Early March, 2008. Dad had just celebrated his 91st birthday and was living in Village at the Oaks for the past several months. The changes were subtle, but I noticed them. His prison ministry, the-most-important-thing-in-his-life, along with preaching at the Rescue Mission and his bible study at the nursing home took on a different meaning. He was desperately hanging on to the things that had meant so much to him during the last 40 years, but his enthusiasm was waning. At times lately, he seemed overwhelmed with his responsibilities.

Last Christmas with Dad, 2007. Just before his 91st. birthday…

Still, I wanted these decisions to be made on HIS terms. I was still catching flack about him losing his license. His not driving was driving me nuts. No, he shouldn’t have been driving, but it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t even around when the cops told him he was done. But I was his only sounding board, thus got an earful on occasion. Anyway, I was picking him up for his nursing home gig. He was unusually somber. He looked straight ahead and ventured, “I don’t think I can do this anymore. Would you talk to Julie for me and explain?” Julie was the activity director at the nursing home. She thought the world of him, and he liked her a lot. I said sure, drove over there, leaving him in the car and told Julie Dad would no longer be holding the bible study. She understood. Went back to the car, assured Dad Julie was grateful for the time he had given them and his job was always open for him. We went back to the Village. Something was different, just couldn’t put my finger on it yet. I asked him if he wanted me to talk to Chaplain Burrel at the prison? Did he want to keep going for his weekly bible study? Yes he wanted to keep the bible study, but going to the Rescue Mission one night a month to preach was too much. Fine Dad, I’ll call and let them know. He wasn’t very excited about going out at night anymore.

Mom and Dad, Rock Valley, Iowa circa 1992…

Next time I saw him, he said his throat was scratchy, and he had a runny nose. “Should I make an appointment for you with Dr. Anderson?” “No, I don’t think so” he replied, “I just need to lay-low for a couple days.” (One of his favorite quips, makes me smile when I think of him saying it). I went to the drug store, got some cold tablets, cough drops and Kleenex. After I left his apartment, went down to the nurse’s desk and asked them to check on him a couple times a day. After 3 or 4 days he seemed quite a bit better. I got a call though a couple nights later from the nurse. She was concerned. Dad wasn’t breathing right and she could hear a rattle in his chest. Asked her to call 911 and I’d meet the ambulance at the hospital. This was a Wednesday night.

After a few hours in the ER, they decided to admit him. They were pretty sure he had pneumonia. He was in good spirits, flirting with the nurses and doctors. Didn’t grill anyone if they were a born-again Christian, what church they belonged to, or if they were positive they were heaven bound. I spent a good share of the night and next day at the hospital with him. He didn’t have much of an appetite, partly due to the strong antibiotics he was on. But he seemed to be holding his own. Had a couple visitors from his church and I’m pretty sure my preacher/boss came to see him too.

Dad and his sister Lizzy. Mid-1940’s…

On Friday I noticed a big change. There was a big orange sign on the door to his room, which I failed to read as I sailed in. Dad was sitting up, but looking outside. He was on the third floor, so his view was actually the roof of another wing of the hospital. He could see some trees tops though. His roommate was gone. Not just gone to have a test or procedure, but bed, nightstand, everything was gone. Odd. I went back to his door and read the orange sign. Something like, please wear gloves, don’t touch anything, don’t get too close if patient is coughing or sneezing. What? Told Dad I was going to talk to a nurse. He was still watching some mind-video I wasn’t privy to out the window. I marched up to the nurse’s desk and asked, “what’s going on with Rich Gerritson? I’m his daughter.” The desk person said she would have the doctor come talk to me in a minute. I walk back to Dad’s room. “Hey Dad, what ‘cha see out there?” “The sales barn, and some kids playing behind it,” he said quietly. Oh boy. “The Rock Valley Sales Barn?” “Yes,” he answered, still looking intently out the window.

A handsome young doctor walks in, nods at me, walks over to Dad. Checks his pulse, listens to his lungs, asks how he’s feeling? Dad says not too bad. Doc motions for me to come out in the hall. There’s been a disturbing development in Dad’s health. He now has a MRSA infection to add to the pneumonia. A form of staph infection, resistant to antibiotics, commonly acquired in hospitals, and nursing homes. Easily susceptible to older folks when their immune system is compromised. Dad had blocked carotid arteries, CLL, the most common form of leukemia in older people, and congestive heart failure. I knew dad was frail and failing, but truly thought this was just another bump in the road. The doctor had great empathy. Said as gently as he could, “Denise your dad cannot recover from this. He has way too many things going against him. The only thing keeping him alive are the massive, strong doses of antibiotics. If it’s ok with you, I’m going to send in a social worker and one of our Hospice nurses to talk to you and your dad. I’m so sorry.” I knew it was coming, but still it hit me so hard.

Dad and Larry, 1950…

I don’t know how much Dad really understood while they were giving us our options. He was obviously hallucinating, and was having some tremors. They calmly and simply explained maybe it would be better if Dad went to another place to stay, Harbor Hospice, called Poppen House. There would be no more needle pricks, antibiotics or tests. Dad finally tore his gaze away from the scene through the window, looked at me, seeking guidance, “what do you think Denise?” I told him it was a brand new, beautiful place, nice big rooms, and I had visited folks there many times. He said that sounded fine.

Larry 6, Neese 18 mo. Dad 35, Mona 9…

The plan was to keep him in the hospital over the weekend, move him to Hospice on Monday. Shannon, Tracey and the kids spent the weekend with us and at the hospital. Josh and Adam were coming on Monday. Dad was pretty good. Enjoyed seeing the great-grandkids. Ariana was 17, Landon was 7, Peyton almost 4. Monday at the hospital it was just Dad and me. He hadn’t eaten for a couple days. They had left a piece of pie from his lunch tray. Suddenly he noticed it and asked, “you think I could have that pie?” “Sure, Dad. How about a cup of coffee with it?” “Yes, that sounds good. Do you think they have any ice cream around here?” I hustled out to the desk with his request. Soon he was eating his favorite dessert. I’m so glad I was there to talk and watch him eat. It was the last time, though I didn’t realize it then.

There was a heavy downpour of rain on Monday when they transported him to Hospice. He thought his room was wonderful. John and Dad watched the Tigers spring training baseball game that night. The Hospice doctor asked me to stop at Dad’s apartment on Tuesday morning before I came and pick up his medications. We left about 10. Dad was tired but still watching TV. He was unconscious by the next morning. Without the aid of strong antibiotics, there was just no fight left in him. He was ready. Ready to meet his Lord, see Larry after losing him 50 years before, plus Mom, his brothers and sisters, and his folks. It would be Wednesday night before God took him home. So painful to watch. His breathing was just horrible. Almost no air getting through his lungs. Part of me just begged him to please start breathing right, while part of me pleaded, dear God don’t make him take another breath. And the breaths were so far apart. We thought he was gone, 45 seconds later, another loud, excruciating breath. Hard, so hard. Until he moved to Michigan, I never considered Dad and I anything more than just being related by a fluke. But in his 3 plus years here, even though we had some tough moments, I’m so glad he was here with me. And I discovered how much I loved my Dad…

Dad and me, summer of 1953…

Canning. One of my favorite hobbies. It’s the steps and the process I enjoy. Maybe I get that from my Dad. The odd step builder. Buying the fruits or veggies, getting out my jars, lids, rings, canner. Repetition. Hearing a jar lid pop puts a goofy smile on my face. I’m so proud of myself when I’m done, sometimes I leave the jars set on the counter for a couple days. Little soldiers in neat rows, wiped clean, all labeled. More likely than not though, it’s just my way of avoiding finding a semi-permanent home to store them.

Strawberry jam. Storage is a huge issue…

I’m giddy with anticipation as I drive to our fabulous Farmer’s Market. I’ve got the fruit and vegetable seasons down pat. Usually pretty darn close when I head to the market, what I’m looking to buy. Our market is big enough that I can shop around. I’m not above mentioning that it’s 1:30 on Thursday, how many more customers are they going to get, willing to buy a bushel of cucumbers or beets when it’s 85 degrees? Sometimes they give me a deal. If they do, the next time I’m at the Market, I bring them back a jar of their produce, canned by me. Gets ’em every time. They remember.

It began shortly after we moved to Michigan in 1987. I became infatuated with the idea of canning. I don’t remember my mom ever canning. My mother-in-law Mag did, but not anymore when this strange idea hit me. I know it was pickled beets and bread and butter pickles that got me started. Mom and I both loved beets, but store bought ones are just kinda blah. Diane, my first, oldest, and dearest friend since moving to Michigan introduced me to all the great fruits and vegetables this state had to offer. She’d haul me around and soon I was picking blueberries, strawberries, peaches, and apples. Diane had canned bread and butter pickles for years so I started helping her every summer before we moved to North Muskegon. Then I started doing it on my own. It’s her fantastic Bread & Butter Pickle recipe that I use. I’d like to think everyone loves them. Guess if someone hated them it would be really gauche to call me up and say, “Denise your pickles really suck!” Still pretty sure they are universally loved. Am I humble about my canning? No. Thinking about it, I’m pretty sure it’s Diane I should thank (or curse) for this kinky obsession. As Sonny & Cher used to croon, The “beet” goes on.

