but it’s hard to deny that there was always something special about how she felt about Shannon. Her only granddaughter. Often when I was there for a visit, Mom would ask me to take The Jug to the bank for her. Not her favorite errand. But the first time it needed to be cashed in at the bank when Josh was a few months old, she said she’d take it instead. Came back with 2 maroon leatherette bank books. She informed Dad he’d better start drinking coffee out more often, and not to give change for tips anymore. Better to give dollar bill instead. The Jug was now split between Shannon and Joshua.

Shannon and Joshua. Good times, 1976..

When Adam surprised us with his unexpected addition to our family 4-1/2 years later, The Jug was split 3 ways between the maroon bank books. Since both Mom and Dad were still working they accumulated a lot of change. Especially if you always refused to use any change in paying for something. I’ve always been surprised how close the savings totals were for all three kids. I don’t think the amount was more than a few bucks different for any of the kids. At their high school graduation, each one totaled around $1,200 bucks. Without quarters. Amazing.

Shannon, Joshua and Adam with their hat collection. Early 1980…

After Shannon graduated and got her money, The Jug was split between Josh and Adam. That only lasted a couple years. I became a grandma to awesome, beautiful, smart Ariana one month after I turned 40! Who knew that rather difficult time in our lives would be one of the richest, biggest and best blessings for all of us!! Thanks God! Great grandma Florence felt the same way. The boys would now be splitting The Jug 3 ways again. This time with Ari. After Mom passed away in 2004 and 88 year old Dad moved to Michigan to be with us, I brought The Jug to our house. Dad still added his change now and then, but John and I accepted the huge responsibility of keeper/saver of the change for the grandkids. Besides Dad helped Shannon when she was in graduate school. John and I were both working and acquiring change everyday. Neither of us used Polident, so quarters were now being added to the stash.

The exquisite Ariana with her Mommy at our house. Early 1992…

Now that we’re retired, there are a lot less plunking change going through the tines of the water spout in The Jug. We don’t go as many places or eat out very often. Takes us a lot longer to get The Jug filled up. Our bank doesn’t have a change counter, so John has to roll all the coins. Every time I bring the loose change to the bank I’m mortified. Seems these savings accounts go into some kind of dormant state if you don’t make a deposit after several months. The manager has to come over, always giving me a stern look. Geez it feels like grade school. He emphasizes yet again, “Denise if you could just stop in and deposit a penny in each account, we wouldn’t have go through this.” (No really I like being embarrassed and humiliated when I try and bring money INTO your bank. This works just fine for me. Dude, chill).

Finally, out of The Jug and ready for deposit-3-ways…

We now have 4 fantastic grandchildren. But Ari has her money already, so The Jug is now being split 3 ways again. We’re going to have to do some hustling to get the total up past a grand for Landon. He’s nearing $700. and has 4 years to go. Maybe if John and I each got part time jobs. Requiring us to eat out, or at least grab a coffee with some regularity…

Mother’s Day gift 2014. 2 sided throw, goofy pose on this side. My fave…

Our first home. We were working on year 3 of wedded bliss. The rental house in Hinton, Iowa had been sold right from under us. Our landlord of 2 years, Louie, really should have been named Dick. We had 30 days to find somewhere to live. We were a little panicky. Much more pressure to find decent housing when you have a child. Shannon, our first-born was now the smartest, cutest, most adorable toddler on the planet.

Hamming it up. Shannon, 2, 1972…

Called a realtor. We knew a house payment was gonna be higher than our $60 a month rent. But we found a big old house on a land contract. Located on a postage sized city lot. This neighborhood was on the cusp of several things. I don’t know how we got in or out of the area during the winter. About a block east on 23rd street was a hill with a drop so steep, I didn’t dare walk down it with the stroller. Roller coaster engineers routinely came to that hill to set the standard in the angles, heights for new construction at theme parks. Enthusiasts with a death wish drove down it faster than 3 mph. Going west was a slow incline to get to some of the main streets running through Sioux City. The houses were just starting to look a little run down. But this was a biggie for us. Our first house. We were ecstatic.

The rooms were all huge. Oak trim throughout. The doors, mop boards and staircase. Only a half bath downstairs. But the upstairs bathroom could have easily held the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Plus the pipe organ. Shannon’s bedroom ran almost the length of the whole house. Plus a closet that was nursery sized and had a window. But her room was quite narrow. Something like 20 x 11. I thought salmon and white stripes along the 20 foot wall would make the room look wider, but John didn’t want me to wallpaper. So I painted the stripes. John marked off 4″ and 8″ stripes for me with masking tape. We painted the wall white first, then the stripes. The rest of the walls were salmon. Her room looked great with her 5 dollar Goodwill crib, covered with yellow asbestos based paint. The crib also boasted a whopping 3-slats per side. We hung a cute curtain on her closet window and turned it into a playroom for her.

Shannon, the avid reader. 1972…

The downstairs had a huge living room, dining room, den, half bath, kitchen and enclosed back porch. Lot of house for 3 people. One who weighed less than 30 pounds. The dining room had a humongous window seat. That place had so many possibilities. We painted every room a different bold color. Oak floors throughout. We could not afford to carpet them, but had a couple area rugs. That was OK. The floors were worn but beautiful. The entry and foyer were stunning.

Shannon 3 in our fabulous foyer. With our first huge Christmas tree…

John had just gotten a job at Zenith as an industrial engineer. No more nights or holidays at KTIV. That was good because he had much to do after work now. The lawn and landscaping was a mess. No grass to speak of because of gigantic trees hanging over and covering most of the tiny front yard. John, a handy and brave guy took down all the low hanging branches himself with a hand saw. I kid you not. Branch by stinking branch. After the trees were trimmed he tackled the yard. Rented a rototiller, seeded, and fertilized. Didn’t seem postage stamp sized to him. The back yard was pretty decent.

