Just read a piece on being a kid during the 1970’s. According to this hilarious article, they should all be dead now. Major concerns from a lack of government safety regulations, (you mean there was a time when big government didn’t control every facet of our lives, really?) plus blaming lackadaisical parents on everything from smoking in the car, (guilty) Lawn Jarts that maimed, (guilty) no seat belts or car seats (guilty) no sun screen. Yada, yada, yada. You know where I’m going with this, right? Well I managed to check off having or doing all 8 accident prone, injury inducing, lacking good parental judgement things, plus a hundred more.

On the farm in 1976, Shannon 6, Josh 1…

I had all three of our kids during the 1970’s, spacing them evenly to maintain my sanity. I knew moms who could pop out a baby every year and keep their wits about them. I just wasn’t one of them. I needed one to be pretty self-sufficient, talking, potty-trained, able to cook a meal and do a load of laundry before I brought another newborn in our world. This proved to be about 4 years apart. I had bright kids.

Shannon our firstborn, slept in a 5 dollar Goodwill crib, painted in bright yellow, lead-based paint. With about 3 slats per side.

 

 

For Christmas as a toddler we bought her a rocking horse from hell. When she climbed on that thing and started rocking, had she ever let go of the reins, she would have easily flown through 3 rooms before landing.

 

 

Shannon 1, 1971. Kids and grands have made it out alive from demonic horsey…

Never had a car seat, never used seat belts. She was either on my lap, or standing up in the back seat so she could see what was going on in the world.

The stove in our kitchen was older than John and me put together. One day I was baking a tuna casserole. Tuna was a staple at our house for the first 5 years of wedded bliss. At 3 cans for a buck, we ate it often, though not happily or with much enthusiasm. Shannon was crawling around and tried to pull herself up by the stove. The small glass oven door window was the spot where she placed her hands, burning them as she slid back down screaming. I plunked her hands in cold water, called John at work 15 miles away, (of course we only had one car) called our pediatrician and waited forever with a writhing 11 month old. She had already rubbed a couple of the blisters open by the time we got to the doctor’s office. Whatever they used on those burns was amazing stuff for the pain, but it would take several weeks for her hands to heal. Both were wrapped in gauze, so crawling and her wobbly first steps came to a screeching halt for about a month.

Dressings had to be changed every week by Dr. Stauch. A very traumatic experience every time she caught a glimpse of her little hands. Only upside, that was the day she stopped sucking her thumb. She still bears a couple small scars of the ones she rubbed open.

Weeks later John went to her room to get her out of the crib from her nap. Came out said her room was stinky. Figured it was a poopy diaper he didn’t want to change, but no, that wasn’t it. A few minutes later the smell was gone. Happened almost every time we walked into her room. We searched high and low for whatever was stinking up her cute nursery. Might have taken these newly minted, totally inexperienced parents a little longer than necessary to figure out it wasn’t the room. It was our gorgeous toddler. What on earth was causing that horrible smell? She didn’t seem sick. We bathed and scrubbed her, but she still smelled skunky. Ok I’m stumped, called Dr. Stauch for an appointment. After a thorough exam, he spotted something in her ear. Asked the nurse to get a syringe of warm water. Nurse came back, said the water heater was broke, only had cold water. Clever doc took some hot coffee, added cold water until it was lukewarm, and squirted a syringe full in her ear. Out plopped a hunk of Colby. This of course was not her fault. She was much too young to realize that we were life-long Iowa Hawkeye fans. She merely thought we lived in Wisconsin and were cheese-heads…

There’s a certain almost palpable demeanor in some people. Dad didn’t have much of a formal education, yet he carried a very quiet confidence. He knew much of the bible frontwards and backwards. Very well versed in the New Testament. Wasn’t very fond of those odd-duck-prophets from the Old Testament. So he didn’t spend a lot of time studying it. Many of his views were based on his deep faith that he was indeed a child of God, and heaven-bound when his life on earth was done. This can be amazing, inspiring, and kind of ethereal to be around. It just sort of exuded out of him. On the other hand, being in Dad’s little realm could be tough to take. Dad’s faith and beliefs were so strong, there was NO WAY he could be swayed that his way wasn’t the right and only way. He always believed that his sins were forgiven. This is what the bible teaches. To Dad, this meant even if he said or did something offensive, it didn’t matter because, ALL HIS SINS WERE ALL FORGIVEN.