Ten years ago I started keeping a journal on my canning exploits. What vendor I bought from, quantity and what I paid. How many jars total, how long it took. When it became, ah, something more than a hobby, I started dreading the end of canning season. By November I was in a funk. Then I got the bright idea to freeze a few bags of smashed fruit. When I was in the throes of withdrawal, say mid-January, I could get my canning fix. Tis a sad life I lead. The upside, when we were having a truly-miserable-whiteout-blizzard, the kind where I can’t see the city across the lake, I’d can jam the whole day. Felt and smelled like July in the house. “Pump up the jam!”

Several years ago my canning peaked at about 1400 jars a year. Yikes! Sick! Holy moly! We’re 2 people in this house. Donated a couple hundred jars each year for United Methodist Women. They sell them on Sunday morning after church, then donate the money for mission work. Made a hundred Christmas baskets, using about 600 jars to give away, bringing the total down to a more manageable 600 jars. Still a lot to give away and use. After retiring, I knew I needed to make some adjustments to my “canning issues,” but it’s a learning process, and at times painful. When I’m at the market I have every intention of buying a half bushel of beets. How many pickled beets can I eat? Still I want to give some away, so usually when I leave the market it’s with a bushel, not a half. Happy-disturbed-sigh.

Hot, very hot, pickled asparagus…

When I started getting better and more confident, I tried canning new things. John likes hot-pickled asparagus, me not so much. But I like canning it. Only 2 things I can, the asparagus and pickled dilly green beans stand up straight in the jars. Looks so stinking cute. Soon I was ready to venture into canning meat. Had to have a pressure cooker and although I don’t use it very often, the results are worth it. Canned beef tastes like tender pot roast. I usually make it with tiny redskins and fresh green beans, then thicken the leftover meat juices. Yum. I’ve made boatloads of spaghetti sauce for 40 years and froze it until I got the guts to can it. Time consuming though. All the flavors just meld together better when it’s canned. Thank heavens I only do it once a year, cause it takes me 2 days. Start off with lean ground beef browned, cans of Hunts tomato sauce, (deal-breaker) onions, celery, mushrooms and spices. Divide all this up in thirds, cause it’s a lot, simmer for a couple hours, then jar it up and put in the pressure cooker for 90 min. Family favorite. My youngest son Adam is head chef at a fancy restaurant in Ann Arbor. Guess what he requests for supper when he comes home? My spaghetti sauce. Is it that good? Heck no, he’s just been eating it for 30 years. But it is good. Very good. How about The Black Eyed Peas, “Meat me halfway!”

Here’s a perfect example of how I get side-tracked with this obsessive hobby of mine. I was zipping through Meijer’s. Great chain of stores, think Walmart size-wise, throughout Michigan, Ohio and Indiana. Big fat blackberries were on sale. Buy 10 half pints for a buck a piece, get the 11th one free. My plan was to buy 40, get 4 free and make half into jam, half into seedless jelly. I’m down to one jar of seedless jelly and a couple jars of jam which has been giving me heart palpitations. Waltzing through the (massive) produce section, I stop dead in my tracks. Red Raspberries right in front of me-2 half pint boxes for a dollar. Yes, you read that right-2 for a buck. Never been priced that low. Mouth goes dry, the palpitations are back, my breathing shallow. You would think there should be more pleasure involved when this happens to me!

This fragile fruit is usually priced about 3 bucks a pop. Ok, calm down, stop and think. I already have a couple dozen jars of raspberry jam at home. Geez, I need to lay down for a couple minutes (pant-pant). How do I justify buying un-needed raspberries when I came for, and desperately need blackberries? Where are those darn things anyway? Cautiously I leave sacred raspberry territory, scared they might disappear if I take my eyes off them for 1 second. Light-headed and feeling faint I’m distracted when one eye catches bags of cranberries sitting on a shelf. Hard not to notice with the Angels trumpeting and bright star above them. There is NO WAY I can face another miserable Michigan winter if I don’t have plenty of my all time favorite meal accompaniment. Cranberry Sauce. Last year I paid 13 dollars for 6 pounds, this year the same amount is 20 bucks. So not fair! But hey, they’re on sale today-16 bucks. Gotta have them so I grab 8 bags.

My usual give away basket of canned goods…

Now, where was I and why was I here ? Oh yeah, blackberries. None spotted with these naked, ok bespeckled eyes. Scout around and spot the produce guy, but my mind and eyes keep wandering back to those stinking red raspberries. “Sorry lady, we’re out of blackberries until the truck comes tomorrow.” Yes God, it’s a sign! I will be strong. I no longer feed the masses or I’d buy 100 boxes. Honest. I’m-really-trying-here. I-promise-I’ll-only-make-a-couple-batches-of-seedless-red-raspberry-jelly-for-something-different. Not everyone tolerates all those seeds well. The produce guy suddenly struts over, makes me put back the blanket, pillow and pacifier in their respective departments and gives me a 10 second ultimatum. I need to decide how many packages of raspberries I want and leave his department. Now. Heartbroken, like I’m letting all the rest of the little raspberries down, I buy just 2 itty-bitty cases-24 boxes. A joke really. Pitiful sigh. Such a waste when I should be taking a truckload home. Produce guy pushes MY cart to a checkout lane, glances back a couple seconds later to make sure I’ve not strayed into his little domain again, and gives me kind of a dirty look. Huh, he’s looking pretty smug. Just wait dude. My blackberries are coming in tomorrow. Terminator Denise gives him a fierce, frosty “I’ll be back” look that makes him cringe a bit, plus wipes that smug look right off his face. That’s better. Yup, I still got it. I happily head out the door with my piddly-little-bit-of-stuff-today. The truly tortured life of a home canner…

Home canned beef, Redskins, green beans and my must have-cranberry sauce…

The title is deceiving. This is mostly about one of my dearest friends. Her real name’s Mary Ellen, but that was just way too much name for her in my book. I nicknamed her “Fred” soon after we met.

The year was about 1981. We were living in the Quad-cities, consisting of Davenport and Bettendorf on the Iowa side. Across the Mississippi in Illinois were Rock Island and Moline. We were in eastern Iowa again, 5 years later, about 60 miles south of Cascade, my-life-on-the-farm story. A much bigger city than anywhere we had lived so far in our 12 years of marriage. John worked for J.I. Case in Rock Island, but we lived in Davenport, the largest of the Quads. For the first year we rented a small house. Very small. We were 2 parents, with 3 wild, loud, rambunctious kids in that minuscule house. Shannon 10, had a itsy-bitsy room that was actually a sun porch off the dining room, which wasn’t any bigger. Josh 6, and Adam 2-1/2 shared a room with bunk beds, right next to our master, which barely held our queen-size. Didn’t realize it then, but renting that house would still have an impact on my life 30 years later. Shannon and Josh were in school, so during the day it was just Adam and me. (Josh and Adam, showing off muscles in their famous tough-he-man-Storm-Troopers-Underoos in that tiny dining room.)

Bored, homesick and lonely, I bravely gathered up Adam and drug him to a nearby bowling alley, 30 Lanes one morning. This wasn’t a normal league. Four mornings a week they had 30 teams of 4 gals each. They were cutthroat competitive, but it was more of a practice league. You paid for your bowling but there was no prize money at the end of the year. This was in the middle of bowling season, so I wasn’t very hopeful. I walked up to the front desk, and quietly asked the lady behind the counter, name-tagged Doris, if there were any openings for a bowler? She swiped up her microphone, and loudly ventured, “Anyone need a sub? This girl wants to bowl!” Geez, I was mortified but a couple hands went up. She told me to pick one, and where to take Adam for daycare. That scary day for me started some of the most treasured friendships I’ve not experienced since. Hooked up with several gals who would leave an imprint on me, plus a few others who would play minor roles in my life.

First and foremost Mary Ellen, who I discovered lived but one block from me. She was 18 years my senior, we seemed like complete opposites, but a special friendship had sprouted. One of her team members had broken her leg, (sorry, but thanks God), so I was asked to sub for several weeks. Idle chit-chat during bowling told me something odd about this loose (not morally) group of women after a few weeks. They had been bowling on the same leagues for years, but did nothing else together. There were about 10 of us who gravitated towards each other. I invited the group over for lunch after bowling one day. To that tiny house that was way too small for any entertaining. We bowled at 9, got done about 11. I had a bowl of potato salad, baked ham and German chocolate cake.

These women had so much in common, kids going to same schools, some had even lived near each another when growing up, but would only casually talk to each other on bowling mornings. Probably big city life, but it just blew my mind. From that first luncheon sprang regular pot lucks, secret sister gifting, state bowling tournaments in different cities each year. All of us crowding into 2 rooms for a weekend of eating out, lousy bowling, playing cards, staying up late. Good times. The most important thing I contributed to the group that clicked with us was playing euchre. They loved to play cards, and had never heard of double deck euchre. Of the 10, about 6 of us would become obsessed with that card game. Four of us would meet every couple weeks, starting right after supper. Playing cards til the wee hours. We would rotate homes, make a gooey dessert, have some assorted Brach’s chocolates, pop, and we were good-to-go. The bid is 5 spades. Umm, I’ll say 6 hearts.

About a year later, we found a house to buy. Big older stucco with lots of room for this loud, crazy bunch. Maybe 4 miles from our little rental, different schools for the kids, older neighborhood. But the friendships were established. Besides we all lived in Davenport, just not next to each other.

