After I retired as Parish Visitor, one of the ladies I visited regularly called me. She was having some health issues and none of her adult children lived nearby. She wanted to hire me a few hours a day until she felt better. I was happy to help out. Took her to several doctor’s appointments to find the cause of her debilitating pain. I grocery shopped, ran errands and whatever we had for supper at home, I brought over for Lois the next day because she was unable to stand for more than a couple minutes at a time.

She was in a lot of pain and had lost her spark. I was worried when she stopped reading the daily paper. Her orthopedic specialist discovered compression fractures in her spine and recommended surgery. She spent a couple days in the hospital. When she came home there was a hospital bed in the living room because her bedroom was on the second floor. With some rehab she bounced back quickly. I was relieved when her feisty demeanor returned.

Not long after Lois decided it was time to move closer to her daughter who lived across the state. We took a road trip to inspect an independent living complex her daughter Carla suggested. Lois chose an apartment in the back of the facility, overlooking a small pond. She listed her home and sold it within a week. Carla came over to help sift through the house her mom had called home for 40 plus years.

Movers loaded up her belongings while I drove Lois to her new home in early July of 2014. We spent a couple nights in a rental apartment in the facility until her furniture was in the apartment. We had our house on the market at the same time and would be moving closer to our kids which put us a good hour away from Lois. Oh the irony. Until we moved in 2015, whenever we visited Josh & Erica I’d stop and see Lois who lived a few miles away. She made friends quickly, starting with the group who sat at the same supper table with her every night.

Once we moved to Jackson I drove over to visit Lois every few months with the exception of strict Covid restrictions during 2020. We’d go out for lunch (Red Lobster), maybe stop at Meijer or for an ice cream cone, then visit for the afternoon. I’d bring her a bowl of potato salad and some homemade cookies. We talked non-stop.

In between visits I’d send her a ‘thinking of you’ card every so often. Although I mailed numerous cards to multiple people at the same, every time I sent a card to Lois, she’d call to thank me. Every. Single. Time. Several of her oldest friends had moved or passed away. Whenever we got together it was like no time had passed since we last got together. We had history.

Other than having a couple teeth give her grief, she didn’t have many health issues since she moved. But there’s been some subtle changes. Recently she’s been in the hospital 3 times. Two piggyback hospitalizations caused by a new diverticulitis diagnosis. She called to discuss her new diet restrictions (telling me to skip the potato salad this time but knew chocolate chip cookies without nuts would be fine). She was feeling better and slowly re-introducing some foods.

About a month ago she fell doing laundry. She was okay but dreaded walking all the way to the laundry room down the hall because there are only a couple washers and dryers and not good chairs while she waits (there is a laundry service and she could afford it, but she doesn’t like the way they fold her stuff-hahaha). I told her it was time for me to visit and coordinate her laundry duties when I’d be there for the day. (We no longer eat out, I either bring lunch along for us or stop at Jimmy John’s) before I get to her place.

Close to celebrating her 92 birthday, Lois had it together. She read the paper on her iPad everyday, played cards in person and on her tablet, always had her nose in a novel and checked her email a couple times a day. We talked around Easter and the plan was to visit her on April 27th and bring lunch (and homemade cookies). If something came up we’d email before and change the date. I sent her a quick note on Monday the 25th to confirm my visit but she didn’t answer me, so I called her Tuesday.

Carla answered the phone (sinking feeling). Said her mom had fallen a few days before and had been taken to the hospital as a precaution. She seemed fine and they brought her back to the apartment. But a day later she wasn’t making sense and slurring her words. She had a brain bleed and explicitly told the doctor and family, no extraordinary measures or feeding tube to keep her alive. Hospice was brought in the next day.

Told Carla how sorry I was and that I’d planned to come the following day. She said, “Oh, I remember mom saying you were coming, but not what day. I should have called, but this happened so fast. Denise, they don’t think she’s going to make through the night.” She didn’t.

Why didn’t I go the week before? Because my week was plumb full with a doctor’s appointment and a haircut. Ugh. Too little, too late. I’m sorry Lois. You are missed my friend…

The band of seven Berghuis siblings. Four girls including my grandma who died a few days after giving birth to my mom and her twin brother in December of 1926. Adding the 3 boys Abraham, William and Floyd all born during the years 1897-1910 (including one set of boy/girl twins). The first born was Alida, born in 1897. She married Andrew in 1920 and started raising her own family on a farm near Sioux Center. Alida and Andrew had 7 children between the years of 1921-1937. Vera was born a few months before mom and Floyd, Norma arrived a couple days before the twin’s first birthday. It’s no wonder the motherless twins spent so much time at Alida’s house. She invited them over frequently to play with their cousins. It was aunt Alida who explained puberty and the facts of life to mom right along with her own daughters.

My grandma Coba’s youngest sister, also named Florence-with a twin brother named Floyd. My mom and Floyd were named after their aunt and uncle-it’s so confusing with 2 sets of twins with the same names-16 years apart. Aunt Florence got married in 1935 and moved to Sioux City (40 miles away). Mom and Floyd were allowed to take the train when they were about 10 and stay with aunt Florence and her husband Frank, including spending the night. Aunt Florence took the kids shopping and bought Big Little books for a dime each to read on the train on their way back to Sioux Center.

Mom’s aunt Lena was born in Sioux Center, Iowa in 1903. She was the 4th child born to the Pieter & Aafje Berghuis family and 3 years older than my grandmother. Both Pieter Berghuis and Aafje Beukelman (Americanized Peter and Effie) were immigrants from the Netherlands. Pieter was born in 1862 and immigrated when he was 19. Aafje was born in 1877 and was brought over before her first birthday.