John before leaving KTIV about 1971…

We were attending a Reformed Church in Morningside. Our precocious toddler enjoyed running up front for the children’s sermon. On this occasion as she made her way back to us, she plunked a few keys on the nearby piano as she passed by. Someone laughed. She whipped her gorgeous head of hair around to smile and acknowledge her new friend who laughed. And then she hit a couple more keys. Someone else giggled. That’s all it took. She started pounding on ALL of the keys with the fervor and grace of Liberace. By now my face was hugging the carpet under our pew. John was awarded the honor of daughter retrieval. But I was to have my own turn soon. Not too many weeks later, Shannon didn’t come back to us after their sermonette. This was a young church packed with little kids. Hard to keep track when 30 or 40 tykes start running back to their seats. Heaven forbid, no Shannon. I bit a hole in my lip, and wanted to head for the now familiar carpet beneath the pew. John poked me in the ribs hard, meaning (your turn, you go find our kid). I didn’t even have to search. Minister backs up, bends over, stands back up with Shannon in his arms. She was hiding under his pulpit, drinking his water. My turn for retrieving. People are snickering. So friendly, beautiful Shannon waves to her admiring fan club all the way back to our seat.

Shannon looking angelic until she got to church…

John was an avid hunter. Mostly pheasants. Decided he wanted a hunting dog. Found a kennel in Cherokee and bought German Shorthair Pointer. He read the books, got advice on how to train your hunting dog. Big stick and a rope attached to a dummy bag with pheasant feathers stuck on it. He’d place it in the tall grass of the empty lot on the hill from hell. The pup was supposed to stalk, stop, point at the bag (fake pheasant). But this pup was not learning anything or cooperating. Would not listen or follow simple commands. Turned her head away when John was talking. He finally brought her to a vet to have her checked out. She was in good health. “But she doesn’t listen to a thing I say! She’s not afraid of the starter pistol, but shows no excitement. Runs away when we practice any of the hunting exercises” John moaned. The vet suggested setting an alarm clock near her when she was sleeping. Huh? Well the sonic boom alarm went off and the pup never moved. Completely deaf. With a heavy heart he took her back to the very irate breeder. Couldn’t hunt with a deaf dog, unless both of them were going to learn sign language.

He started researching Shorthair kennel owners and found out one of the best ones in the country was just outside of Sioux City. This time John was not in a hurry. Found and fell in love with the best hunting dog ever. Anja. She was half trained at 4 months when we got her. She was so good and quiet at stalking pheasants, she often brought them back to John. But he hadn’t shot the birds. She just snatched them up in her soft mouth, bringing them back to her master. If she saw John with his gun case, she was beside herself with anticipation. He would literally let Anja run the last couple blocks out in the country before he stopped the car. Getting rid of her piss and vinegar or she’d be too excited to listen to commands. He built her a huge kennel behind the garage with a warm house. All on cement so she could run around. Anja would live to hunt with John for 13 years.

Anja eyeballing the cat Max…

Now I had to go to work for awhile. We had borrowed half the money for the down payment. (At Beneficial-beep-beep-you’re good for more). Ugh, anyone remember those loan companies? Awful. I had to get rid of that extra whopper of a bill. So I applied for a job at Zenith. The factory was huge. 3,500 employees, about 200 were men. The minimum wage back then was $1.60 an hour. Working 40 hours I made $64 bucks a week. Minus taxes and paying a full time babysitter. So I probably took home about 20 dollars a week. To be gone from Shannon from 6 am until about 4. Didn’t like it, but had to be done for awhile.

I worked on a line that produced boards for color TV’s. These boards were the size of an iPad mini. Tiny diodes, transistors and capacitors being placed in itsy-bitsy holes. My job was to turn the board over. Using what looked like a hair cutting shears, (it was called a swedger) clip all the ends off at an angle. Our line probably consisted of about 180 women. Sitting shoulder to shoulder. But Zenith offered an incentive. Once the engineer set the standard of what we should be able to produce in an hour, we could make a lot more money if we cranked up production a notch. You could get paid up to 130%. Money wise this was the difference between the 64 bucks and a whopping $87.60 a week. A huge increase. Didn’t leave a lot of room for goofing around, but the job was easy enough. We sat on stools, shooting the shit with neighbors or gals right across from us. (The other half of our line)

There were daily fights with that many women. Admission was always free. I remember John was walking down the aisle and 2 young gals were fighting in the middle of 2 lines. Pulling hair, screaming, just knocking each other senseless. Like cage fighting, but without the cage. John came running and caught one just as her opponent shoved her hard enough to send her flying into a wave solder machine. Think of it. A bath tub sized vat full of melted, leaded tin. The other incident I recall 3 gals were arguing over the use of a fan. Zenith got very hot in the summer. Only the offices, and management’s cafeteria were air-conditioned. One chick wanted a fan blowing on her. The girls on either side did not. After a 20 minute yelling match between them, the middle gal takes off her shirt and bra to cool down. Holy moly. I was missing being with Shannon for this? I lasted about a year.