Mary Ellen knew the city of Davenport inside and out. She was a garage sale freak. I was an antique nut. She would find a new interest in antiques, me in going to sales with her. Some of my most prized antiques come from the Davenport area. My 7-foot antique oak bed, a small single door oak wardrobe that had 100 stickers plastered to it when I bought it for 15 bucks. She would pour over the Quad-City Times, starting on Wednesday. In her neat, small cursive script, would list the garage sales for the next day. She would number them, so there was a route by neighborhood, and times. We even got into a couple spats over the years while going to garage sales together. Her daughter Laurie had just graduated from college and gotten a job in Chicago. Mary Ellen was always on the look-out to help furnish Laurie’s apartment. Once I spotted a really cute antique oak night stand, no price. Asked about it. Wife shouts to hubby in the house, “Marv is that piece for sale with the flower pots on top?” Marv yells back, “sure, how about 15 bucks?” I offer 12, she said ok, (without consulting Marv). I piped in, “great, sold!” Mary Ellen was quite mad at me for buying it. Since she was looking for Laurie, that somehow trumped me finding a good deal. You see that huge house I was now trying to fill. I was supposed to give her first dibs on anything remotely cute or antique, that might look good in Laurie’s place. Sorry friend, not in this lifetime. She got over it. Still love that little night stand. Too cute.

Thee-biggest-die-hard-Cub-fan-EVER. Only way to describe Mary Ellen. One set of her grandparents had lived near Wrigley Field when she was a child. She spent a lot of time with them during the summers, going to the afternoon games, (until 1988 would there be no lights for the hapless Cubbies-actually it’s still lights out for those perennial lovable losers) already keeping a scorecard in second grade. She invited me to take a bus trip to a Cubs game. I really had no interest. Josh had barely started T-ball. (Wait until you read the story on that little escapade). I went anyway. Cubs vs. Cards, major rivalry for decades, who knew? Ok, so after a few games I was hooked. Geez, I even kept scorecards on both boy’s little league games. But we didn’t take the bus anymore. Mary Ellen couldn’t stay awake driving from home from the grocery store, so I did all the driving (remember my 14-year-old-car-theft-felony-story? Still love to drive). We’d stay a couple days in Laurie’s apartment. We usually had something to do for the apartment, painting etc, but got free lodging, plus we went to 2 or 3 games before we headed back home. We went to the Cub’s Winter Caravan tour every year. Still have a baseball autographed with Ryne Sanberg, Keith Moreland, Larry Bowa, Fergie Jenkins and Scott Sanderson. Circa about 1985.

One of my favorite pieces from the Quad-Cities is a gorgeous oval oak library table. Two dudes had their yearly sale and loaded it in my truck. By the time I drove home, it was raining hard and the table was soaked. I tried unloading this mother by myself. As I eased the heavy, wet slippery piece down from the truck bed, one of the legs clipped the curb. The table bounced back up and hit me in the chin. Then it smacked the curb again, breaking off the leg. By that time I was so stinking mad I could have picked it up with one finger and heaved it across the Mississippi. John ended up repairing the leg and my big bruise lasted about 2 weeks. No hard feelings, love that table.

Another collection Fred would get me hooked on was a local icon artist from the Quad-cities named Isabel Bloom. She had her studio a few blocks away. Nestled between the mighty Mississippi and our new (old) home in a quaint little section of the Quad-Cities called The Village of East Davenport. She had discovered a way to create sculpture pottery using Mississippi mud. After it was fired, she would coat this greenish cement with a white-wash, wipe it off, then add a bronze hue. She had started this art form in the late ’50’s, after training with Grant Wood. By the time I moved there in the ’80’s she was very popular. Mary Ellen had several of Isabel’s large statues. Many of the statutes were either kids, angels, animals, and snowmen. I would be content with a couple small pieces for many years. It was always a great gift idea in our secret sister group.

Mary Ellen was really gifted in her handiwork. She could knit and crochet just about anything, plus her cross stitch projects were just beautiful. She made me several ornaments, but one was just a little more special. I think it was attached to a gift one year. It was cute, a knit mouse sticking out of a stocking but didn’t reach such a high status until she made this simple statement, “that mouse in the stocking was so much work and way too hard. I’ll never knit another one.” That bumped it up a notch. (One of my all-time favorite ornaments. A tiny stocking with the little grey mouse. Thanks Mary Ellen!)

There was only one thing Fred was addicted to more than her love of the the Cubs. Smoking. Hooked for over 60 years, she had a raspy voice, bad lungs and circulation. After we moved to Michigan in the late ’80’s, we continued our long-distance friendship. I’d stop for a day or 2 to play cards on the way to see my folks. We’d go to a couple days worth of garage sales, and have a potluck with the group over the next 25 years. We talked often on the phone, and wrote letters. I actually quit smoking on her birthday, May 5, 1990. She would never be able to master that feat. She passed away from COPD in January of 2013, at the age of 79.

A couple weeks later I contacted Laurie asking if there would be a sale? I had given Fred a few gifts, and wanted to buy a couple of her things if the family hadn’t claimed them. Fred’s family decided to have an auction. Late February in Iowa, well you can imagine the weather. We made it, the roads were bad. Mary Ellen’s stuff was combined with a couple other folks belonging’s. But there on a small flatbed were 2 of her large Isabel Bloom’s. Leaned into John and whispered, “I don’t care if it’s my last dollar, I will not leave here without at least one of them.” Got them both. Little guy with the snowball is of course named “Fred.” Mary Ellen would be happy they are now living with me…

First time I saw him, he was headed down the side aisle at church. Sat about the same place every week. He was tall, debonair, with snow white hair and beautiful blue eyes. After the service he would regularly pick up women (literally, not like in a bar) off their feet and swing them around. Geez, he had to be about 90! He was strong, fit and a lady’s man. One Sunday the children of the church were performing a skit. They had asked him to be Goliath, letting David plunk him on th head with his itty-bitty slingshot. He obliged, liked the attention. They had the good sense to have a couple adults nearby to catch him when he fell. Quite a guy.

Francis (Rube) celebrating a birthday well into his 90’s…

His name was Francis. He had been a widower for nearly a decade when I got to know him. An avid gardener, he had gorgeous flower beds. In his 90’s, he still insisted on digging up his tulip bulbs every fall. He told me many times he’d get down on the ground to work, then wasn’t able to get back up. Someone walking or driving by would notice him flat on the ground, stop by to help him up and visit for awhile. He kept a shovel nearby that was older than him and sometimes used it to help “walk” him back to a standing position. After that old shovel handle tore up his arm, leaving nasty slivers a couple times, he decided to either sit on a chair or ask for help. He convinced me one spring to plant his annuals. I had asked a friend to help. (Should have said no, I’ve never been a flower girl, or enjoyed digging in the dirt) We were almost done when he wandered outside, holding a yardstick and some string. We hadn’t measured the distance between plants, or made sure the rows were perfectly straight! (You’re kidding right Francis? No, he was serious) We had to take them out and plant them all over. Never offered again, he never asked. He had friends who were master gardeners.

He had 2 daughters, Jane and Cynthia, both living around Chicago, about 175 miles away. They came often to visit and help. They were attentive, but he was about the most independent man I’ve ever known. They would drive him to Chicago a couple weeks before Christmas. After the holidays, he’d catch a plane to spend the worst months of Michigan’s winter in Arizona. I’d watch his house, water his plants, make sure no pipes froze or broke. His cleaning lady called me one day when he was out west in a panic. She heard a noise when she was down the basement, got scared and ran out of the house. Thanks. Me, a major keppi-strunt, exploring weird noises in the basement of an empty house was not my strong suit. Heck, I changed TV channels if a door creaked in a Hallmark commercial. I drove over and cautiously crept down the stairs. There was an artificial tree at the foot of the stairs. As I was walking past a black squirrel jumped out in front of me, clawed his way up the drapes in the next room. Scared me to death! I hiked up the steps, making sure to close the door tight, and called John, the fix-it-guy. After we located and borrowed a live trap, it was just a matter of time before the squirrel was lured by my tasty tidbit inside. John and I evicted him for not paying rent. Man that little squirrel was ticked, hissing and snarling. Sounded like he weighed 40 pounds and was gonna take a hunk out of both of us.

Francis had gone to Western Michigan University on a baseball scholarship, graduating in 1933. Really.

Francis at 17 pitching for North Muskegon H.S. (my youngest played there, too)

My Rube signed with the St. Louis Cardinals, but an arm injury ended his professional career. He did play for a South Carolina semi-pro team for awile.

 

 

Francis at 28

 

He once found himself pitching to Shoeless Joe Jackson, who was almost 50 by then. I kid you not. Francis said the fans were screaming at him to let Joe get a hit. Shoeless did win that match-up, but Rube always thought he could have struck him out. ESPN interviewed Francis a few years ago because he was the only pitcher still alive who had pitched to Shoeless Joe.

He belonged to the same Methodist Church for 88 years. Joined when he was 9. During that long tenure, he had some not-so-great preachers, yet he stuck it out, waiting and hoping the next guy would be better. Meanwhile, I skipped around, no patience once they had “done me wrong.” One day the minister’s wife called me. Said that Francis’ daughters were concerned about him. He had just finished rehab on a knee replacement at the spry age of 90+. It was harder for him to get around, and he wasn’t eating right. Asked if I’d be interested in making him some meals? I talked to one of his girls. Told her I’d be happy to bring him food-when I cooked. I didn’t want to have to cook a meal for him if we were going out for supper, or going to be gone for a couple days. Ended up being about 3 times a week. He was demanding. “Denise, don’t come when Peter Jennings is on. (Seriously?) Either come before or after. And not during Lawrence Welk reruns on Saturday night. (My stars, he was serious!) He sounded gruff, but after a short time we became good friends. He was old school-meat and potatoes. Little bit chauvinistic and stubborn beyond belief. Discovered when I arrived with his supper, set up his tray, (he refused to sit at his nice dining room table, preferring his chair), and got him a glass of milk, the time I spent sitting in a chair next to him talking (listening mostly) for 20 minutes was just as or more important than the food I brought. In the beginning this just wasn’t working. I thought I could cook the meal, run and drop off his food, go home and eat with John. But I ALWAYS took too long at Francis’ house. Meanwhile our food got cold, John was hungry. Since Francis wasn’t fussy about his meal time (except-for-his-strange-explicit-rules), it worked better if I made him a plate, but John and I ate first. I’d let the dishes soak, then head to Francis’ house. We got into a routine and it worked for both of us.