There was a big age difference between Peter & Effie. They also differed a lot in their physical appearance. Peter was 15 years older and quite a bit smaller than his beloved wife. Mom said her grandpa Peter used to sit on Effie’s lap-hahaha. The reason mom was privy to so much information about her grandparents is she lived with them part time (the paternal grands had the twins the majority of the time-but they all had a hand in raising their grands). My grandma Coba was born in 1906, (the 5th child of their union) married in 1924 and died when she was 20 in 1926.

The aunt my mom remained very close to as a child and an adult was Lena. Lena was 23 when the twins were born and still lived at home. She was one of the reasons Peter and Effie Berghuis felt they should be in charge of raising the twins for the most part. They were both younger than the paternal grandparents, Guert & Jantje but the Wanningen’s had a bigger, newer house and agreed to hire a nanny for the first 2 years. But the twins spent a lot of time with both sets of grands.

Lena worked at the Dime store and cleaned a piano/music store in Sioux Center while living at home. She got married in 1941 when she was 38 (mom was a waitress at her wedding). Lena’s husband Steve owned a 2,800 acre ranch in Wyoming and only went to town for supplies every 3 months. He sold the ranch after they had been married a couple of years and he and Lena moved to Ireton where he did carpenter work. He was building a house when a gust of wind pushed him in between 2 rafters and he was paralyzed from the waist down. They moved back to Sioux Center where Steve started a business sharpening knives and saw blades. In 1959 after 18 years of marriage Steve passed away at age 64. They had no children.

Lena continued to live in Sioux Center in a small house close to downtown. I remember she had a beautiful antique oak kitchen cabinet filled to the brim with brightly colored Fiesta Ware, and a very fancy china closet. She died when she was 93 in 1997.

The only paternal aunt of mom’s was my grandpa Lakey’s sister. Jantje (Americanized Jenny) was 7 years older than her brother, born in 1889. She married Paul and was very ill (cancer) during her first pregnancy. She had a stillborn son, then she died the next day. Jenny and the baby were buried together. This was in 1918 so 8 years before mom and Floyd were even born.

When studying our family’s history you realize how fragile life is and how many times tragedy struck…

Mom was brought up in the church. She was raised by 2 sets of grandparents who were very religious. (One of her grandma’s peeled potatoes on Saturday for Sunday’s dinner) Dad went to the Methodist church sporadically when he was young. Kinda surprised for the first 10 years of their marriage my folks didn’t attend church-period. They joined Calvin Christian Reformed church when I was very young. My 2 sibs and I were baptized in that church in 1953 when I was 2-1/2, Larry was 7 and Mona was 10.

We were one of the few families from the congregation who didn’t attend Christian school in Rock Valley. I never asked mom why we went to public school. It might have been out of their budget to pay tuition for us. By the time I’d been in elementary school for a couple years, I had my own set of friends and would have balked at changing schools. Actually I did balk and begged my parents to switch churches when I was about 10. They did. I think the move was good for all of us. Dad was in the consistory several times, taught Sunday school and spoke at different prisons with a church group. He was very involved.

Both congregations offered similar studies for their children/youth, Sunday school, catechism classes, choir and when I was in junior high and high school, First Reformed had a huge youth group that met on Sunday nights. I wasn’t missing much, I got plenty of religion with summer camps, vacation Bible school and the rest of the Bible classes. It was during this period (I was 10) when all this churchy stuff filled my head and I was tempted to believe some things written in the Bible might have been exaggerated or embellished.

Really some of it is pretty far fetched. Lot’s wife turns into a pillar of salt, Moses parts the Red Sea, Jesus walks on water, 5 loaves and 2 fish feed a crowd of five thousand, Jonah lives inside a whale and is released whole and unharmed, Moses’ rod turned into a snake, manna falls from heaven to feed the masses, Jesus’ conception and Sarah gets pregnant at age 90, (not the miracle I’m looking for God).

But since it was in the Bible I believed it as gospel truth. If Jesus performed all these miracles was it too much to ask for a miracle of my own when I was a kid? I thought not. If He expected me to accept the Bible as written, to love with Him all my heart, accept Him as my Savior, I felt it was ok to request tangible evidence of Him being all-knowing and holy.

I realized He was busy with chaos in the world/sickness/wars/unbelievers and had a lot on His plate. I didn’t need my ‘proof’ to be a big burden. I didn’t even ask for a miracle. Not that my brother Larry be brought back to life, no riches beyond my wildest dreams, just simple proof and God was real and listened to me when I prayed at night before I went to sleep. Proving to this 10 year old that He really existed and heard my prayers.

Because it obviously wasn’t enough that God sent His son to save this sinner or that Jesus died on the cross. Believing He was the real deal was not enough for this decade old skeptic. He performed miracles before, I was just asking for one teensy miracle for proof positive that He existed for ME.

For several weeks during my 10th year I prayed fervently every night, asking God for one minuscule sign. “Please, please move my sock on the dresser. I’ll make it easy by placing it close to the edge, just ready to fall off. All you have to do is give it a tiny shove. Won’t take you more than a second. When I wake up in the morning and see my sock on the floor I will be faithful and never doubt you again. I promise.”

I thought God would be moved by my innocent sincerity. Impressed that someone so young was bargaining with Him and offering to become a better Christian. If I just got that one little favor. After awhile though, I realized God didn’t have to prove anything to me. He had already sacrificed His son. He didn’t need to give me proof. It really was the other way around. I needed to prove to God I was worthy of his sacrifice.

God be merciful to me, a sinner…

The year was 1970, the exact date I can no longer remember, but it was close to our first anniversary (September) and the weather was still good. Hubs was working at Channel 4. He worked a combination of days and nights, sometimes 8-5, other days, 4-10:30. His day shift included the noon news and making commercials. During the night shifts he directed the local news at 6 & 10. He liked doing the 2 nightly news shows but that meant us never having supper together. Since I hadn’t learned to cook yet, he wasn’t missing much.