One of our neighbors was a gorgeous gal married to an older guy. OK so I was 22, meaning this guy was in his mid-30’s, his wife Randi about 28. They had a little girl named Katie who was Shannon’s age. Randi had just gotten a job at a western clothing store down by the Stockyards. She needed a babysitter. I decided to quit the rat race at Zenith, stay home with Shannon and watch Katie. Money wasn’t that much less. And I was home again. But I didn’t understand how Randi could afford to pay me on a clerk’s wage. My hours watching Katie got longer and longer. Randi never came home on time. She was drop dead beautiful, and wore the newest, fanciest cowboy outfits. Leather jackets with fringe, fabulous cowboy boots. Pretty sure she was messing with the owner. A lot of nights she just never came home. Katie would spend the night, and next day before one of her parents would show up. Sad. She was an adorable little girl. Had kind of a lisp and called herself Tee-tee instead of Katie. Wonder what happened to her? Her parents divorced before we moved to eastern Iowa.

Katie, dolly and Shannon, 1973..

This was a house made for parties. And we were having our first big one. New Year’s Eve, 1972. Barry and Jeanene Kuiper, Bob and Arlene Smith, Dale and Beth Duits, Doug and Helen Reinke, Elton Hammock. Plus the kids. No one hired a babysitter. Think there were about 5 kids, all under 3. We bought a blender to make a new concoction called a frozen Daiquiri. Yum. We had a great time ringing in 1973, but nobody could leave. A blizzard of epic proportions. Howling winds and the wind-chill was minus 30 something. Our friends all bunked where they could. We had lots of room. Next morning John tried to make a grocery run for eggs and bacon. I had not yet acquired the quantity stage of keeping extra groceries. You needed money for that. Our 1972 Vega was sitting in the driveway. Sucker wouldn’t start. John opened the hood to attach jumper cables. The battery had literally cracked in half.

About 18 months later, a dude came to town to recruit some engineers for his crazy family owned toy factory. (We did not yet know he and his brothers were really insane). This was on the eastern side of Iowa, about 350 miles away. We were floundering in Sioux City. Mom, 60 miles away had her nose and influence in everything we did. We saw this as a great opportunity to put some distance between them and us. Or our fledging marriage might be in trouble…

None of us wanted to leave the Quad-Cities in 1987. However, when we moved to Michigan, at least for me, it was with open arms and an open heart. We all loved living in Davenport, but Iowa’s economy had tanked. Michigan’s economy was booming. Staying in Iowa just wasn’t in the cards for us. We did want to stay in the Midwest and Big 10 country. What were we thinking? Crazy. I must not have despised winters nearly as much as I hate them now. I was pumped and ready for a new adventure. Months after our move, the boys were adjusting fine. Shannon, who had just turned 16, not so much. She had a chip on her shoulder the size her hair, circa 1988. She let us know how unhappy she was. Often. In her defense, it was a tough time to move a sophomore. Beautiful. Hormonal. Smart. Snotty. Girl. She missed her friends, school, cheerleading and boyfriend. But that’s a few blogs for another time.

There’s something about Shannon…

When you grow up in Iowa, there’s just not a lot of sports teams close by to love and support. I’m not going to name a bunch of teensy-weensy colleges that 1% of the folks adore. Basically the state had the Hawkeyes and Cyclones. Iowa’s answer to the pros. Iowans are a devoted bunch to our college teams. If you wanted a pro team of baseball or football, you were just kind of out of luck. Your closest choices were St. Louis, Chicago or Minneapolis. All still pretty far away for a Saturday or Sunday jaunt. And not one in the state of Iowa. We did have a farm club of the Chicago Cubs in Davenport. I went to several games every summer. Saw the aging right-hand pitcher Rick Reuschel rehabilitate from an arm injury. Also watched rookie Shawon Dunston as a young punk. He got called up to the Cubs and duked it out for a while with Larry Bowa before winning the starting shortstop position.

Go Cubs go. Go Cubs go…

In comparison, Michigan was like hitting the professional team’s lottery. Lions and Tigers and Bears. Oh my! Oops, sorry, not the stinking Bears. It’s Red Wings and Pistons. And we went to watch them all. John would keep his loyalty tightly tied to the Minnesota Vikings. Me to my hapless, hopeless Cubbies. But the kids were young, impressionable, and so easily swayed. Both boys did the unthinkable after a few years. They became American League fans. Oh the pain. I don’t dislike the Tigers. Like my Frosted Flakes, they’re great! But switch to the American League? Come on. Poor little pitchers only make a piddly half a million dollars per start every 5 days. Why that’s just not a good reason to hold that heavy bat a couple times a night. Might hurt your widdle arm. Spare me please. Just not right. You’re professional athletes. Pick up the dang bat. End of baseball rant.

It was our first game to watch the Hawkeyes play football other than Kinnick Stadium in Iowa City. They were playing the University of Michigan’s Wolverines in Ann Arbor which was about 40 miles east of Jackson. We’d been living in Michigan less than a year. Proudly sporting our black and gold duds. Well the Hawks got the snot kicked out of them. Duds indeed. We were harassed in the stands through the whole game. Not a friendly or civil face to be found. I don’t remember the score, but it was something like 38-10.

Granddaughter Ariana in her Hawkeye clothes, about 1994…

When the shellacking was over, we were making our way to the car. We were stopped by some “gentlemen.” Except they weren’t gentle. Or men. At the time I was 36. These were old guys to me. Meaning they were about my age now. All sporting maize and blue plaid pants. My eyes, my eyes! Everyone of them so stinking drunk they could barely walk. But luckily for us, they had not lost their ability to converse. Looked at us and shouted, “what the f/*¥ you think you’re doing in our stadium?” Honest these were 60 year old men. I snapped back, “geez guys, you clobbered us. Can’t you be gracious in your win?” For being alumni from such a snippity school, their vocabulary was really quite limited. They followed us for a little ways. Vulgar, taunting and swearing. Pleasant. But they were lumbering along in such a drunken stupor, we were soon out of their range. On the way home I stated emphatically, “don’t ever ask me to set foot in that stadium again, cause it won’t happen. And I never have. John’s gone back for a few games over the years. He actually should go every time the Hawks play. They’ve won like the last 3 times he’s gone.