Rube met a large group of friends for coffee 6 days a week for over 50 years. Imagine, that’s a golden wedding anniversary. Unfortunately for Francis, after 50 years he had lost most of his coffee group. One day he said, “I used to enjoy watching the Lions play on Sunday.” (a pain many in this state must endure year after year. Kind of like being a Cub’s fan). “Monday morning, during coffee we’d hash over every play of the game. Now the only left beside me having coffee is Marie, and she doesn’t even watch football. Why don’t you join us for coffee sometime?” So I did. For about 5 years. After my Dad moved here, he joined too, and became a good friend of Francis. Dad was 8 years younger, and since Francis was slowing down, Dad would stop and buy 2 fish dinners on Wednesday nights, bring them to his house and they’d have supper together.

Francis started a special ministry of his own in the early ’60’s that would continue for over 40 years. He bought bolts of wool material and made 100 blankets for the needy each Christmas. Divided them up between a couple churches and agencies. He did this in his garage on a sewing machine that was older than him. When it broke, (often) he’d had John come over to get that antique (sewing machine, not Francis) going again. Most of the bolts were not particularly pretty colors or patterns, more like seconds, rather plain and functional. One night though I stopped by with his supper, and there on my chair was a gorgeous 100% wool red and black plaid blanket. He had thought of me when a “special” bolt had arrived at his door. Taking the time to make me a pretty blanket. Thanks Francis.

Francis, now in his upper 90’s was slowing down. He needed much more than just my suppers and visiting a half hour 3 nights a week. Jane and Cindy hired help so he could stay in his lovely lake home. While neither Shoeless Joe or Rube made it to Baseball’s Hall of Fame, Francis was voted unanimously into the most important “Heaven’s Hall of Fame” on December 9th, 2006. His achey, crooked middle finger on his pitching hand hurting no more….

I met them in 2004. They had stopped coming to church, but Charlie was still driving, doing their banking, getting groceries, taking Opal out to eat and to her hair appointments. Charlie was 96 at the time, his blushing bride of 76 plus years was 94. They got married in January of 1928, months before the devastating stock market crash. They were delightful to visit, but quite reserved. I could tell they had gone through something very painful. But it would take months before they trusted me enough to reveal their hurt parts. Coincidently, they were born the same years as my in-laws. Charlie and Jim were born in 1907, Opal and Mag in 1910. But John’s parents passed away in ’87 and ’94. Charlie and Opal were still going strong. Each would easily pass the century mark. Opal’s 100th birthday party in June of 2010. Charlie was 102 in this picture.

The first big story Charlie shared was that his great-uncle had been the 14th president of the United States. Franklin Pierce. Wow. Charlie was a wonderful storyteller and good with details. His memory was phenomenal. A real history buff. But most of what I learned from and about him was–life he had experienced. His grandmother had been a fur trader and the first woman to open a trading post in Michigan. He was more proud of her than the great-uncle-president-part. After awhile Opal would start rolling her eyes when he began rambling through yet another tale. Had to feel for the woman though. If I’d heard the stories 20 times, she’d heard them 10 times that during their three-quarter’s of a century together.

Opal was still a petite blond (with some help). Her health was pretty good. She had suffered through a horrific case of shingles years before which had settled on her face. The rest of her life she suffered debilitating nerve pain through her right eye. Probably the reason she no longer drove. She was a gifted organist and piano player, had taught lessons for many years, and belonged to the Organ Guild. She looked like a small child sitting on her huge organ bench in her house. She needed to be encouraged, but once she found her rhythm, it was a joy to hear her play. She was a great baker and made plates of Christmas goodies, gifting me (and here I was bringing them food) for a couple years before she started getting forgetful.

Charlie was famous for his peanuts. He kept a cooker in the basement and EVERY time for the first 5 years I was over for a visit, he would head to the basement to fix me a container of freshly cooked, salted peanuts. When I walked into weekly staff meetings, their first question was, did you see Charlie and Opal this week? I always brought some of Charlie’s famous peanuts to share.

They met as teenagers. Charlie was at a friends house, when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a beautiful platinum blond walking through the hallway. When re-living this bit of their history, Charlie grabbed Opal’s hand, his chin quivered and he’d said reverently, “I thought she was the most beautiful angel I had ever seen. I knew right then and there she was the girl for me.” Opal smiled shyly, patted his hand and quipped, “say what you want Charlie. It’s not going to help you out tonight!” She had a wicked, risqué sense of humor that coursed through her, and if ANY innocent comment could be construed with a double entendre, she’d giggle helplessly for 10 minutes. Charlie was much more social, Opal more reserved (except-for-giggling-fits-over-hidden-meaning-dirty-jokes). Each year that passed I begged them to let me contact The Today Show, Good Morning America, or at least our local newspaper for recognition of yet another one of their milestone anniversaries. Charlie was always agreeable but Opal would say, “aw people don’t want to know that stuff about us.” She was very private.

We became fast friends. Had them over countless times for supper. They loved to play cards, always men against women. Gin rummy. He’d tell stories about Lake Michigan, Muskegon Lake, the Causeway between cities when under construction, hunting squirrels that Opal would can. Now that’s something I’ve never given any thought about trying to preserve!

Charlie got a job at Amazon Knitting Company after he finished 8th grade. He almost got fired the first day. The 5-story building was filled with huge knitting and sewing machines which employed over 500 people, mostly women. Charlie was hired as a sweeper. He wanted to show them how ambitious he was, so was sweeping with great enthusiasm and fervor. The fibers from all that yarn had been quietly piling up on the floor. Soon Charlie had yarn dust flying everywhere. It actually stopped several of the knitting lines because the dust entered the machines, halting production. Chastised, he soon learned how to carefully sweep the fibers and keep them from heading upward.

They had an only child, a son Charles Jr. nicknamed Buddy, who died at age 22 from a ruptured appendix in 1950. This was such a painful part of their lives, I just couldn’t ask any questions about him or his death.

Charlie had just traded his Caddy for a Lincoln. After a couple months he told John he hated the Lincoln. It was too big for the garage, and it was sporting several new dings to prove his point. He took the Lincoln in to trade and got another Caddy. A couple weeks later we stopped to pick them up for supper, (we always insisted on driving when we went anywhere with them, sorry Charlie) he was still moaning about his ordeal with the car dealer. The problem? He had planned on financing part of the car, and they told him he was too old for a loan! He needed to pay cash. He was 99 at the time. Hilarious. Paying for the car was not a hardship for him.

By this time he was facing some physical challenges. Walking wasn’t easy and he was losing strength in his legs. He asked John to get information on those elevator chairs you put on stairs to glide you up and down. John gave him the info, Charlie ordered 2 so he could still use the basement for his peanut frying hobby. Plus he had an office and his bedroom upstairs. Opal too was having some health issues. Her forgetfulness was getting worse. Then she fell in a parking lot suffering a couple of back compression fractures. Her spine just kind of collapsed on itself. She had surgery, needed some rehab. The place was nearby so Charlie could visit everyday. Later, he broke his shoulder slipping on the ice, trying to put his garbage container away. He never remembered anything after falling outside that frigid night. Told me countless times, in tears, it was God who picked him up, brought him back to the house, woke up Opal so she could call 911. He had seen God plain as day that night. I never questioned this because I believed him.

One day while I was visiting, Charlie showed me some papers. They were dated back as far as 1914. His school achievement certificates for perfect attendance. I told him if he ever wanted to part with any, I’d love to have one. “Please pick one, they’ll just get thrown out after I’m gone,” he assured me. I did, though not the oldest one. Took it immediately to Hobby Lobby to have it matted and framed. Hung it in our front hallway. A few weeks later when they came over for supper, I stopped him after he walked through the front door. Pointed to his framed attendance award and told him how proud I was to have it hanging in my house. He got out a hankie and just stared at it. Grabbed and patted my arm, sniffling said, “Denise, it’s me who’s honored by what you’ve done. Thank you.”

(Charlie’s framed certificate is packed away while we wait-slowly-for our house to sell. This is one of my brother Larry’s awards I just found, similar, but missing the Michigan state seal, and of course 40 years later).

Charlie & Opal, both in their upper ’90’s, standing in front of their fireplace. I have never met another couple before or since them more devoted to each other.

Not in a mushy way, but in a quiet, dignified, serene way. Made you feel warm and envious of what they had and shared. Although it was only 6 years, it was an honor to know and love them. Thanks God…

My continuing saga of being Parish Visitor (PV) for more than a decade in two churches. Best job I ever had. I have loved older people since I was very young. But this job managed to have me work for 4 horrible bosses in a row. All were ministers. What are the odds? I’m bitter, full of resentment, and know I need to move past my bad feelings towards them. I’d like to forgive them, and hope by writing the story it will be a therapeutic start. This dude, Two Fish (TF) is the hardest one to get past.