I was pregnant (but cute pregnant). My second trimester with an undersized basketball protruding but not puffy, just a little belly. We had moved to Hinton, about 15 miles from Channel 4 and 45 miles from our hometown.

We sold John’s 1965 Impala, a cool car we hated giving up but, not-so-responsible Hubs had gotten too many speeding and reckless driving tickets and lost his license before we eloped. Sigh. No reason to make 2 car payments when we couldn’t afford one, so we kept my 1968 Mustang with its 80 dollars a month payments.

Two (and a 1/2) people, 2 jobs, one car, 1 driver. What a freaking mess. John was so close to getting his license back and I was just as close to maternity leave but those few months in between took a lot of maneuvering. (He actually drove a few times through this fiasco and we were lucky he was never caught without a license). Unless it was impossible, I drove him back and forth, sometimes dropping him off to work before 7 when I had to be in Morningside.

Hubs was working the late shift and needed to be picked up after 10:30 when Johnny Carson started. The engineer on duty would sign Channel 4 off the air with the national Anthem at midnight. I had gotten off work at 3, rushed home, changed clothes, grabbed my gift and zipped to Rock Valley for my friend’s wedding shower.

I didn’t have time to stop and see my folks or my in-laws while I was in Rock Valley but had a great time at the shower and was heading back to Sioux City, using Highways 18 and 75. The roads were 2 lane until I got past Le Mars, then 4 lane but not interstate. Not positive but I think the 4-lane was 65 mph back then. I had to slow down 45 then 35 through Merrill and Hinton. I didn’t want to be late and was making good time.

My infatuation with driving has been my steady companion since I became a teenager. The Mustang was a 3-speed on the floor and I loved driving it (although it was the biggest LEMON). The Mustang refused to start if the temperature was between 28-40 above, if the air was damp or if snow/rain was predicted within a hundred miles. The passenger seat broke every other week. Since it had more than 12,000 miles, nothing was covered under the warranty or ever recalled. But it was cute and fun to drive when it started (and my last Ford).

I was listening to the radio and getting back up to speed after going through Le Mars. Got about a half hour to get to Channel 4. These little Iowa towns are just far enough apart that once you’re up to speed, it’s time to slow down for another burg, this one was Merrill. Didn’t want to take a page from Hubs playbook on acquiring tickets (I did get one 30 years ago) so I start slowing down, finally downshifting to second. Not a lot of traffic after 10, but I’m not alone on the road either. Highway 75 always had traffic. There’s 2 lanes each way through town and I’m in the inside lane. I see the railroad tracks crossing all 4 lanes which means it’s back up to 45. I shifted back to 3rd when the car just ahead of me in the next lane slowed way down. I thought, what’s wrong with this guy?

I don’t know what made me take my foot off the accelerator, instinct I guess. I absolutely didn’t spot anything wrong or dangerous, but I hesitated, down shifted as he slowed and braked right along with him beside me, then came to a complete stop. I glanced at the guy to my right a second before a train just in front of the Mustang’s bumper roared past, rattling the car. My knees started shaking so bad I couldn’t let the clutch out or remember how to shift. The Mustang stalled and I just sat there. Frozen.

Had that car been a few feet behind me I never would have slowed down or stopped. To this day that’s as close to an accidental death as I’ve ever come. Pretty sure I would have lost my life and Shannon’s. I still think about that night during the fall of 1970. How many lives would have been changed or not occurred at all. Mom and dad would have lost their two youngest kids in accidents. My three children wouldn’t have been born. John would have been a widower at the age of 22. There but by the grace of God, go I…

I see significant differences between my kitchen and mom’s. Though not really just MY mom’s but most moms as I was growing up during the 50’s and 60’s. They did more with less. Mom never owned a matching set of pans. She had a tall white, chipped enamel stock pot she used for soups. If she were making pea or bean soup, she’d fill the pot with packed snow from the backyard, let it melt to use for soaking the dried navy beans/whole peas overnight. She used an oval blue & white speckled enamel roaster when she made a roast (almost every Sunday she didn’t work).

Her most frequently used was a heavy aluminum pan for spaghetti sauce, potatoes, fudge and penuche. I can’t ever remember that pan with 2 solid intact handles. They were stubby handles to begin with on each side but year after year chunks of the black Bakelite handles crumbled away. What was left years later were 2 long embedded, protruding screws on each side. Mom thought nothing of this and simply had a set of gnarly (but clean) potholders nearby when the pan needed to be lifted out of the oven or off the burner. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford to buy new pans, she never felt the need.

She never used a thermometer. Cakes were baked until a toothpick inserted near the center came out clean. She cooked with terms like, “bake in a moderate oven until done,” “simmer until noodles are done,” “soft ball stage, hard crack,” or “when dropped by a spoon leaves a long, thin thread.” After she’d beat eggs whites really stiff, she’d boil sugar, white Karo syrup and water together until the long thin thread appeared, then drizzle that boiling mixture ever-so-slowly into the egg whites until it “started to lose its sheen.” Add nutmeats (one of her favorite words) then started scooping out buttered teaspoons full of perfect Divinity onto her most frequently used kitchen helper, Waxtex wax paper. Followed closely by Reynolds Aluminum foil. (She never called it aluminum foil, it was tin foil).

I have a half dozen various thermometers, just got my 4th KitchenAid mixer, yet I’m unable to duplicate her Divinity or 7-minute frosting. Mom didn’t start buying Tupperware until the early 70’s, so growing up we had no sandwich keepers, insulated lunch bags with freezer packs, salad containers, leakproof lidded cups to transport fresh fruits or fruit cocktail, plastic leftover containers, air tight canister sets and no snack, sandwich, pint, quart or gallon sized ziplock bags. Wow.