A couple years later, Shannon’s in her freshman year at Michigan State. Lansing’s about 30 miles north of Jackson. We took the boys, picked up Shannon, and went out for supper. Then headed to the old Breslin Center for MSU-Iowa basketball game. Again, all of us in Hawkeye clothes. Maybe not Shannon. A few minutes after we sat down, the gal sitting next to the boys taps me on the shoulder and asks, “did you drive all the way from Iowa to watch your little Hawkeyes play us here?” Yeah, that’s the difference between U of M and MSU.

Since that unfortunate incident at U of M over 25 years ago, I’ve found it hard to feel bad when unpleasant things happen in their mighty “institution.” When I get a sniff of a scandal, I’m rather happy. Ok, the billboards, infomercials, TV spots advertising their indiscretions might be a little over the top. During the mid-90’s a terrible scandal hit. (I might have worn a smirk for a couple months) A wealthy U of M booster was caught handing out hundreds of thousands of dollars to basketball players. At least one of the players (then in the NBA) lied to the grand jury about it. Because of this, their basketball coach at the time, Steve Fisher got canned. The basketball team withdrew from post season play. They removed all or part of 5 seasons, players names, and achievements from the record books. (Good times Denise) Plus they were put on probation by the NCAA.

My favorite Michigan shirt. Worn for all painting and dye jobs…

There’s been several other rumored or reported “indiscretions” at Michigan over the years. A professor who routinely offered independent studies in his class to athletes. Their grades averaged over 3.5 when they were lugging around 2.5 in the rest of their classes. Keeping their eligibility. Recently a quarterback suffered a concussion, but was left in the game to play. Not one staff member bothered to watched that play. Last straw for coach Brady Hoke’s tenure as the Wolverine’s coach. He took the biggest hit, got fired. Besides he was a lousy coach. I wanted him to stay for like another 10 years.

But this is 2015. I’ve been hauling around my own set of baggage for years. Each suitcase filled with regrets, guilt and resentment. I’m embracing the overwhelming need to rid myself of the personal stash of poison being held inside. Letting go of my animosity towards U of M should be an easy “to do.” The harder stuff about Mom, Dad, my sister, and my 4-in-a-row-not-so-hot-bosses-who-all-happened-to-be-preachers will be tougher. But I’ve started. Making some headway. Once I get my Red Fish, Blue Fish typed for a blog post, my soul will be considerably lighter. I hope.

We went to many Iowa football and basketball games when we lived in Davenport. The best one ever was a football game in 1985. Iowa was ranked #1, Michigan #2. The Hawkeye’s won it in the last few seconds, 12-10. The only game I’ve ever attended where NOBODY WANTED TO LEAVE. Honestly the fans were delirious. We just stood there cheering in the freezing drizzle. Watching Hawkeye players on the field who didn’t want to leave either. Amazing, electric feeling. Chuck Long was our quarterback and Jim Harbaugh played for Michigan. Now Harbaugh has been hired as Michigan’s coach for their beleaguered football team. (Isn’t beleaguered the coolest adjective when describing any and all of U of M’s teams?) I might still have some unfinished business in the “I’m loving those stinking Wolverine’s to pieces department.”

Jim Harbaugh now U of M’s head coach. Wonder if he wears plaid pants???

I don’t know much about Jim Harbaugh besides he’s an incredibly intense person who’s coached both college and pros. I liked him in the ’80’s as long as he was losing to our Long and the Hawks. I read a neat article on him recently. As a 9 yr old kid living in Ann Arbor, he was just starting to play football. His first opponent was “Ralph.” And Jim was supposed to tackle him. According to Jim, (ha-some old TV trivia, Belushi) “Ralph outweighed him by 50 pounds, was sporting a 5 o’clock shadow and had a unibrow at age 9.” Jim closed his eyes, prayed to God that when he opened them, Ralph would at least be playing in a different position. Well Ralph was in the same spot, which put Jim in a tight spot. He had promised his dad he wouldn’t quit because he just had gotten new $13. football cleats. So he stayed and played. First play, Ralph’s knee slams into Jim’s chest-hard. Jim’s head hits the ground. Ralph’s running, dragging Jim along. Jim’s hanging onto a chubby Ralph thigh for dear life. Plowing a deep row with his shoulder in the football field that would make an Iowa farmer and his John Deere envious as he’s pulled through by Ralphy. Finally Ralph poops out and falls down. Jim checks all his little body parts, making sure nothing’s broke and smiles. He’s just recorded his first ever tackle.

I really admire someone who can tell a good story. And Jim’s was hilarious and touching. It’s just hard to hate a guy who can relate to a story like that. Yup, I kinda admire Jim. Except when his team’s playing the Hawkeye’s. All bets are off. If I find myself fawning over (not counting on it) the nasty Wolverines too much, I’ve got an easy plan in place to yank me back to my senses. Two words. I only need to conjure up these 2 words and any fondness for U of M flies right out the window. Tom Brady…

To be clear, these are my own lowly layman’s observations and opinions. I’m not skilled, trained or educated. Just someone who’s done a lot of listening and observing. Not always an easy task when you’re going deaf. Often when my head needs clearing to think and write, I drive to Lake Michigan. My eyes are filled with the majestic wonder and vastness of it. Great place to marvel at your own insignificance. And thank God for all your blessings, big and small. And type what’s in my head.