Exquisite house of God, but a political cesspool inside…

Deep breath. We were staying under the church’s radar. Not signing attendance sheets because we didn’t want cards or calls. A beautiful church, stately. In a terrible neighborhood. Dying downtown area, and rough. Thugs, drugs, & robberies. Hadn’t always been that way. Fifty years ago the size of the congregation was over 1600 members, and was considered a neighborhood church. As of 2012 weekly attendance hovered around 160. Ten percent of 50 years ago. This was not all the church’s fault or their location, but location was a biggie. I think religion as a whole had taken a big hit in the last 30 years. When I was a kid there were no ifs, ands or buts about going to church. You went to church EVERY Sunday morning. A different world then. Not as many women worked outside the home, so weekends were slower. There were no kids travel basketball, baseball, hockey or soccer leagues. Now moms are trying to squeeze all that, plus what needs to be done in 2 days, while putting in 40-60 hours a week outside the home. Then we played on Saturday while Mom cleaned the house and baked. Almost everyone in my town went to church on Sunday. Sometimes more than once a day.

Soon after joining this church, the preacher, TF sought me out. Asked me to apply for the PV position. I said no. The man currently doing the job was retiring because his wife needed care. TF inquired again. Said I’m not interested, sorry. Couple months later he called me to his office. Asked me to give careful prayer consideration and apply for the job. Ok God, I give up. This was my calling, I knew it. Filled out the application, had an interview with TF and Bob. Bob and his wife were responsible for the endowment that paid for this position. They started it with seed money years earlier after a terrible accident claimed the life of one parent, left the other one in bad shape. That parent had pretty much been forgotten by the church, so the fund was started. Requiring the church to hire a person just to visit folks who no longer attended regularly.

So I was never paid out of Sunday morning collections or pledges. This endowment, now humongous, also paid for any continuing education classes. Many were offered and I took a lot of them, learning all I could about dementia, Alzheimer’s, sundowners, medication issues. Classes on the caregivers, the spouses, relatives, grown children, who no longer went out for lunch, card clubs, the Y, even ignoring their own health by not going to the doctor or dentist because all they had time for was caring for their loved one. This job fit me to a T. Biggest problem I had was finding my way around town. I didn’t know where any of the facilities were, and home addresses were even worse. I hauled a map of the city with me for a year.

Many things were different than the “One Fish” church. (A post a few days ago, aptly titled, One Fish, yeah, I’m clever like that) The building was a city block long. The staff in this church was enormous. Over a dozen people sitting around the table at weekly staff meetings. Granted a couple positions were volunteer, still the church was not that much bigger in congregation size, but the budget was almost 3 times the size of our previous church. This 80 year old building was a pretty demanding mistress and required a lot of money for maintenance and upkeep. Had full time positions for the minister, office manager, choir director/organist, janitor, and chaplain. Part-timers were a couple of bookkeepers, youth director, maintenance man, children’s director, adult Sunday school director, and a cleaning crew from an agency to do odd jobs.

A few months after I was hired, TF fired the children’s director. Calmly walked into staff meeting, with his little catch phrase I would soon learn to detest, “with much prayer and discernment, blah, blah, blah.” The young gal, a member, whose mom had just passed away from an aggressive cancer, had also been a member. At the time, I thought it was really bad timing. He should have waited, or not fired her at all. We only had about a dozen children in the church, half of which tagged along with grandparents or great-grandparents.

Of the 4-lousy-minister-bosses though, TF was the ONLY one that visited my little people and enjoyed it. Often he would call with, “I’m leaving work at 3:30 on Wednesday. Who do you think I should see?” You have no idea how much older folks appreciate getting a surprise visit from the minister. Often made their year. Usually though, I had several on my list who had serious health concerns, upcoming surgeries or facing a move to independent or assisted living. He usually headed to see them.

TF hired a new children’s director out of the blue. We’ll call him Blue Boy, (BB). BB, new in town, had strolled into church one weekday with his wife because they admired the building’s architecture. Huh. After he was hired they moved into the church’s upstairs apartment. That would be part of his job, security at night and weekends. Wasn’t very long though before sparring between the 2 of them was noticeable during staff meetings. TF wanted BB to always base his Sunday children’s message on the scripture for that morning’s sermon. BB did not feel that necessary and did not abide. Then there was a big snafu with a huge outdoor free picnic to be held in our parking lot for anyone who wanted to come. A local celebrity, an elephant had been booked to be the star attraction, but hadn’t been confirmed months before. BB’s responsibility. Elephant would be a no show after we advertised it big time. Fired BB the next week.

Wasn’t easy getting them out of the apartment and BB had a lot of parental support from the church. TF took out a police restraining order on him from entering the building! Then contacted all the surrounding churches warning them about BB. Wow. District higher-ups came down hard of TF, made him rescind those false statements so BB would drop his threatened lawsuit. By now, I was very disillusioned with TF. Thought he had lost his marbles, and told him exactly that during staff meetings. Said he had lost all of his credibility, and to please stop shooting himself in the foot.

TF hired another full time children’s director. Wonderful young woman. Fired her 4 months later-at 10:30 pm while she was house-sitting a friend’s place out in the boonies. Crazy. He was off the reservation. Hauling the then 80 year old woman who was the chair of SPRC (staff parish relations committee). This title was a misnomer anyway. It was TF-parish relations, not staff.

Basically though, my little ministry went unchanged. I got new folks added to my list while sadly, others passed away. My job was kind of a constant. But the church was doing badly. Attendance was down, worse, the money coming in was WAY down. With a $100,000 shortfall looming, some big cuts were going to have to be made. Letter after letter had been sent out to the congregation, (a big turn-off) asking for more, more, more money. Things were dismal. TF announced in staff meeting that everyone was going to take a hit. We each needed to meet with him and the new SPRC Chair (young punk, hand picked by TF of course) in the next 2 days. Thought I’d probably have to take a 3-hour cut each week. But my salary wasn’t paid out of pledges or collection, so I wasn’t worried. Oh boy.

My 15 minute appointment started at 10:15. I walked in and sat down. SPRC guy did not say one word. TF started, “Denise you’re doing a great job, the people of the church love you, those you visit especially love you, but we’re eliminating your position. We’re giving your hours to the chaplain. Take a week to say your good-byes.” No prayers, hugs, certainly no remorse and I walked out the door. It was 10:18. Should have seen this one coming, but I didn’t. TF certainly couldn’t get rid of the chaplain, she made his job much easier, regularly doing sermons and funerals. Stunned and shocked, I sobbed all the way home. John took it harder than I did. Maybe even a tad vindictive. We both knew why I was let go. Criticizing TF-a lot. And I was very vocal about his bizarre behavior. A couple hours after I got home, the music director stopped by. He had heard early that morning what TF had planned for me. Music guy had gone to TF’s office and asked if he really realized what the ramifications would be if he let me go? TF had already decided it was worth it.

When I could think rationally again, the magnitude of what he had really done hit home. The 4-top full time positions at church were told they would be taking a 10% pay cut. TF, office manager, chaplain, and music director. All 4 had spouses who had great jobs. Of the spouses, one was a city employee, one worked for the church at the district level, one as chaplain at a hospital, one was a minister. I earned about $12,000. a year. My hubby, John had bought a small manufacturing plant 10 years before. He had been doing ok until the recession hit, and a huge contract he landed had been reneged. John had bought new equipment for the job, ready for a run-off, now not making any parts. This was about 3 months before my fateful firing. John closed the plant and filed business bankruptcy. If anyone can tell me this was the right Christian thing to do, I’m listening. It was spiteful, ruthless and hateful. Guess I haven’t moved past it yet. Nope.

But that is not the end of the story. Majority of church folks were outraged and demanded a detailed explanation on how letting me go, when my job was not part of the budget dilemma was going to help this church? Meanwhile the couple who started the endowment called and took me out to lunch. They brought the original paperwork of the requirements of the PV job. If the chaplain added my job to hers, she couldn’t be chaplain anymore. Since she took home more than 3 times what I made, that wouldn’t make her very happy. Endowment couple didn’t think TF had the right or grounds to fire me. “Hang in there Denise, this is not over.” Plus they had noticed discrepancies in the parish visitor fund. It was down, way down. They hired outside lawyers to help sort it out.

Usually 30 people show up for these meetings. This one had a hundred-mad-as-hell-folks. Very humbling. TF gave it a good fight. He had listed 7 points for various cuts, my position was one of them. Stressed strongly it was a package deal, all or nothing. Folks disagreed. Motioned and seconded to have my job elimination taken out. Still unclear was the endowment situation. Couldn’t keep paying me my usual rate until the fund again grew to a healthy sum, or soon it would be depleted. TF shouted from the microphone, “well Denise, how do you feel about having your wages cut in half?” JERK. To which I replied, “you had me down to zero, so half is better than nothing!” It was emphasized that we had to start adhering to the guidelines of the endowment. I would no longer be required to attend staff meetings or make the CD’s every week. A waste of my hours since I would be working less. Ok by me, I didn’t want to see him again, let alone be in the same room every week.