Mom used wax paper for numerous duties. Dad’s black lunch pail was filled with semi-transparent waxed paper everyday. His American cheese sandwich was wrapped between 2 pieces of Hillbilly buttered bread. Folded like a gift package it sat in the fridge after supper until Mom packed his pail the following morning. He ate a banana every day so mom wrapped it in waxed paper too, twisting the ends leaving it on the table so it could be added in the morning. She thought this lessened the banana smell seeping into the rest of his meal. Epic fail. I bet dad’s coffee in his thermos tasted like bananas. As soon as she opened his lunch pail after work the whole kitchen smelled like banana. But he loved them.

Growing up my family ate supper together every night-at the same time. This ritual was non-negotiable, also including asking God to bless our food before, scripture reading and a closing prayer after. Dad was the only one who ever offered a valid excuse. He worked for the State Highway Commission and we lived in Iowa. Weather extremes. Hot humid summers when the highway would literally buckle up around supper time (the hottest time of day) and dad would get a call to fix the pavement before dark. Frigid below zero temps, massive snow storms accompanied by westerly gusts causing huge drifts. Dad would be plowing for hours between Rock Valley and the South Dakota line or to Sheldon and back.

When dad missed supper what did mom do with his meal? There were no fast food joints along the highway (and he’d never stop at a restaurant if he had to work on Sunday) so he’d be famished by the time he got home. Warming up his leftover meal was tricky. No quick zap in the microwave and who wanted to make more pans dirty after mom cleaned up the kitchen? Sometimes he’d give mom a call from the state shop if it wasn’t too late before he headed home so she could get a jump on his food.

After he missed supper, mom would make his meal in a glass pie plate. Maybe a pork chop, boiled potatoes which she forked kinda flat, then gravy and green beans or corn. (Mom and I ate cranberry sauce with every supper-dad did not partake in our cranberry obsession). She’d cover this plate with tin foil and set it in the fridge. If he called before he left the shop, she’d light the gas oven (with a match igniting the pilot light), set the temperature on low and pop his meal in to warm up.

Mom usually sat across from him while he ate to hear how bad the storm was or just catch up on the day. Besides he did this weird thing while he ate. He’d lift his index finger toward the cupboard if he needed something, never saying what he needed, like she was supposed to magically know. Used to drive mom crazy, yet she always got up for whatever was missing. Sometimes it would be butter. Mom bought butter by the pound not sticks, and would cut off about a fourth of it, place it on a small saucer and leave it in a cupboard because she hated trying to spread hard butter. Most often she had neglected to put the salt and pepper shakers on the table because she used neither. Think mom got him back when she gave him hard boiled eggs in his lunch pail. She’d actually sprinkle about 50 grains of salt, never pepper onto a piece of (you got it) waxed paper, roll it up like a hard piece of candy with twisted ends for his eggs. That wasn’t enough salt for one bite-hahaha.

I’m not a water drinker, never have been. But I know I’m supposed to drink water. Enter the lemon. I’ve discovered if I put a slice of lemon, add 40 ice cubes to a double wall insulated cup and fill it up with tap water I can gag down a couple glasses everyday. (Hubs says our tap water is good. I’ve got nothing to compare it to since I so rarely drink the stuff). So I buy 2 or 3 lemons at the store, rinse off one and slice it. Grab a ziplock baggie and throw the slices in it and stick it in the fridge. Lasts me about a week. This how mom would have preserved the lemon. She would have used a small, shallow dish to keep it in the fridge covered with waxed paper folded under the bowl. (She never liked Saran Wrap).

When she baked a cake, she’d stick about 20 toothpicks down in the cake, just past the frosting, then cover it with waxed paper (of course). She’d been a wealthy woman had she invested in wax paper stock after she got married…

She’s been in my house (team) and under my care (ownership) since 2006. I crowned her ‘The Divine Miss M’ (here on out-TDMM) after my neighbor and friend Mildred. I should be an expert on her care, but I’m still clueless about her basic needs. The worst part, it’s not easy to spot when something’s amiss until it’s almost too late to resuscitate her (BS-blown save). I act like a rookie and she’s a seasoned veteran, obviously way out of my league. I’ve SOS (struck out swinging). Twice.

TDMM’s beginning (rookie season) goes way back. As far as I can remember, Mildred acquired her (before the trade deadline) during the 1930’s (Babe Ruth was still hitting homers) from a relative out east. TDMM spent winters (off season) in the picture window of Mildred’s family room and summers on a semi-covered patio (increasing her BA-batting average). She thrived at Mildred’s (friendly confines) for decades.

After Mildred passed away, (promoted to the front office) her daughter offered me the Christmas cactus. She wasn’t much to look at really. Hopelessly root bound and leaning awkwardly over the side of her clay pot. Looked like she was inching way too far off the bag and trying to snag a (SB-stolen base). TDMM was one of several keepsakes I brought home that day including a blown glass water pitcher, tea pot, Mildred’s wedding dress (uniform) and a small gorgeous watercolor. It never occurred to me keeping TDMM alive (in play) would cause me such angst. I was struggling. I blame my thumbs. Neither are green.

Her exaggerated curvy bend made me twitchy so I bought a new pot, soil and set her in planter ramrod straight (worked on her stance). That’s better. She agreed her hip no longer hurt and came off the DL (disabled list). She was healthy for several years, increasing her BA (batting average). I never knew there are several varieties of Christmas cacti and each type blooms at different times during the year. TDMM usually blooms between Halloween & Thanksgiving, takes the winter off, blooms again around Easter (spring training). She can be quite a show off (hotdog).