A tanker out on beautiful Lake Michigan…

It’s been well over 20 years since my friend and neighbor Mike passed away from liver cancer. As an adult, he was the first “young” person my age who I knew and witnessed going through a terminal illness. Since I had nothing to compare it to, I assumed this was the way people fought through this type of battle. Mike was always doing research for another treatment option to consider. Didn’t matter if it was an accepted or legal practice here in the states. If he was convinced a treatment could help keep his cancer at bay, or put him in remission, more likely than not, he was willing to try it. Mike packed 15 years in his last 2 on earth. Traveled, volunteered, oversaw a huge addition to his house. He could not sit still unless he felt so bad it was impossible for him to go on.

Fast-forward about 15 years, and I’m in the midst of my Parish Visiting gig. One of my close and much younger friends, Rosemary just learned that her breast cancer has returned for a second time. When she first got the news, she immediately stated, “I’m getting the hell out of here.” Understandable. Faced with something so horrible, I think I would try and run away too. Our instinct is to flee. But that trip never got off the drawing board. After talking to her oncologist, brother, and boyfriend, she chose a plan of attack, and the trip was never mentioned again. But how she viewed, and the steps she took were very different than Mike’s. And both were going through this about the same age. Whenever my Dad wasn’t feeling well, one of his go-to quips was, “I gotta lay low for a few days.” Probably made famous by Bonnie and Clyde when he was a kid. Well this was the course Rosemary would take. She stayed home, ate healthy foods, took naps. Didn’t really shun life or friends, but kind of went inside herself too. Hard to find the right words to explain. More of an “gotta conserve my strength, get through the treatment plan and take care of myself” attitude.

Rosemary before cancer and Keen’s.

Every few weeks though, she would pipe up with an idea. It was almost like convincing herself if she kept striving towards a normal life, everything would still be OK. Rosemary was absolutely smitten with my Keen sandals. One day she asked me if I would take her shopping to buy a pair of Keen’s. Road trip! We went to our local (but cool) mall. She picked out a black pair identical to my navy pair. For a couple hours, she was once again a normal 40-something, ready for a fabulous summer. We ate at her favorite Mexican restaurant. It was very warm that day. Once we were seated, she complained she was cold. She asked if we could move outdoors, under an umbrella on the patio. I about melted out there but she was finally comfortable. I think the majority of people on chemo treatments are always cold. Plus she had lost quite a bit of weight. She was tickled to be out, and pleased with her new shoes. It was a very good day. After I took her home, she jumped on the computer, and ordered another 3 pair of Keen’s. Different styles, but she was hooked. It felt good to shop. Normal stuff. That’s what she wanted. Doing mundane stuff healthy people did every day.

Rosemary’s Keen’s, now adorn my summer feet…

She also wanted to start cooking again. Wanted more control over what she was putting in. Eating pine nuts, and ground her own wheat flour! Asked me to take her to the mall to buy a couple of those expensive gel mats chefs use. That would make it easier to stand on her slate floors in the kitchen. But not long after, her chemo treatments would start taking a terrible toll on her. A nasty side effect called neuropathy. She was losing the feeling in her feet. Didn’t always pick up her feet, especially one. She fell a couple times tripping over the gel rug, or hooked a sandal on something. Had to start wearing a specialized brace from her knee to the heel of her foot. Inserted in a shoe a couple sizes bigger than she normally wore. Cooking stopped, rugs were removed, and Keen’s were on a shelf in her awesome closet.

A mutual friend of ours was also struggling with her own cancer battle. Her name was Pat and she was a little older than me. She and Rosemary went to a support group together called Healing Touch at Hackley hospital. But Pat’s attitude towards her (terminal) illness was much different that Rosemary’s. At the time I thought it was because she was 20 years older than Rosemary. Pat wanted and needed to squeeze every bit of life she had left by doing stuff. She planned a wonderful trip with her 2 adult children, Lisa and Mark. They took an awesome hiking trip in Yellowstone Park, a few months before she passed away. Then Pat and her husband visited relatives, even did some canoeing, and reunited with some of her old college friends out east. Many times Pat was very sick. Often ended up in the ER for a bit during these vacations. There was still so much she needed to do. Another fierce fighter. But also the kindest and most soft spoken woman I’ve ever known and loved.

Pat and her beautiful daughter Lisa in Yellowstone, 2010.

Pat developed a crippling illness to join her tough cancer fight. It wasn’t really a side effect. It was more the result of surgery because of her cancer. It’s called lymphedema. Happens sometimes when some lymph nodes are removed. Lymph nodes are the little dudes that move fluids through your body. Missing a few can cause fluid retention in your tissue. When the fluids in your body have trouble moving up and down, it puddles in spots. Which can lead to infections. And terrible swelling. And unbearable pain. Pat’s lymphedema settled in her leg and foot. This horrible new by-product, plus her cancer were miserable and debilitating. But instead of it controlling Pat, she turned her own experience and knowledge to her advantage by helping others. She became the local resident expert and advocate to anyone recently diagnosed with lymphedema. Calling them on the phone, sending them the latest literature on how to deal with lymphedema. One amazing faith-filled woman. And I was lucky enough to call her my friend.

Pat passed away one month after Rosemary died. Two of my biggest losses. So close together, it took me a couple years to come to terms and move past. Both close friends. Closure can be very elusive. Tough losses. And during my tenure as parish visitor, the total lives lost of folks I routinely visited added up to about 100. But these were 2 of the hardest.