A lot of people were unhappy with him since that stunt. He had been there 9 years, 4 too many. Between 2005-2009 he had fired about 8 people. Soon, a petition was circulated to have him moved and signed by many members, yup, including me. Not all loved or supported this gesture either. The church was in a world of hurt. TF was replaced by an interim preacher, whom we were assured by our district superintendent was “trained to heal broken churches.” Oh my. He was HOPELESS. More on him later. I would stay another 5 years and 2-more-lousy-minister-bosses. My cross to bear. Beginning to think maybe they weren’t bad odds. Just a lot of lousy ministers…

Can you believe it? For a time this Rock Valley city slicker lived on a FARM. With 2 kids. And no car. Hubby was commuting daily to Cedar Rapids, about 40 miles away. Mid-70’s, John had finally escaped the clutches of the 5-whack-brothers in Dyersville. Neither of us felt like this was a permanent situation, so we resisted the urge to move again. Tough on John because his day was long. Commute wasn’t fun, even less when driving a junker that required constant attention to make that daily drive. But not exactly a picnic for me either. See above: 2 kids, no car and a driveway from hell.

Hanging out a load of wash. Even outside, they smelled of hogs…

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Almost spring when we moved in and the house came complete with their last Christmas tree. Or maybe it was from the year before. The trunk was still upright, but everyone of the 82,467 needles were snuggled deep into the carpet. Since Josh was of the age where eating anything off the floor was his favorite past time, my first job was staying a couple feet ahead of him. The closest town was Cascade, population 1700, about 15 minutes from New Vienna/Dyersville, my Catholic-ville story. Shannon was 5-1/2.

Our first and last time in 45 years of living on a farm. The house was set so far back, I couldn’t see the gravel road. The drive-way was gravel, dirt and large rocks. And long. Very long. The highlight of my day was walking Joshua in the stroller to get the mail. Wrote and received a lot of letters. I actually wore out a set of tires on that stroller, the drive-way was so bumpy. Think it might have been responsible for the loss of a few of Shannon’s baby teeth. Seems like I never had to give that last little tug. She’d step on a rock the wrong way, jarring her mouth, and another payment from the tooth fairy was in order. Many days Josh and I made that miserable trip twice, walking or bouncing along to meet Shannon when she got off the bus.

With so much time on my hands, I did hone some new exciting skills, finally. Cooking and baking. We did not buy a loaf of bread for over a year. I made home made bread, buns, cinnamon rolls twice a week. Baked something almost everyday. Learned to cook some decent suppers. The best thing though were the pies. The yard-grove had several apple trees, and I became a pretty good pie maker. Never did learn the name of that one specific tree, but they were still the best pie apples I’ve ever used. Green, tart, hard, but not a Granny Smith.The house was surrounded by crops. John was in hunting heaven. A mere 50 feet to all the pheasants he and our German Shorthair pointer, Anja could track, shoot and eat.

I was heading to the basement to get some meat out of the freezer. We had an old chest type from the Stone Age, but it kept all my newly found culinary masterpieces hard as a rock. My beautiful assorted fruit pies, numbering around 100, plus meats, and breads were swimming in a big pot of nasty smelling juices and blood. Couldn’t believe my eyes. My old freezer had taken it’s last gasp. No wait, much worse. It was unplugged. Why that stinking, miserable, mister-fix-it-hubby-of-mine had been down there a couple days before trying to improve his master-building skills. The whole basement had one outlet. John had been using power tools, thus had to unplug my freezer. Oh, there would be hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay. Slammed the lid shut and stomped upstairs crying at my huge loss. No way was I cleaning that up. The stuff was irreplaceable. We were through the fruit seasons, and we could barely afford to buy meat in the first place, let alone replace it. But for one blessed night while we lived there, not one solitary hog feeder lid was ever raised or clunked back down. While we slept soundly and noiselessly, the hogs feasted on the contents of my freezer. And I did not lift one finger to help, but sure fumed about it for awhile.

One of fondest memories about the farm was the yard. We had a nice yard and the kids and I were out there a lot. Little swimming pool kept them cool. We bought Joshua a little plastic lawn mower. He followed John around the yard every time he mowed.

We were attending a church in Cascade. The disco-era-church-going-kids.

We were renting a farm house from Bob. Strange dude trying to earn the title for: owner of the most farm land, most cattle, biggest dairy herd, most hogs while moving his family to squalor. I think he won that award. Our newly rented digs was the former home to Bob, wife Maryanne and their young daughter. A nice, sunny 2-story. But Bob needed to be closer to the milk cows, so he packed up his little family and moved to a horribly dilapidated house down the road a piece. (Yes I even picked up farm lingo) Which is why the nice farm house was available. Always felt sorry for Maryanne. Treated much worse than their hired man, who was treated badly she put in long days helping Bob with all kinds of back-breaking, unappreciated labor, all the while being belittled and criticized by “Bob the farmer.” I was watching them one day from the window when Maryanne got kicked by a cow hard enough to knock her to the ground. Bob sang out his sweet, melodious epitaphs for 10 minutes before she managed to get up. Let’s just say Bob and I would not have endured a very long-lasting relationship. There wouldn’t have been a need for birth control on his part, and he would have been known as “steer” throughout the farming community.

Cascade actually had its own public elementary school. Yay. One year old Joshua and mommy would be left to our own devices.

Farm also had lots of livestock. Some feeder cattle but mostly hogs. Long before hog or cattle confinements were popular, but might as well have been. The hog feeders were on the ground, with individual feeding stations. Kind of resembled a cut pie. With a top crust. They were wedged with a lid covering each pie-shape. The hog would stick his snout under the lip of the lid, lift it up, gorge and snort for awhile, then drop the lid back down with a clunk. Hundreds of hogs doing this night-and-fricking-day. Took us about a year to be able to sleep through this noise. (Where was my hearing loss when I really needed it?) One beautiful summer day, about 100 hogs got out of their pen and decided to root through my garden for a nice change of pace meal. My first and last attempt at growing my own stuff. Still think this is what turned me off from growing anything. But that’s why God made farmer’s markets.

Shannon riding her own tractor, 1976.,,

The next night John walked in the house from work with this bit-o-news: “Bob the farmer” had stopped him on the road home. Told him he was having 2 expert veterinarians from Iowa State come to the farm that night. Several of his hogs had dropped dead. The vets were coming to determine what had killed them. My heart just stopped. The hogs were kicking the bucket over my rotten food. (And the only good nights sleep in a year) I’d be arrested! I ran out to the pen hysterical. All the fat little farts were doing just fine. Hubs was yanking my chain. I’m still astounded he pulled that little stunt. He should have been filled with remorse, chagrined-not giving me a ration of shit.

Shannon was going to be in her first Christmas program. John was helping her memorize her lines. She had it down pat, but dad was worried about the volume. She was not comfortable in the decibel range he thought necessary so Josh and I could hear her in the back of the church. He constantly encouraged her to articulate, slowly and LOUDLY. Her part was a sing-songy lyric about advent. There is no possible way to write what she sounded like that night. My face still burns with embarrassment. Sorry Shannon, this was not your fault. I guess the best word describing it is crescendo. The line repeated several times was, “4 candles in a ring.” The “4 candles” part was perfect, nice and loud. The “in a ring” part broke the sound barrier, shattering a couple stained glass windows. Luckily these were on the sides, saving the kids, and us in the back. I was back there in case Josh got noisy. Fear not mommy, nothing could top our daughter’s solo. After a couple trips to the doctor for shattered ear drums for those sitting nearby, the whole congregation was ready to move on and tackle a new year. Good job daddy…

Shannon 6, Cascade, Iowa. 1977…

Gonna be upfront with you. I’ve got issues. I haul around this humongous set of luggage chuck full of guilt and regrets. I have some resentment. Better change some to a lot. About my parents, sister, my former bosses and the church. The Methodist Church. Haven’t been a Methodist very long. About 15 years and 4 ministers. My resentment shows up occasionally in my blogs. OK, need to change the occasionally to many. I realize this is unhealthy for me and I need to move on. But I’m quite famous for my grudges. Holding onto them for awhile. No, let’s forget awhile. We’ll go with years. I’ll stop now.

My first stint as Parish Visitor…

I’m not good at forgiveness either. I’m really not a good Christian. Not going to get me very far when I plead, “God don’t forget all those soups, canned goods, breads and pies I made and gave away.” No, good works are not going to get me past the pearly gates. Besides they weren’t even that good. Plus, this isn’t the way I want to be remembered. Since the blog is about me, if you find my trying to work through my issues distasteful, stop reading. I need to forgive some people from my past. Still detect a morsel of bitterness though. A work in progress.

In the past 20 years, I’ve had 5 bosses. One great McDonald’s owner-operator-and 4 preachers when I did my parish visiting stints in 2 churches. This is about preacher number 1. Really what are the chances of having 4 lousy ministers bosses in a row? Might be noticing a pattern here. Just saying.

We’ll call the first guy, “One Fish.” I have no respect for any of the 4, thus the blog. One Fish did have some good traits. He was the only one of the 4 who did not read his entire sermon. And his sermons were pretty good, until the political barracuda came out on the pulpit. Good job Denise, pointing out his redeeming qualities. On my way!

One Fish liked what I was doing. Just finishing up my Stephen Ministry training in his church. A 50-hour course in the art of listening. Tricky for a deaf person, but my hearing loss was not as bad 15 years ago. A one-on-one program connecting a Stephen Minister with a person from the congregation who is going through a traumatic time. Divorce, health issue, death, job loss. One Fish showed up at our class one night with a dilemma. The retired pastor he had hired years before for visiting was having serious health problems. One Fish (from now on being referred to as OF. I’m already tired of typing it). OF was asking for volunteers to take over visiting the elderly. My hand shot up before he finished the request. This congregation was a healthy mix of young families, empty nestors and elderly. After a few months he needed to hire someone permanently for the job. But not necessarily me. He wanted some pulpit help, an occasional sermon on Sunday and help with funerals, leaving me out. Tough job for 9 bucks an hour. OF gave up looking, and hired me, 20 hours a week. My visiting wasn’t limited to just the older folks though. I’d visit families with new babies, bringing them a meal (can’t forget all my good works God) and new people trying out the church.