Dad in the late 1980’s…

One night we were having our Methodist Church’s office manager (co-worker) over for supper. Her hubby was a Baptist minister and busy that night, so Jeanne spent the evening with John, Dad and me. Dad was asking her questions (grilling really) about theology differences between Baptist’s and the RCA, Reformed Church of America. The poor Methodist’s in attendance were not even included in this conversation. I guess the phrase here is “worked up.” Dad tended to get worked up when discussing religion. It was useless to argue with him because he was never wrong in his belief’s. Then there’s that no-swaying-him part. He flat out asked Jeanne if she honestly believed there would be Baptist’s in heaven cause he didn’t think so. Oh Dad! I was embarrassed and angry. “Um Dad, that’s wrong and rude of you to say and ask those questions. Where in the bible does it say, Believe on The Lord Jesus Christ, and be a member of the Reformed Church of America, and thou shalt be saved?” He was offended that I snapped at him about something he truly felt was ok to say. He stomped out of the house in a huff. I left him alone for a couple days, then went to his place. He thought maybe it had been a mistake to move here. I reminded him exactly what I did for him daily, but there needed to be boundaries on subjects, judgements and accusations when he was a guest in our house.

Looking back, I think much of this was due to dementia or lack of oxygen from blocked carotid arteries. He had actually mellowed somewhat in his religious fervor over the years. It started rearing it’s rather unattractive head when he had been here awhile, after his stroke. His tolerance level dipped to minus something. He got into an argument with an aide at the Village. He asked her what church she attended, then told her she was going to hell. I was called in the administrator’s office and asked to please speak to him about, well, bullying. He then noticed several people at other tables in the dining room did not bow their heads in prayer before they ate. He was very disturbed by this and felt he should speak to them. It was hard, no impossible for him to understand the concept that this was their home too. He felt it was his right, his job, and his duty to God to tell them exactly what he knew in his heart was wrong with their lives. He needed to instruct them how they must come to know Jesus right now! He was used to a small Iowa Dutch town. With this many nationalities, personalities, religious beliefs and different cultures (who knew there were factions of people in the world who were not Dutch, and some who did not attend church?) was almost unfathomable to him. He should be the guy to change what was wrong with their lives. You know, he had a lot more in common with those Old Testament prophets than I thought.

Dad right before moving to Michigan 2005…

After he settled at the Village, he joined the bible study group, but got into arguments right away. He felt they should stop studying the the Old Testament. He had a better study guide they should be using. He soon stopped going or was asked not to come. He was in a definite decline. He still maintained his church prayer breakfast group, nursing home bible study, the Rescue Mission and prison groups for now. He did not attend many social events at the Village though.

He did develop a couple of wonderful friendships with Mary and Red who sat at his table for meals. Yup, both of them prayed before they ate. Whew. Mary was a devout Catholic and Dad was humbled by her deep faith. Red and Dad hit it off right away. Red asked him to join him in an activity Dad had not tried in at least a half century. In one of the activity rooms was a beautiful pool table. They started playing pool together a couple times a week, sans beer. Dad used to be a shark…

For the last several years of Mom’s life, my trips to Rock Valley were much more frequent. I flew about every 3 months, staying with them about a week at a time. When Mom got non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, she immediately went to the hospital in Sioux Falls to start chemotherapy. The cancer in her chest was fast growing and she was having trouble breathing. But it also responds quickly to treatment. After the initial scary first treatment, she was already breathing better. She was scheduled for quite a few treatments, but after 5, she suffered a stroke. There was definite weakness on one side. That was enough chemo for awhile, the cancer was being held at bay, so Mom went home. That propelled Dad into caregiver service, a job he was neither trained for or ever wanted.

All of his “good works” activities that gave him his sense of satisfaction and self-worth would slowly be pushed aside as Mom’s health deteriorated. I know this is what marriage is all about, but they really didn’t have the most conventional marriage. He kept a few activities at first, a bible study at Valley Manor, men’s prayer breakfast, but his favorite, the prison ministry came to a screeching halt. I think he was pretty bitter.