There were no plants in my house growing up. Mom and dad had a garden and for a spell mom was fascinated with growing and showing flowers like canna’s, zinnias, tulips, marigolds, bleeding hearts, tiger lilies, peony bushes, gladiolus and chrysanthemums. Mom arranged the flowers on long needle like spikes with some kind of putty (spit ball-illegal) stuck on the bottom of the planter. After she’d entered her creations in flower shows they’d sit on the dining room table (batter’s box) for a couple days until something new bloomed. But I can’t ever remember having house plants.

Since I had zero experience growing indoor plants it’s not surprising that I killed (sent down to the minors) a boatload over the years, but eventually found a couple varieties that prospered in my house (long home stand). For some reason African Violets do well and Mildred’s Christmas Cactus (double play). I snipped off some of TDMM’s long shoots and stuck them in new soil. After a couple years I had started a dozen new baby cacti (farm club) and gave them to everyone I knew, whether they asked for one or not.

When we sold our house in 2015, we moved 150 miles east and in with Shannon’s family for 6 weeks while we cleaned, painted, bought new flooring, appliances and hired a contractor for a bathroom remodel for the house we’d just bought. I moved several African violets and TDMM and set them on Shannon’s covered patio. Truth is the plants were ignored for a few weeks, even after we moved to our new house (ballpark). By the time I noticed how sickly TDMM was it was almost too late.

I was shocked to find my cactus swimming in water (rain delay) when I hadn’t given her any. My friend Marlys told me she was drowning and rotting under the soil. The best thing to do was snip off several nice green shoots and replant them in new soil which I did. It took her a few months on the IR (injured reserve) but TDMM started blooming again late in 2016. You wouldn’t think I’d make the same mistake again but sure enough I did. My ERA (earned run average) was rising faster than inflation.

Last winter we went to Alabama for 2 months. I moved all my plants to the south windows and had a neighbor come over as my DH (designated hitter) once a week to water. (She’s an amazing plant person and has a garden to die for every summer). I guess I wasn’t specific about the small amount of water TDMM needed-then compounded the problem by not paying close attention after I got home. I moved her back to her usual spot (in the pitching rotation) and after a couple weeks realized she wasn’t doing well. Sure enough there was standing water in the planter (back to the DL-disabled list).

I had a hard time finding succulent soil (the pandemic was going crazy with weird shortages so ordered it from Amazon). Cut off 25- 4” shoots, emptied the planter, filled the bottom with rocks and new soil and hoped for the best. I had enough of TDMM’s thriving offspring (RBI’s-runs batted in) with friends and family so I wasn’t concerned about losing my link from Mildred, but how could I be so negligent to nearly lose the mother plant-twice? (down in the count 0-2)

I replanted TDMM about a year ago and it looks as though she’s finally forgiven me for multiple errors. Again. I noticed a few buds in February, several more every few days. I counted 75 buds/blooms with 5 double buds which are pretty rare since she’s been on my team. I’m grateful TDMM’s giving me another chance. I worry because she indicated it’s 3 strikes and I’m out…

Mom and dad had a mishmash of furniture in their bedroom, not really a nice matching suite, so dad painted the headboards, nightstand and dresser white. The piece that remained unpainted was a high dresser from the 40’s and sat by the closet door, right next to a window. The dresser had large drawers and most of them were designated to the memory of my brother. In October of 1958, 12 year old Larry was hit by a car riding bike to our grandparent’s house. I was 7-1/2 and Mona was 15 at the time. Didn’t realize what a huge, lifelong toll this loss would be for the rest of us.

The snoopy kid (me) used to look through those ‘Larry’ drawers every so often after he died. There were several scrap books filled with sympathy cards and newspaper articles about his accident, plus the Sunday church bulletin from Calvin Christian Reformed church (printed a few hours after his death the day before) and the bulletin from his funeral. Many of these cards had heartfelt handwritten notes, poems, Bible verses and tracks about coping with a loss, faith and trusting God. There were tons of them. Mom occasionally paged through those scrapbooks, crying while reading the cards and letters, but for me they were kinda depressing to reread.

I loved looking at Larry’s things that mom decided to keep. The things she and dad chose were different than what reminded me of Larry, but then I was only 7. All of his marbles sat in a large tin can in the deepest drawer. Larry and his friends spent hours on our pea gravel driveway shooting marbles. His large baseball card collection took up a lot of space, stack upon stack held together with rubber bands. After a few years neither the cards or marbles were in the drawers anymore. I assumed mom and dad gave them to his friends or maybe Mona’s boys. I never asked about them.

After mom passed away in 2004, dad decided to move to Michigan so we went through everything before putting the house on the market. Mom saved/stored a lot since the move to our 15th Street house in 1955 (not just Larry’s stuff). A big job and not something we wanted to rush. There were reasons for the bit of hoarding mom did, she was very sentimental. (I found a dress from my home economics class, which was a joke. I couldn’t sew, my teacher, Miss Weiner ended up sewing 90% of the summer shift. Mom saved it nonetheless).

What dad didn’t want to move we divided up or donated. I fretted about Larry’s stuff thinking this would be a bone of contention, but Mona wanted none of Larry’s things so it all came home with me. Not that there was a lot from a 12 year old boy, but nothing that belonged to Larry got tossed. His baseball glove (he was a southpaw so wore a right handed glove) and pop gun remained in the drawer from 1958 until I brought them to my house.

The few pieces of clothes I have that were his are a puzzle too. His swimming trunks are size 14 so I assume they were from his last summer on earth in 1958. But they’re minuscule. I know basketball and swimming trunks were much shorter than shorts today, but they’re very small. Several years ago I brought Larry’s swimming trunks along when we were taking care of our grandson. Graham was about 6 at the time and the trunks fit him perfect. Were kids that much smaller during the 1950’s?