When visiting, if I felt the person needed a deeper, spiritual conversation, I’d e-mail OF and request that he please stop by and see them. Several older gals had mentioned that OF never looked their way on Sunday mornings. One lady put it this way, “he’s been here for 9 years and doesn’t know my name.” Yikes. Not good. I needed to get him on board with these sometimes forgotten people. I e-mailed him (he was not a believer in staff meetings) asking if every other Sunday, could he spend 5-10 minutes speaking to those little folks who were already in their pews waiting for church to start? He e-mailed me a long letter on how busy he was trying to run a church of this size by himself. He couldn’t be distracted before, during or after the service. (Really, my little folks were not the movers and shakers. He didn’t want to say, “how are you?” cause he didn’t want to take the time to hear their answers.) I specifically asked him to visit a member in Hospice care while I was on vacation. He did not. When I reprimanded him (yeah, I can be kind of ballsy) he finally did go. But talked the whole time about his kid in college. Never asked the Hospice guy how he was doing, or his wife on how she was coping with it all.

An older member named Phylis lived near me. She had been a widow for several years. She had a son in town and a daughter about a hundred miles away. One Sunday during church it was announced that her son (in his 50’s) had fallen down the basement steps the night before and had died from the injuries. After church John and I went home, changed clothes and ate lunch. Told John I was going to see Phyl for a few minutes. She was home alone. Pretty sure she was in shock. We talked, cried and prayed. The next morning I headed for the disciple class taught by OF. After class I asked him how Phylis was doing? He hadn’t been there yet! They were playing phone tag. It must have been more important to be home that afternoon and night, then class the next day than to stop and see her. She was about a mile from him.

Each minister have their own gifts. I realize that. Of the 4, only 1 enjoyed visiting my little people. Some worked well with the youth, some at running the business end, others were great recruiters. But just because you might not enjoy part of the job, or find it immensely rewarding, doesn’t excuse you. This job involved more than preaching on Sunday. And I really didn’t ask any of them to step in very often. Truthfully, I can say about 95% of those I visited thought more of me than any of the 4 preachers-combined.

The day after all our lives changed on 9/11, I stopped at church to pray for the victims and their families. OF was headed for his office at the same time. As we were talking about the World Trade Center, he said he thought it was our fault. America was getting what we deserved. First time ever, I was speechless. He didn’t want to visit those I loved when asked, and thought the U.S. was at fault when terrorists bombed us. That Christmas Eve, his sermon was 3 love stories of the bible. Smack-dab in the middle, he said American guns were being used to kill Palestinians. Now where did that come from? Got nothing to do with the message. I went home and wrote him a scathing letter condemning his political views and statements from the pulpit. No one else got the chance to voice their opposing views up there. I was in church because I needed God’s word to help me get through the week, not OF’s personal agenda in favor of Arafat. The pulpit was not the right venue, and please keep his views to himself when he was up there.

They say the church is the people. I loved the people of the church. Ok, one cute story. Really not so cute, more of a blundering idiot on my part. I was visiting Marge. Really sharp lady, but eyes problems and walking issues. Getting ready to leave and said, “well I’m off. (most folks who know me are aware of this already) I still have to stop and see Bill and Amy.” Marge countered, “you visit them? I know them both well.” “Yes,” I continued, ” I love visiting them. Bill tells the best stories. I usually try and stop there last in the day cause I stay so long. They’re just about my favorites!” Silence. She nodded, smiled at me, and said quietly, “I hope someday I can be your last visit of the day.” Oh Denise.

Surprisingly they both fit quite nicely inside my big mouth…

Lately going to church was making me angry and depressed. When you’re filled with disgust watching the man up front, it’s time to worship God somewhere else. Heavy-hearted, I put in my notice. We started church shopping. I was gonna sit in a pew, get as much from the sermon as possible, walk out and not get involved again. Of course, that didn’t quite match up to the plans God had for me…

Mildred wasn’t on my “parish visitor list” yet. Close to 80, she was still driving. (part of the problem) But a recent car accident had put her there. I stopped to see how she was doing. She promptly lifted her blouse so I could marvel at the perfect outline of the steering-wheel-bruise on her chest. She was a retired teacher, widowed a few years before, no children. Had a cat named Charlie she had adopted from a friend who moved away.

Mildred, around 2005…

She was fiesty, stubborn, argumentative. A life long Lutheran who had left her church of 50 years in a huff, (her father had been the pastor there for over 30 years) and joined Central several years before. After 3 or 4 visits, Mildred had healed up and leased a new car. Whew, I breathed a sigh of relief. She was ornery. Joke was on me. God, always able to humble you when He thinks you need it, had other plans for me and Mildred for the next few years. She broke her ankle, back on my list. Then she broke her shoulder, falling down her slippery steps, which required surgery and a rehab stint. Back on my list. A second car accident would keep her home-bound, but she relied (demanded actually) on folks from Central to take her to book club, women’s circle and church services. Now she was on my list for better or worse.

Mildred joined Central after 50 yrs at Samuel Lutheran…

It started innocently enough. She had a prescription that needed to be picked up, and would I mind getting a few groceries? Well, it was close by so I took the list. Soon she would have a couple things she “desperately needed” every few days. I wouldn’t and couldn’t count these as parish visitor hours. She’d be the only one I’d see, taking up all my hours for the week. I really didn’t mind helping her. After talking to my PHD psychologist daughter Shannon (meaning she talked, I listened) who said I needed to establish some boundaries. I put on my suit of armor, light-saber-weapon in hand, and marched up her steps. (Costume was very heavy, my legs couldn’t bend, and I was really sweating, bad sign Mildred) 1. I can’t always come when you snap your fingers. 2. I will go to the store for you once a week, exception would be a new prescription. 3. You have to stop calling me all the time. That wasn’t so hard, but kind of scary. She agreed.

We kind of got in a rhythm. She’d have her list ready when I called. I’d pick up her groceries, pills, stamps and greeting cards-birthday-get well-sympathy, by the skid. She truly had an amazing card ministry going on. She sent out 200 Christmas cards each year. I don’t know 200 people. I now picked up cat food by the case and big bags of kitty litter. I took her to the doctor, dentist, and the beauty shop every 4 months for a haircut and perm. What’s with little old ladies and frizzy perms?

Mildred’s cat, Charlie, 2006…

She did find ways to keep herself occupied at home. She had written a couple books about Muskegon years before on Lakeside and Pinchtown. Her new mission was her family history. But it would be me finding a publisher, and making boo-koo trips to the post office to mail them.

I mailed 75 out to 50 different addresses, 2007…

She often asked for my advice which she RARELY took. Example: she had leased a new car months before, then wrecked it, losing her license. Now GM wanted the money to fulfill her lease obligation. I told her to just pay it. Nope, she had lawyers for that stuff. Months later she told me she had to pay off the lease, plus outrageous legal fees. Oh Mildred. This law firm also had power of attorney for her. I did my best to change her mind. Doris was a friend of hers and a wonderful Christian woman who would do what was best for her, but that was-a-no-go-either. Mildred’s lawyers would take care of everything. I did convince her to get an order from her doctor saying it was dangerous for her to go down the steps, trudge through the snow for the mail. Now the mailman brought it to her door (usually waiting for it with an outstretched arm).

Mildred’s L O N G history, 401 heavy pages….

Stopped in wearing my parish visitor hat with communion for her (she wasn’t attending often anymore). Immediately she says, “got a reminder card from the vet. Charlie needs a shot, and he hasn’t been feeling well. I already made an appointment.” Sigh. No, groan. Hauled Charlie to the vet to get his shot, but the vet was too busy for an exam. “Bring him back in 2 days.” (Are you kidding me?) Mildred looked at the vet and asked, “what church do you go to?” (She had that same curious, rude behavior as my dad!) Exasperated, the vet shoots a few daggers her way (I ducked), “Mildred we’ve talked about this many times. I’m here to take care of Charlie. It’s none of your business what I believe, or if and where I attend.” I was shooting a few daggers of my own-at him. Not for his smart-ass answer, but that I had to come back. (You couldn’t just take a few extra minutes to check him out now, while we’re here, cozily discussing religion with our tea and crumpets?)

Mildred & her brother Eugene, about 1928…

Mildred was not walking well, and it took her hours to catch and cage Charlie. I didn’t volunteer for that duty. I told her if she caught him, I would bring him back to the vet myself. Even though she did not feel well, she wanted to come. So back to the vet. Charlie had some tests and we were waiting for the results. The Vet, (still of unknown faith, church affiliation, and whereabouts on Sunday’s) walked in with the x-rays. He explained that Charlie didn’t feel well because he had a large tumor blocking his stomach. He couldn’t swallow, and would die soon, painfully if she didn’t do something about it. We talked it over and she decided to have him put to sleep, but she would NOT have him cremated. Vet brought in Charlie, who for the first time ever, lay quietly in his cage with the door open while we petted him and said goodby. I sobbed through it all. Mildred was stoic. She wanted to bring him back home. I argued, “Mildred, it’s 80 degrees. You don’t have air-conditioning. I’m not going to bury Charlie!” She was adamant. We drove around back and the vet brought Charlie wrapped in a towel and laid him in his cage. The Vet put his hand on my shoulder and said, “thanks for doing this with Mildred and being here for her.” Ok, I take back some of the daggers.