Another set of vastly different ways of coping with illness that I encountered, were with older couples. It seems quite often health wise, one of them was frail physically but mentally sharp, while their spouse was healthy as a horse physically, but losing it mentally. They sometimes kind of played off each other or complimented each other’s shortcomings. While parish visiting over a decade I’ve seen 2 very different ways of acceptance or denial when one of the spouses is failing. Not so much if the health issues were physical, but if one was in a decline mentally. Sometimes they would cover for their spouse. Even to their kids. I’ve had adult children call me and say, “holy-moly, I had no idea Dad was this bad. Mom always said he was downstairs, in the shower, or out in the yard when I called. She’s been covering for him!” These couples didn’t want their kids to worry. Or worse, start making or forcing them to make decisions they were not ready to make, or even face yet.

Two couples, and friends with each other a few years ago. Both the wives were doing well physically and mentally. But both husbands were in a steep decline mentally. One of the wives was very open about it. “Boy he’s losing it Denise. Honestly he says at least 30 times a day, what should we do now? Enough to drive me crazy. And I love him with all my heart.” The other wife was very private about her husband’s illness of memory loss. If I’d call, she was cordial and polite. We had a nice visit–over the phone. She just wasn’t ready to let me in. Not into the house physically, or into her world and confidence yet. Just not ready to face the issue with me, still pretty much a stranger. Funny, after I’d been visiting with them for a couple years, she actually apologized. “We needed you. I needed you. I’m so sorry it took me years to admit it and let you in. Your visits are wonderful and your support has helped me so much.” Nice to hear. Wish I had gotten in sooner. Both husbands are gone now, but the gals are still doing well.

Wonder what it is that determines how we react to something? John and I have had small health issues. Nothing big, thanks God. And yes, we often keep it just between us. Don’t want to worry the kids needlessly. They’re busy and have their own lives. I vividly remember when I was in my mid and late 40’s. Hard to admit, but I was really kind of angry when Mom and Dad started calling me about their failing health issues. Then feeling guilty about those negative feelings. I wasn’t ready or willing to see, face, or deal with those issues yet. Denial. I didn’t want things to change or go wrong. But nothing stays the same, and we can’t stop time…

Dad got involved with prison ministries during the 1960’s, around the same time his hand-painted signs started popping up on roadways. Designed to make you think as you were cruising on Highway 18 & 75 in northwest Iowa. I don’t have a clue why he was drawn to inmates anymore than why I gravitated to the elderly since I was 5.

After 30 years of preaching, teaching and the M2 program with inmates, Mom’s non-Hodgkins lymphoma and long term side effects from her stroke would force Dad to give up these activities. He couldn’t leave Mom for any length of time. Plus the hours needed for writing sermons, studying his Bible lessons. After Mom passed away, I convinced my 88-year-old father to move 750 miles east of the only place he’d ever called home, Rock Valley, Iowa. I knew this was the right call but deep down I thought this might be a disaster because we’d never been close.

By the time Dad moved to Muskegon I had done a lot of prep work. I wanted his life to be filled with purpose again. Got him a probationary (ha-ha, some prison humor) job volunteering at one of the local prisons. The Chaplain, Brian Burrel was quite taken with Dad. (He can have that kind of affect on people). Brian gave him a slot every Wednesday afternoon for a Bible study. I never asked if these were “good behavior” guys but that didn’t make a difference with Dad. The prison did have steps in place to help insure Dad’s safety. A push button gizmo Dad carried with him. If he felt ill at ease the button would send in the guards.

A few weeks later Chaplain Burrel asked Dad if he wanted to preach on a Sunday? Dad said yes before Brian finished the question. Thereafter “Pastor Gerritson” would have a service once a month on Sunday afternoon. He LOVED doing this. Dad believed in altar calls which stemmed from being a counselor at Billy Graham Crusades decades ago. Rev. Graham would beseech those who felt Jesus calling to come forward. Whenever Dad spoke, whether at the Rescue Mission or prison he’d end it by fervently asking, “is God speaking to you? Come forward and give your life to Christ, you won’t be sorry.” Dad would get on his knees, lay his hands on the shoulders or head and have a prayer with every man who’d come forward.

About a year after Dad moved to Michigan, someone from the Muskegon Chronicle contacted him. Wanted to talk to him about his prison ministry. I think pastor Brian Burrel called Clayton Hardiman who was a writer at the paper. Dad asked if I wanted to be there when he was interviewed. Ah, no thanks. I made sure the apartment was spiffy. Had an apple pie and his little 4-cup coffee pot ready so Dad could be a good host. Dad assured me they had a great visit. He had talked about losing his only son Larry, his love for the Lord and fulfilling work at the prison.

Dad assumed his “big interview” would be in the Chronicle the next day, but it was a couple weeks before it was published. (Never asked Dad, but hope he didn’t call the Chronicle or Clayton every day) It was Saturday’s edition that had human interest-faith based articles each week. Dad didn’t get the paper because he was new in town and had no history here. I usually brought him ours the day after it came out.

Early in February, 2006 there it was: MAN ON A MISSION. Front page of the third section. He couldn’t stop looking at it, reading it over and over. I was surprised the article was so long and included several pictures. Dad was beyond thrilled. Had me stop at the Chronicle office and buy every single copy they had. Then cruise town to the outside newspaper box thingy’s and buy those. Holy-moly Dad, I’d be mailing copies for a month. He sent a copy and wrote everyone he knew. Honest. When the copies ran low he started to panic. There were still scads of people he thought needed a copy. I brought one of the newspapers to Office Max. They placed the complete article and pictures on a folded sheet of paper, like a brochure. The pictures weren’t in color, but we used a nice cream colored paper and they turned out great. I had to get permission from both the paper and Clayton Hardiman to have this re-printed. But Dad was back in business. More mailings.  