Larry’s leftover, nearly new jeans don’t have a size on them that I can find, (they don’t have that tiny red Levi tag on them either), but the jeans look very small to me. No patches on the knees, no grass stains or faded from our wringer washer/clothesline. I can’t remember how tall Larry was when he died but the inseam of his jeans are long. Not really surprising, mom and dad were both about 6 feet. Or maybe that was when everyone wore their jeans with big cuffs. His faded brown and white shirt is a size 12 and looks like it was a favorite he wore often. I looked through my Larry pictures but haven’t found one of him wearing this particular shirt though.

On that fateful Saturday morning, I noticed him riding ‘my’ bike down the driveway and ran outside to confront him. By the time I got outside, he was going past the old Methodist Church at the end of our block. He yelled back he was borrowing my bike because he needed the basket and would give me a dime when he got home, but I don’t remember what he was wearing.

I never questioned mom about what or why she chose certain things to save from Larry’s life and now it’s too late to ask her, but I’ve always been curious (and possessive) about his things. Anyone who remembers Larry’s childhood usually mentions his Schwinn bike, his love for sports, baseball jacket and cap. Since his jacket and baseball cap were his absolute favorites and were not part his keepsakes, leads me to assume he was wearing both of them on that beautiful (horrific) Saturday morning in October…

We all have songs/smells/pictures/trinkets from our past that remind us of something significant. It might bring a smile to your face, make you laugh outright or well up with tears in your eyes and your throat feels so tight you can’t swallow or talk for a minute. Memories from ‘way back.’ These memories are important and sometimes easier to recall than what you ate for lunch yesterday.

The more I age there’s less about my life that’s focused on my hometown. I haven’t called Rock Valley (or even Iowa) my home for a very long time. That bothers me. I never imagined living outside of my native state, yet in one year I will have lived in Michigan as long as I lived in Iowa. Hurts my heart.

But why? Certainly isn’t climate. Michigan’s is similar to Iowa’s and I don’t care for either. Not a big family pull anymore, all of our immediate family are within an hour of us. Gotta believe it’s those ‘reminders’ I’m getting which are often triggered and makes me homesick for my little One-stoplight town (which is no longer little and now boasts 4 traffic lights. How is that even possible?)

I get my hometown fix when I blog about Rock Valley or growing up there. It starts with a memory I write about, but it’s the comment threads afterwards that get my juices flowing. Someone will mention a place, event or mundane chunk from everyday life and it’s off to the races. One comment leads to another and suddenly I’m homesick. Most memories involving the 2 planets that revolved around my small universe, school and church. (BB-before boys) All common denominators if you grew up in Rock Valley during the 50’s and 60’s.

Dad moved to Michigan 6 months after mom passed away in 2004 when he was 88. To help keep him in touch, we subscribed to the weekly paper, the Rock Valley Bee. The Bee came to my house, then I’d bring it to dad’s apartment. Some weeks he’d talk about the articles (mostly obituaries) for days, staying connected. He’d reminisce about the person, recalling times they went to the Sioux City Gospel mission together or preaching (Dad was a devoted lay minister) at a South Dakota prison with a group from church.

Before mom died, there had been no need for Rock Valley’s newspaper. Mom was the talking paper! In our phone conversations every few days, she’d let me know what was going on in school, who had died, sometimes even the meat specials at Van’s or Koster’s Market. After dad passed away in 2008, I realized I needed to keep getting the Bee or lose more reminders of my hometown.

When I was a kid we lived 2 blocks from school so I didn’t eat hot lunch everyday. If mom had a day off or when she came home from work during lunch, I usually did too. Tuna salad or leftover homemade soup from last night’s supper were our mainstays. I ate lunch at school whenever they offered cinnamon rolls. I think cinnamon rolls were always coupled with chili, (not my favorite but it didn’t matter because there were cinnamon rolls)! My other favorite hot lunch was turkey dinner feast. But for the most part I ate lunch at home.

The small town of Rock Valley had some of their own quirks. It was a mostly Dutch community so Dutch slang was rampant. (We didn’t realize it at the time, it was just the way we talked). Once some of us moved away from northwest Iowa and folks in other parts of Iowa asked, “what the heck is a ploujes?” (Plu-shee, a piece of lint or fuzzy from a sock on the floor or your clothes. Hut-fa-duttie-means oh-my-goodness).

Imagine my surprise when perusing the Bee a dozen years ago when I spotted the weekly menus from our local schools. Pretty sure I cried. I don’t know if this started as a Dutch thing or a northwest Iowa custom but people from Davenport had never heard of a Tavern. (Their definition was a bar or pub). A Tavern is NOT a sloppy joe or a loose meat so don’t confuse them. Taverns probably started as a way to stretch hamburger for a growing family. I still make them for supper, especially if I have a bowl of potato salad in the fridge. Browned ground beef and onion, drained, add a titch of brown sugar and squirt of yellow mustard, plus enough Heinz ketchup to kinda hold it together, served on a hamburger bun. I couldn’t believe Taverns are still a staple for lunch in school.

Cream chicken was another meal made at home and served at school. Diced or shredded chicken mixed with a white sauce (I’ve never mastered white sauce-guess I’m ‘chicken’ and afraid of failure, so I cheat and use Cream of Chicken soup with a bit of chicken broth, salt & pepper). Served hot on buns, it was always featured at-wait for it-Church Soup Suppers.

Soup Suppers were immensely popular when I was a kid. An event for raising money for different ladies’ aid groups from our church. My mom contributed numerous pots of soup for the cause back in the day. I believe the ladies all used the same basic recipe for each variety served. Mom used rice in Chicken soup and Vegetable Beef, but I prefer barley (sorry mom). The other two choices were Chili and Pea Soup. Pea soup seems like an unusual choice-maybe it was a Dutch thing). I know whenever mom made Pea Soup she’d soak the peas overnight in a big white enamel (chipped) pot of melted snow she’d collected from the backyard. And she never, ever used split peas, always whole dried peas. She added a ham bone (with plenty of ham still attached) or several pork hocks. Diced an onion early on and for the last 20-30 minutes, a couple of diced potatoes, sometimes adding tiny diced carrots for color.