Driving back to her house, she mused, “you know Denise, I was worried about this. Wondered what would happen to Charlie if something happened to me first? Now I don’t to worry about that.” I put Charlie in the spare bedroom (still bawling, what’s up with that?) and told Mildred I wouldn’t leave until she had some definite plans. She called Doris and Dick who gladly came over to help with Charlie.

Mildred and Conrad’s wedding, 1947…

A couple weeks later, John and I returned from a long weekend away. A funeral, (preacher’s mom) and Shannon’s PHD graduation party. I was leaving for Davenport, Iowa in 2 days to visit some old friends. Time to catch up with them and play some double-deck euchre. I wanted to get Mildred stocked up before I left. I called a couple times but no answer. She didn’t always tell me when she was going somewhere, but I usually knew her whereabouts. I headed to her house. There was a thick stack of mail rubber banded to her screen door handle. That does not bode well. She always got her mail pronto. The big door was open, the screen door locked, and a light was on. I yelled, no answer. Please God, don’t let her be at the bottom of the basement steps with a broken hip. I ran over to the neighbors who had a back door key, (“don’t worry about me Denise, the neighbors have a key and will always watch out for me”). Yeah, right. The key lady was gone. Called John. “What should I do? I think she’s hurt, I’m gonna break in.” Didn’t hear or heed his advice to call 911.

I took my car key, slit the screen, slipped my hand in and unlocked the door. Ran inside, but instead of heading to the basement stairs, stopped dead in my tracks. Turned and walked to her bedroom doorway. She was laying on the bed. Dressed, barefoot, her glasses on the dresser. Looked as though she laid down for a nap and never woke up. Hysterical now, I call the cops. Why hadn’t I waited outside on the steps? The 911 operator questioned if she was dead? What? No please, I can’t check for her pulse. She was not a good color, but I did touch her foot at the 911 operator’s insistence. Which was ice cold. I ended up waiting a couple hours while the county coroner cleared me. Well, I did break into her house. He had to rule out foul play. That was oddly disconcerting. This was a Tuesday morning. I had talked to her Thursday night. I think she died on Friday, though her death certificate would read Tuesday. The Thursday paper was on her Duncan Phyfe table, but Friday through Monday’s mail and papers were untouched stuck in the front and back doors. Guilt ridden that she died alone, gobs more guilt because I cried more over my loss of Mildred (and Charlie) than I did for Dad. Too traumatic I guess.

When I was arguing, to no avail, a couple years before to convince her to spend the winter months in a safer environment, Mildred had walked me through her house. Trying to show me how able-bodied she was. She had some neat stories and pictures of her having dinner with Gerald R. Ford at Western Michigan University. She had been on their Board of Trustees for about 20 years. Told me about the big Swedish dinners she used to have in that small house for 100 people at a time. And the story about Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois where her father taught when she was young. He had been given 2 matching antique oak stacking bookcases. Small world. We had lived in Davenport right across the Mississippi, but John had worked in Rock Island at J.I. Case.

Mildred removed beds to seat more folks at her Swedish dinners…

A few weeks after her death, the “law firm” called and asked my opinion on what I thought should be done with all her possessions? I suggested an estate sale and gave her the top 3 dealers in the area. She called back and said they had decided on an auction instead. Huh, they didn’t take my advice any better than Mildred had. What she said next left me speechless. I was in Mildred’s will. Stunned. When could I pick up what she left me? Needed to get it out of the house before the sale. Her will stated it was my choice of the antique oak stacking bookcases. Then it read, “she is not to have any of the contents.” Bookcases were filled with mugs from various places she and her husband, Connie had visited. I thought that was kinda funny.

The auction was a bust. They could have doubled the profits had the lawyers listened to this long-time-antique-nut-who-loves-estate-sales. I had been in her house hundreds of times but was amazed at how much neat stuff she had. Lots of dishes and serving pieces for those big dinner parties. I wanted to buy something, but not spend a lot. I really liked one of her china patterns (felt like a blushing bride) The set was huge with lots of extra platters and bowls. Told John I didn’t want to spend more than a hundred bucks. Dipstick auctioneer from Hicksville couldn’t even get a bid on it. Bought the whole set for $25.00. A shame. When I brought it home, checked what it would cost to buy at Replacements.com. I had over 3 thousand dollars worth of china.

Haviland Brothers Apple Blossom pattern that I bought at Mildred’s sale…

Several months later, John was at church on business as a Trustee. They take care of the building, land parsonage, land and endowments. A big shot stopped to tell him about an influx of money in the general fund. Mildred’s money. John disagreed. “I thought the money was supposed to go for the youth?” “No, it’s been put in the general fund,” he countered smugly. When John got home, he asked me about the will, since the not-taking-my-advice-lawyers had sent me a copy. It specifically stated the money be used for the children and youth of the church as an endowment. John brought my copy to boss-preacher-man-#3, who righted that little wrong. But if I’d gotten a copy of her will for a little bookcase (sorry Mildred, it is one of my most treasured pieces) certainly the church had a copy too. Deliberately not following her wishes. Ah, church politics, ruthless business…

Big changes were coming for this little family of three in the year of 1974. Celebrating anniversary # 5. Shannon was 3-1/2 and acquiring all the necessary skills (cooking-cleaning) for me to warm up to the idea of adding to our brood. Me, now a master chef could make: 1. Tuna salad 2. Tuna casserole 3. Coffee.

Shannon 4. Look at her hair length…

Mom sorta doted/smothered her and it was time to put a little distance between them. Eastern Iowa appeared like northwest Iowa, small towns, each a few miles from the next one. But it was very different from where we had grown up and what we were used to.

John liked his job. We had great friendly neighbors, but were having a big problem with the craziest of the 5-brother-bosses at work. First, he bought us each a new set of gold clubs. Neither of us golfed. Then he stopped by the house a couple times during the day when John was still at work. When I mentioned to hubby this was the second time, his-all-alarm-fire-bell-tripped. That dirty-low-down-sucker was hitting on his little woman. EEUUWWW. Whack-job was old, (maybe late 30’s, but I was 23). John barged into his office, threatened to remove his heart, balls and everything in between. Funny, it never happened again. I can’t believe John didn’t get fired. We assumed no one had ever talked this way or threatened one of the bosses before. They were revered in town. The biggest employer by far, but 4 of the 5 were pond scum. Found out later this crazy dude had 2 “alienation of affections” lawsuits against him. I was so naive. Did not have a clue. I do remember I was not flattered, just grossed out.

Me, Josh, John and Shannon, 1976…

Since Protestant churches were few and far between, we were trying out a big, beautiful Presbyterian in Dubuque, about 25 miles away. Definitely not the right choice. As we were walking in, someone handed John a sealed envelope. Told him to keep it and respond at the appropriate time. About half way through the service, one of the ministers started reading a list of names. Boys and girls, all about 12-14 years old lined up next to him. Then preacher man asked anyone holding an envelope to come up front. Oh boy. Reluctantly John shuffled up with several others. A quicky-5-minute-sermon reminding folks what you actually vow to do when a baby is baptized. That with the help of God, you will nurture and teach these children to become disciples for Christ. All adults were individually asked to open their envelope and read the name. That kid then marched right up and stood next to them. Preacher asked John to explain what he had “personally” done in the last decade for this child to become a better Christian? Though John was a tad embarrassed for being put on the spot, the dozen-egg-splatter on the preacher’s face for not knowing that John was a first (and last) time attender was worth the price of collection.

We were expecting our second baby. Shannon, now 4 was responding well to her responsibilities and had just finished wallpapering the nursery. Things were going good. This was our first Thanksgiving away from family and we were excited to attempt stuffing and roasting a turkey. Shannon had read the directions, and I helped her load the bird in the oven (just kidding, she was really strong). We were amazed at how pretty it looked in the oven. Golden brown and I was ready to accept the compliments on my culinary skills. Not. Took it out, ready to carve, but the sucker was hours away from being done on the inside. I could see Shannon still needed to brush up on her math skills.

Newborn Joshua, 1975…

Joshua, our first amazing son would arrive on his due date. Besides miserable heartburn and some very strange cravings, (lemon meringue pie and sauerkraut, which I ate straight from the can, cold) this pregnancy and labor were uneventful. Weighing in at 7-1/2 pounds, he had rather large feet and a beautiful head of hair. Shannon tried unsuccessfully to move into the mothering spot, but lost that position when she walked into the house after making mud pies, spotted her newborn baby brother fussing on the couch, and promptly stuck a filthy finger in his mouth. He did stop fussing, I’ll giver her that.

We ended up living in eastern Iowa about 4 years. Wasn’t really sorry to leave, though we had established some lasting friendships. We absolutely loved our next move to Spencer Iowa. Looking forward with trepidation at being a mere 60 miles from my folks again. John was only 2 when his sister Elly had gotten married. Living near them and their large family was a wonderful experience. Our kids thought they gained another set of grandparents.

We grew very close to Elly and Dewey, bowling with them on a mixed league, antiquing and road trips, plus sharing many suppers and some holidays together. Mom viewed this relationship about the same as the “alienation of affections” lawsuits in eastern Iowa. Someone, (Elly) was trying to steal the love and affection that belonged to her and her alone from me and the kids. Not a good time for her. No, not much had changed. A few years later it was time to move on, nomads that we appeared to be…