Dad tried to convince me to be part of his ministry team since I was a teen, but this prison ministry stuff scared me. I always said, “don’t tell them my last name, where I live or that we have kids. Please Dad, I don’t want them to know anything about me.” I imagine I was mentioned a few times, I hope with a little gratitude for helping him move here, and setting him up with Chaplain Burrel. Or at least about some good suppers he enjoyed at our house. Never got any collect calls, so he probably abided by my wishes.

Dad lived in Michigan just over 3 years. His prison ministry lasted a little over 2 years. A couple of hospital stays with pneumonia and a minor stroke caused small hiccups for a couple weeks at a time. I believe those 2 years were the most meaningful in Dad’s life. He felt he’d been called, was needed. Living his purpose driven life.

A couple months after Dad passed away something extraordinary happened. I received a big manila envelope, accompanied by a letter from Chaplain Burrel. How proud he was to have known and worked with Dad. How much he appreciated this kind, elderly man giving his time to the men in his prison. Then out tumbled 50 cards, some in their own envelopes but many just loose. Most with multiple snippets written by several guys. For me. Scores of inmates moved by Dad’s Christian life. They were grieving his loss too. They wanted and needed to express their grief to me about their appreciation for Dad. They called him “Brother Rich.” How touched they were when he had an altar call, but couldn’t get back up off his knees at age 90. How he smiled and joked about it when they helped him up the last several months he spoke. They did this for someone they didn’t know. Me. Out of love and respect for my Dad. I can’t believe they did this for a complete stranger. There’s not been many instances in my life that have touched me more. I was completely overwhelmed and a mess of tears, but it felt good. When I reflect back about that ordinary day and the cards tumbling out of that big envelope, it still does my heart a world of good…

It wasn’t long after we moved to Michigan (1987) before I started meeting the neighbors. These gals were a really friendly bunch. The houses in our neighborhood were not close together like in Davenport. Each property had an acre. It was Pat Olsen, just south of me who had a luncheon to introduce me to a couple of them. First was Mildred. She was exactly double my age. I had recently turned 36. She had just lost her husband and lived next to Pat.

A watercolor given to me. Hung in the guest bathroom at Mildred’s

Mildred’s husband Ed had been the president of a large company called Commonwealth. She would keep me enthralled for 20 years with stories of their world travel. In the 40’s and 50’s Ed had worked in Africa putting up nuclear power plants. Back then it was still legal for people to go into diamond mines. When Ed worked there he would buy loose, precious stones, then have them designed into elaborate pieces for Mildred. The first time Mildred got her jewelry out, I thought it was costume jewelry. The stones were so big, they bordered on gaudy. Not the diamonds. The diamonds were gorgeous. Every piece Mildred owned was set in platinum, and not one was a solitare of anything. And they were all matched sets. Never just a ring. It was a brooch, earrings, necklace, often a bracelet to boot. The 2 most exquisite sets I remember were an aquamarine brooch. The main stone was the size of a quarter. Surrounded by diamonds. Matching earrings which I would have made into 2 separate rings. The stones were size of my ring fingernail. The other stunning set were some kind of amber/gold stones, maybe citrine. The color of light honey. There was a tennis style bracelet with rectangular shaped stones, the size of my pinkie nail, and diamonds in between. Beautiful but a little flamboyant for my taste.

I got Mildred’s 60 yr. old Christmas Cactus from which I’ve started a dozen new plants…

Seven years later, after I moved to North Muskegon, I often stayed with Mildred when I went back to visit. Shannon and her crew were out the door by 7 a.m. most mornings. When I’d visit, I’d go to Shannon’s in the afternoon, make supper and be there when they were getting home from school, daycare and work. Stay until the little ones were in bed, and Shannon and I were done yakking for the night. Then drive over to Mildred’s 5 miles away, visit with her for a comple hours before heading to bed. She loved the company and I really enjoyed staying with her. In the morning we’d have breakfast together. Whole strawberries dusted with powdered sugar. Toasted English muffins accompanied with fancy jars filled with exotic jams. Coddled eggs. Never heard of that before. You butter the inside of the egg coddler, crack and drop in a raw egg. Screw the lid tight, and plop the whole thing in simmering water for a few minutes. Another way for a fancy English soft boiled egg. Told you she was elegant. Then we’d go shopping downtown Jackson at Jacobson’s. A fabulous department store a step up from Macy’s. I never bought much there, too fancy and expensive. The clerks were always eager to wait on Mildred.

Egg Coddler from Mildred.

The other gal I met that day was Diane. She was my age and had 2 kids about the ages of Shannon and Josh. Diane’s still one of my dearest friends. She’s the second oldest kid in a family of 12! We certainly didn’t seem to have much in common in the beginning. The reason. She’s everything I’m not. She can sew men’s suits and make lined draperies. Me, maybe sew a button back on after it fell off a shirt 6 months ago. That John’s reminded me of 10 times and needed for work. And poke myself a dozen times in the process. She can cross-stitch, embroider, needle-point, knit, crochet, make artistic ribboned bows as big as a table. Design and create spectacular silk floral arrangements and wreaths. It kind of makes you feel inept when you’re around her a lot. You tend to be green with envy, plus feel hapless and hopeless cause you have none of these gifts or skills. Plus she worked full time and kept her house immaculate. Then there’s her yard. She does not embrace the same outdoor philosophy as me. Mine, “when I’m outdoors, I’m reading, not weeding.” And usually in a swimsuit on a chaise in the 2 square feet of moving sunshine in our shade filled yard. No, Diane has a yard that makes even John envious. And she enjoys working in it and keeping it so. Who knew there are women like that alive? (I think I might be a better baker. Not sure. Wouldn’t stake my life on it).