But church soup suppers were more than money makers for the women’s mission project. They never a set price for the meal but suggested a free will offering. (God gave us free will for everything, even soup suppers). It was a social event held midweek and most of the congregation showed up since it lasted 2-3 hours, even the farmers could come after chores. So you had your choice of at least 4 soups with a Cream Chicken bun or Tavern, and lots of choices for dessert including homemade pies (we had some amazing cooks)! While I was eating at a table with my friends, you’d hear laughter coming from the ladies working in the kitchen. This wasn’t a somber affair like serving lunch after a funeral. These ladies were having a good time and you witnessed how much they enjoyed each other’s company.

The last soup supper I went to at First Reformed Church in Rock Valley was during the late 1960’s. Imagine my surprise when I opened my last Rock Valley Bee. First Reformed is still holding Soup Suppers. Same 4 soup choices, same 2 accompanying sandwiches, still boasting homemade pies and your free will offering of paying a buck or $10. for the meal God has blessed for you. Does my heart good. Sometimes it’s the little things that produce the best memories…

It took fifty years for others to recognize I was onto something. Had I been blogging after a couple years of marriage, say in 1972, millions of dollars and thousands of marriages might have been saved. I’d probably been famous, the author of many self-help books (the genre I NEVER read). But no one took my advice. That all changed with Covid.

To be honest it wasn’t something we really planned, it just sorta happened. Hubs and I had been dating off and on for years. My parents were not receptive towards John. (He was a Methodist-gasp). After a lengthy breakup, we started talking again. The old fashioned way by landline phone. This time I was gonna be strong and not let my parents dictate/influence my (our) future.

Without much fanfare we just decided to go ahead and do it. We took exactly one person we knew (and trusted) into our confidence and one person we’d never laid eyes on before (because we needed two). We eloped (on a Monday night at 7 p.m in Elk Point, SD. It was a done deal by 7:04) in front of 3 people (the friend, the stranger and the judge-although the judge was unknown to us too). We took the friend and stranger out for supper, (the judge declined our offer, thank heavens, we were nearly out of money before we left on our extended 2-DAY honeymoon). The friend and stranger drove back to Sioux City and the Hubs (first time I could legally call him that) and I headed for Sioux Falls.

That was 52-1/2 years go. Our frugal, no hassle achievement didn’t hit me right away but after a few years of marriage I surmised, that’s the way to get married. Why spend thousands on an event, a dress, music, food and an expensive honeymoon? Just pick a day, grab a couple witnesses (might be better if you know them both) jog to the courthouse (we had a flat tire on the day we filed for our marriage license and made the deadline before the courthouse closed by 10 minutes), say your I do’s and save all that money and stress. BTW, about half of the US marriages end in divorce. Crazy and kind of a downer! Why start it off in debt to boot? If your parents want to do something special for you, use the money saved from an extravagant wedding for a down payment on a house or pay cash for a car! Is that not a much better way to spend a few thousand? Yes siree.

Since then I’ve told everyone who’d listen my thoughts on lavish weddings. A huge waste of money. Too much stress and anxiety for a one day affair. Having a big wedding does not guarantee your marriage is going to be successful. If couples put as much effort into their first 2-5 years of marriage as they do pulling off their extravagant, expensive wedding day, the divorce rate would plummet. Truth right there.

I read an article in the paper recently how Covid has changed the way couple’s approach getting hitched. When the pandemic hit and the earth stood still (only 2 weeks to flatten the curve) couples with wedding plans were in a bind. Churches, courthouses, reception halls were all shuttered. Postponements and rescheduling were a hassle because after 2 weeks, 2 months or 2 years of delays, life was still not back to ‘normal.’ Most new plans had to be rescheduled again & again and couples were weary of not having a firm plan in place. Whatever the reason of starting a life and family together, there must be a less hectic way to get hitched.

Some new wedding day concepts/notions (my idea actually. Guess I was an ‘influencer’ before there was such a word) were hatched during this 2 year slowdown. As couples sought out new dates to reschedule they found the waiting list for churches and reception halls booked 2 to 3 years in advance. Couples were discouraged trying to reschedule their lives to fit everyone else’s. Instead they discovered different ways to celebrate their actual wedding with friends and family. They were weary of putting their wedded bliss on hold indefinitely, so they started improvising.

Why not get married on a weekday with 40 close friends and relatives in attendance instead of 200? (I’m still a firm believer in a simple elopement). A pretty cake, some appetizers, champagne to share with those you love and support you as a couple. Maybe at a resort, park, private room at your favorite pub or in someone’s home. Take the rest of the week off for a short honeymoon and call it good. Start your marriage off without a boatload of debt. Sounds good doesn’t it?

Little did I realize I was a pioneering ‘influencer’ before it became a thing. Well to be a bonafide influencer, you have to be followed by thousands, but besides that, I could have been a contender! I might have been famous without even trying, 50 years after I first endorsed eloping as a cost savings, practical approach to a successful, debt free marriage. (The debt came after we said I do). I also have some sound advice on becoming parents if and when you choose and the need arises. Three words. Space your children. (Unless your biological clock alarm’s going off)…

I’m not much of a ‘group’ person. As a hearing impaired loner, large groups make me twitchy. But I wasn’t always like this. As a teen I did my best to fit in. Our town was small and a bit isolated (meaning you didn’t get by with much). Often my parents knew my transgressions before I walked in (past curfew) because someone (an adult) had already witnessed and snitched on me. Sigh.