Mom tried physical therapy for a couple weeks, but gave up on it way too soon. She would never walk unattended again. Their life after they retired had been easy, even enjoyable up to this point. Mom and Dad enjoying a meal (a pretty regular occurrence) out in Rock Valley a few years after retirement, late ’80’s.

They frequently went out to eat, but after her stroke, Mom didn’t eat quite as neat as she used to (everything about her was neat-neat-neat-see above). She was convinced when they were eating out at their favorite hangout in Sioux Falls, The Royal Fork, that some guy was watching and making fun of the way she ate. Even though she was easily transported using a wheel-chair and walker with Dad’s help, eating out and shopping trips were a thing of the past. Dad often would stop somewhere for take-out, but he was not and would never be a cook or a shopper.

Though Mom was limited somewhat physically, she was still razor sharp mentally (except for the ill part) and never gave up her alpha status at home or in the family. She always encouraged me fly home, landing in Sioux Falls. Without my own car, she had much more control over what I could do and where I could go. I was there to help them, not shop or visit friends. First piece of business after getting my stuff in the house was the mile-long grocery list. I wanted them to have homemade food to choose from and eat when I wasn’t there. I divided all the meals individually, and froze everything. Typical menu for my cooking experience would be roast beef and meatloaf dinners, spaghetti, chicken, pea, (whole not split) navy bean, and vegetable beef soups, banana and pumpkin breads, chocolate chip and sugar cookies, white rice made with milk, not water. I’d put this ton-o-rice in 8 oz. containers with a pat of butter, then cinnamon and sugar on top. Of course fudge and penuche for her sweet tooth. Plus a big bowl of potato salad and taverns on my last day.

I always included a written, detailed chart of what I put in the freezer, where everything was, top to bottom, left to right. Listed all the meals, what kind containers, what section of the freezer they were in. Dad suffered terribly from the same ghastly affliction as my husband John. Neither could spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge.

Sometime during the week, I’d fix a turkey supper with dressing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie (a given by now, of course REAL whipped cream). We’d have company for this meal, usually my friend Char and her mom, or sometimes Mona. They’d come over and visit for at least a couple hours before we ate. This particular time, Char and Esther were sitting in the living room, just a-yakking away with Mom and Dad. I was in the kitchen (surprise). Supper was a good 90 minutes away, and I thought I had just enough time to sneak in a batch of candy before I needed to get serious with the potatoes and gravy. There I stood on my usual perch at the stove, half-listening to their conversation (this was BBD, before becoming deaf). Wow, it had gotten awfully quiet in the other room. What’s going on? Silence, not one word spoken. Had Dad said something to offend someone? Suddenly I hear Mom yell, “Denise, are you making a batch of fudge? You’re stirring it too much, it’s going to get sugary.” Oh Mom…

After Dad had been in Michigan well over a year, he started having some problems. He’d been doing great. Still “preaching and teaching” at the prison, driving himself to church, going out for breakfast everyday, (no never on Sunday’s, are ‘ya nuts?) but I noticed a couple of troubling things. Even with these clues, I sorta had blinders on cause I didn’t want see things going wrong. Guess I was in denial of having my only aging parent with a host of new health issues.

Dad celebrating his last Christmas w/us. 2007

He had bought a new PT Cruiser months before. We had to order the car because, get this, Dad didn’t know how to drive an AUTOMATIC. Gospel truth. We had test driven one. I had him and the car in an empty parking lot, him watching my foot go from accelerator to brake, back and forth numerous times. No siree, he could not get the hang of it. So the dealer found one a couple hundred miles away with a clutch and zippy manual 5-speed. Oh Dad. Well, he had driven some sort of stick for over 75 years. I wasn’t really surprised that it was too late for him to change, or learn something as complicated as an automatic transmission.

He called one day and said something was wrong with the car. John and I walked up the hill to the parking lot of his building. We were 50 feet from the car when John piped up, “I can smell it, he tore out the clutch.” Dad kept his car in the underground heated garage. It was a sharp turn, plus a steep hill, (the steep driveway was heated so it never iced up) but afforded Dad the luxury (and me not worrying) of him never having to scrape his windshield or walk across a slippery parking lot. We had the car towed to the dealer. They put in a new clutch under warranty-yeah that might have been a questionable call.