But it would be Diane who would introduce me to the variety of Michigan’s fabulous and different fruit seasons. Within months she had me crawling along sand filled rows, picking strawberries. Really nothing compares to eating a fresh picked strawberry, warm from the sun, even with a couple of grains of sand stuck on it. Our pants would be stained from squashed strawberries when we were done. Then follow the short seasons of cucumbers, peaches, raspberries, blackberries, (the nastiest of the bunch to pick. The bushes will grab your clothes, rip your skin and are about 10 feet tall) finally beets and apples. All within of few miles of where we lived. It was Diane who taught me how to can. Don’t think she realized what an obsession it would become for me. She first convinced me to can my own pickled beets that my Mom and I loved. Then she got me hooked on Bread and Butter pickles. I helped her can Bread and Butter pickles for a few years. When I moved 150 miles west, she happily sent along the recipe and convinced me I could do it on my own. For the past 20 years I’ve accepted praise and kudos for my awesome Bread and Butter pickles. The glory really belongs to my dear friend Diane.

The best Bread and Butter pickles in the world. Yeah, I’m bragging…

Diane convinced me all her super human abilities were not gifts that she was given from God. She truly thought I could learn some of these skills. (Such a wonderful friend, she did not see or realize the magnitude of all my hopeless shortcomings) She had run into a gal who was holding art fabric painting classes. (This was a popular fad in the early ’90’s) Diane cajoled me into taking some classes with her. I know. I’m shaking my head too. Nothing about me has ever been artsy-fartsy. (If you follow me on Facebook, you know that when my 5 year old grandson Graham and I do art projects, his usually turn out better than mine).

Yup, they’re supposed to be iris’s.

Anyway we signed up for the classes. We’d look through the pattern books. I’d pick out something that appealed to me, but was way above my level of coloring (painting) inside the lines. We’d each buy a sweatshirt or a tote bag to paint. Hazel, the art teacher would supervise. Not Diane, who was a better painter than Hazel, but me, so Diane could clip along at her own pace. Ugh, I was hopeless. I did sort of learn to follow, (copy) the pattern, but I just didn’t SEE the same stuff as these artists. For instance, if I was painting a bent arm, I truly did not notice the shadows in the crook of the arm. (And I had a picture showing me these shadows). Where the part of the bent arm should be darker. Diane or Hazel would kindly point out the 3-D-ish stuff my eyes did not pick up on. But it was fun. And I still have some of the rather cute things I did finish. But for me it wasn’t a fun gift but a real and often frustrating challenge, and something I would never be very good at.

My one attempt at a portrait. John a month after he quit smoking…

One other neighbor would have an huge impact on my life while I lived in Jackson. Her name was Elissa and she was several houses south of us. We did not know them well. They had one son in college. BJ was Joshua’s age and Elizabeth was in Adam’s class. We’d see them at school’s open house, and parent-teacher conferences, but knew them just to say hi. Elissa taught high school in a district 20 miles away and Mike owned a successful business. They did not travel in the same social circles as us. Well, we had no circles yet, but they were a couple notches above us however long we would have lived there. Josh and BJ were becoming good friends. Adam and Elizabeth would never see eye to eye on anything.

One morning about 10 there was a knock on my door. It was a weekday, kids were in school. We’d probably been living there almost 2 years by then. To my surprise it was Elissa at the door. I invited her in and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee. She was visibly upset about something. I sat across from her at the kitchen table and waited. It was like she didn’t know how to start talking. Geez, she taught English and was the advisor/director of their high school class plays. Couldn’t imagine anything bad enough that she couldn’t just spit it out. Doubted it had anything to do with Josh or BJ. Both good kids and not troublemakers. Hope Adam hadn’t decked Elizabeth. She was kind of a diva, even back then. So I waited. All of a sudden words just start spilling out. Her 39 year old hubby, Mike had just been diagnosed with liver cancer that morning. Through sobs she’s asking advice on how she’s going break this news to their kids after school? Devastating, but how in the world could I be of help? Actually, I didn’t need to do much. Elissa was working these issues out in front of me. I guess kind of like a sounding board. We had no history together, and no baggage. I think it was easier practicing on me, virtually a stranger that morning. If there had been any kind of social caste system before this day, it was gone now. I had seen her in a way not many ever would.

Mike and Elissa would embark on a 2-1/2 year ferocious fight. Journey from chemo, to colonics, to Mayo Clinic, to a specialized cancer treatment center in Houston, to some radical, not legal here in the states stuff down in Mexico. Mike NEVER accepted he was dying. Much like my dear friend Rosemary, he fought so hard, and tried everything he could to stay alive. He had an addition put on the house, doubling the size of it. He went to the Masters Golf tournament in Georgia which had been on his bucket list. Sometimes if Elissa was teaching, I’d drive him to Ann Arbor for appointments. He signed up with John to be co-leader of Adam and Elizabeth’s class of Odessy of the Mind competition. Had to stay busy, doing, doing, doing. If they were gone for a few days, BJ would stay with us, and we’d keep watch over their menagerie of animals from destroying their beautiful home.

But Mike continued to get sicker and lose ground. He passed away in September of 1991, a couple years before we moved to North Muskegon. He had just made an appointment for another cancer treatment option in Mexico to try something else. The hardest fighter next to Rosemary I’ve ever witnessed. Don’t know if I agree with their thinking, logic or methods. But I’ve never been in their shoes either. From where I was watching, Rosemary should have been in Hospice Care months earlier. Mike never even considered it, and should have. I admire that kind of fierce fighting spirit. I wonder if I have that kind of fight in me. Hope I never have to find out…