Several years ago a special group was formed on Facebook. Everyone who joined had grown up in Rock Valley, Iowa (with the exception of Alma but we love her anyway). Some recently, but most of us experienced our childhood and teenage years during the 50’s, 60’s & 70’s. For the first few months as our numbers swelled from 30 to 100, (now it’s over 1,000, but posts are few and far between) people started random conversations about school, best friends, parents, tragedies, oddities, teachers, churches, keggers, sand pits, swimming hole, dump, stores on Main Street, parties, restaurants, bowling alley, good parking spots, bank, movie theater, piles of snow in the middle of the street, sledding, winters that lasted forever, shopping in Sioux Falls, a cow who was set for slaughter but narrowly escaped death, and some noteworthy pranks.

We weren’t bad kids but easily bored, (there wasn’t much to do) and that’s when trouble started. I’ve owned up to my misdemeanors when I began blogging in 2014 (how is that even possible? I’ve written nonsense for nearly 8 years!). Certainly the statute of limitations had run out, right?

As small as our town was back then, there were pranks pulled that somehow remained mysterious or unknown to the masses. This one was a doozy. It was vaguely mentioned on ‘If you grew up in Rock Valley’ site awhile back but happened over 50 years ago. No one was hurt and no drinking had taken place. I wasn’t involved. I swear.

One night during the summer of ‘67 or ‘68, ‘The 3 Stooges,’ (3 bored teenage boys looking for some excitement in Rock Valley) were down at “The Cue.” This was a teen hangout underneath our grocery store where kids played pool, Foosball and drank pop. (Not soda) One of the policemen’s kids came down and during a casual conversation with The 3 Stooges might have mentioned every local cop was in Sioux Falls (45 miles away) for a conference that night. The main drag of our quaint town had one solitary stoplight (which always tugged at my heartstrings so I named my blog after it). The officer ‘on duty’ often parked by said traffic light, facing east with a good view of north/south traffic. The boys walked upstairs and sure enough, one of the cop’s car was just sitting there, 1/4 block away. How much fun would it be to stuff a potato in his tailpipe?

But wait! The car doors were open! The steering wheel wasn’t locked. (Why I oughta). One of the three-some suggested, “Let’s hide the cop’s car,” so they pushed it in an alley, then snickered their way back to The Cue. “But the alley’s the first place they’re gonna look. Where can we stash this car for a awhile?” Suddenly, Moe remembers an abandoned grainery 6 miles southeast of town. “Let’s push it out there! It will take them days to find it.” Moe gets behind the wheel, Curly calls ‘shotgun’ and Larry uses his car to push the other 2 yahoos out of town in the cop’s car.

Being subtle had not yet been introduced into the 3 Stooge’s language skills or behavior patterns. They tried but could not resist. So there they were, 2 in the cop’s car, lights flashing, (no sirens, thank heavens) being pushed east down 14th Street. Right past the mayor’s house who happened to be looking out the window. (You knuckleheads) The mayor eventually pursued. But the 3 mischief maker’s took no notice and proceeded out of town.

They got a couple miles out of town when they spied headlights in their rear view. Larry suffered a moment of lucidity (or panic), concluding it was not the right time to get caught, swung his car out from pushing and sped off. Consequently the cop’s car immediately slowed to a crawl with the mayor in hot pursuit, pulling alongside with his passenger screaming, “pull over, pull over!” Moe suddenly shoves the car into park. He and Curly fall, trip, slide down a deep ditch into a corn field. Two more sets of headlights soon stop, get out (with tracking dogs. Just kidding) and the heat is on. Had it been August with Iowa’s corn stalks higher than Curly & Moe, escaping would have been easier, but it was July and the corn was only knee-high so they crawled through the fields. The 2 made their way back to town, found Larry, had a good laugh and went their separate ways. (Nyut, Nyut, Nyut).

A couple days later Moe, Curly and Larry thought the incident was all but forgotten, but they’d been ratted out. The passenger in the mayor’s car most likely. The local Justice of the Peace hauled them into court, which was held at night (everyone worked during the day) to a packed house with overflow folks on the sidewalk. The Stooge’s had no lawyer and were questioned by the judge. “Why didn’t you stop?” “We didn’t know it was the mayor.” “Then why did you finally stop?” “Cause Larry stopped pushing us,” which produced a big laugh for everyone but the judge. (Oh, a wise guy!) The judge then accused them of being guilty and not admitting it. Court was adjourned for the night.

The boys figured this could be more serious than they initially thought. Finally, using the brains God gave them, stopped to seek advice from an attorney. When the barrister heard what happened ‘in court,’ he kept shaking his head and saying, “judge, judge, judge.” He then got a change of venue for the boys to another town.

While realizing this was a fairly serious offense, the judge wasn’t out to ruin 3 young men’s lives over pushing a cop’s car around for a few minutes. Grand theft auto would have resulted in felony charges and possibly jail time. (“Nyaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh-ah-ah”) Instead the judge offered, ‘tampering with an emergency vehicle,’ a Misdemeanor which all 3 gladly accepted. And a $100. fine for EACH of the goofballs (which was significant, gotta hit them where it hurts). It was a teaching moment and lessons were learned on both sides.

1. Never have a time when no policeman is on duty. 2. Never leave a police car unattended or unlocked. (Poifect)

Oh, I almost forgot. Whatever became of that hefty $300. dollar fine? Well the town of Rock Valley bought new Christmas decorations up and down Main Street, compliments of the 3 Stooges that year. They were gorgeous and flashy. A little reminder every Advent season when Curly’s family drove through town his mom would exclaim, “we paid for these decorations!” Low enough so mom couldn’t distinguish what he was mumbling, Curly muttered, (“It soitenly was fun though.”)…