Dad loved his Cruiser…

A month later his building manager stopped me and said Dad’s car had hopped the curb that day when driving out of the garage. The car was hung up, but he kept trying to drive off the curb. That didn’t sound like him. Couple weeks later I stopped at his apartment, which he kept neat as a pin, except for random sermons lying around in varying degrees of completion, or awaiting my new proof reading duties. The place was a cluttered mess. Piles of clothes on his bed, more stacked in the bathroom. It had only been a day or 2 since I had been there. What happened? Looking around I noticed his billfold on the floor behind the door of the bathroom. Must have lost it and had been trying to find it. Holy Hannah, he’d be mortified. Out for breakfast and no money. I jumped in the car and made a mad dash for the restaurant. Creature of habit, he went to the same place every morning. Restaurant was closed on Sunday, won his heart and business right then and there. I didn’t make a big deal out of showing up out of the blue. Said I had stopped at his place and spotted his billfold, thought he might need it. He was nonchalant about having no money with him. Sort of assumed someone at his table (met with a different group of folks almost everyday, my social little butterfly) would pick up his whopping tab of coffee-one-egg-over-hard-whole-wheat-toast.

A usual sight at Dad’s. Sermons partially done…

After we got back to the apartment he said something even more troubling. He had driven out to the prison at 5 a.m. that morning when he couldn’t find his billfold. (Wonder what the guards thought of that?) Dad assumed he had left it in the locker he used when he was there the day before for his weekly bible study.

Not a month later Dad was on his way to the prison, which was about 5 miles away from his apartment. It’s only 2 turns, he knew the way there and back really well. I’m doing my Parish Visiting thing when I get a call from my local police department. Dad was on the Causeway about 2 miles from his apartment, swerving, driving erratically. No accidents, but he’d come close with a mom and her kids before she got him to stop, so she called 911. He couldn’t remember my name, and the cops couldn’t find his driver’s license. When he opened his car door, dollar bills were flying all over. Cops found his address on his registration, and drove him back to his apartment. Once there they noticed the list on the fridge with emergency numbers and called me.

When I arrived one of the policemen was explaining to Dad that he could no longer drive. Then he hacked off the corner of his license, which they had finally found in between the front seats. They had also called an ambulance because Dad really didn’t know what was going on, but he did know me. (My name I’m not so sure about that day) He had suffered a stroke and spent several days in the hospital. It was painfully clear that living in his spiffy apartment was no longer an option. Sarah, the hospital social worker was a big help. Plus as parish visitor, I knew the places I was comfortable with him moving into, and the ones I didn’t think were all that great. We decided on Village at the Oaks, about 10 minutes away. A new independent-assisted living facility. His doctor, Sarah and I thought Dad should be able to manage independent living with some physical therapy. While he was in the hospital, John and I moved all his stuff to his new digs. It would take Dad several weeks to get his groove back. Physical therapy helped plus he started using a nifty little walker for balance issues. He tended to walk too fast with his head down. If he met so one in the hallway, he would jerk his head up, losing his balance.

The Village was big,140 apartments. He was pretty mixed up at first. The ever-present wandering aides were quick to rescue him, remind him of meal times, activities, show him to the dining room, elevator or his apartment. He had a terrible time getting used to a shower. I kid you not. Refer you back to the straight-stick-car-issue. Showers were a new-fangled invention for him. I used a permanent pen to mark where the dial should be approximately for the right temperature. Sigh. For the time being things were back in sync, but it wouldn’t last long…

Soon after Dad moved to Michigan, I made him an appointment for a routine physical with our primary care doctor. We’d been with Dr. Anderson for years, liked and respected her, and she had agreed to accept Dad as a patient. She wasn’t one to dink around for months trying to figure something out. If you had a foot problem and she was stumped, she’d recommend a podiatrist. She examined Dad and talked to him a little while, then ordered some blood work. After we left her office we drove to the hospital to have the lab work done.

Dad pictured in an interview, 2005…

I had just dropped him off and was almost home, which is only a couple blocks away when I get a call from Mercy Hospital. There’s something wrong with Dad’s blood and he needs to come back to the hospital ASAP. What? He just got here. We didn’t even have everything put away in his spiffy new apartment yet. Dear God, please don’t let anything be wrong with Dad. Went back to his apartment, explained that he needed to be examined a little more thoroughly and we drove back to the hospital. Doctor at the hospital said that Dad’s white count was quite high. Normally should be between 8,000 and 12,000 and his was hovering around 96,000. Holy smokes, that didn’t sound good.

Mercy Hospital made an appointment for Dad with Dr. Hikmet Sipahi, a blood oncologist. Dr. Sipahi explained to us that he had Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, or CLL. This is the most common type of leukemia for folks over 70. He’d probably had this condition for several years, but went undetected without a specific blood test. Until symptoms presented themselves, usually anemia or a hemoglobin drop, Dad would have blood work done every 4 months, and a check up with Sipahi. Ok then.

About a year later during one of these check-ups, his hemoglobin had dropped and he was anemic. Dr. Sipahi explained to Dad that he should start a month long series of mild chemotherapy. “Why?” Asked Dad. “Well,” Dr. Sipahi continued, ” it will most likely lengthen your life considerably. It may however, make you nauseous for few days.” “But I’m 89 years old and can’t live forever!” Snipped Dad. “Why not?” Asked the good-looking doctor, still smiling. Dad never missed one solitary beat and quipped, “Cause Jesus is calling me home, and I’m ready to go!” DOCTOR’S JAW DROPPED TO THE FLOOR. (Not surprising, he was not nearly as good-looking without his lower jaw). His whole career, and Hippocratic Oath is based on treating, always ready with a treatment plan. He really didn’t know how to react when asked the question, “what if I choose not to treat this?” Dad said he’d think about it.

When we were done, and waiting in the reception area for the gal to make our next appointment, Dad looked at me and asked, “Denise are you going to make me take chemotherapy?” “No Dad, that’s not my decision to make.” He thought for a moment and continued, “then let’s go, I don’t want to come back here again.” As we were waiting for the elevator, he turned and said, ” he really is good-looking though isn’t he?” “Yup Dad, he’s a hottie!”

Still good looking, but this is more recent of Dr. Sipahi…

Turns out CLL would not have a great impact on Dad’s life. We’d soon learn that he also had blocked carotid arteries. One side blocked 95%, the other 99%, yikes. Met with a cardiologist who strongly encouraged Dad to consider very complicated, serious, sometimes major stroke inducing surgery for that too. Dad had just celebrated his 90th birthday, so the recovery time could take up to a year, or he might never recover. Dad just shook his head, said he needed time to talk it over with me.

My last Christmas with Dad, 2007…

Somehow, chemotherapy and major surgery were no longer very high on his “to do list.” Goodness, he was barely scraping by at 6 foot, 140 pounds fully clothed, (including his year-round, ever present, constantly worn set of long-john’s). Oh Dad. The thought of lying in bed sick, even for few days, or grueling surgery with a very slow recovery time wasn’t part of his plan anymore. He was thinking more of the quality of life that he had left. Why, that would mean missing his bible study class or preaching once a month in his prison ministry. He’d just mentioned the last 3 times he had preached, always near the end of each service, he offered an altar call. Dad had not been able to get back up from the kneeling position. A couple of the inmates had to help him stand back up each time. He thought it was kind of funny, wasn’t embarrassed at all. This is where he needed to be and what he wanted to be doing. At least until Jesus was ready to call him home…

On July 24, 1946, Larry Wayne was born at home, on the west side of Rock Valley. I wouldn’t show up until December of 1950. I also made my debut in our kitchen, on the table. No trips to a modern hospital for us. I don’t remember how close Larry was to our older sister Mona, who was born in ’43. But once I was potty trained and could keep up with him, Larry and I were good buddies. There were a few kids in our sparse neighborhood, but we played together a lot.

Larry 2. Mona 5, sitting on car, 1948…

That would really change when we moved to 15th street. Larry, then 9 had much more freedom, going places to play with his friends, shooting marbles, fishing, the dump, riding bike. Me, not quite 5, stayed closer to home, raising my family of dolls in my fabulous play house. Played an awful lot of “drive-in.” Eating rhubarb with salt with the new neighborhood kids, the Schmidt’s, Van Oort’s and Beumer’s. Still Larry and I were close.

 

Strange, I never laid eyes on this picture until 10 years ago. This is about a year before Larry was killed, so the summer of 1957. In the upper right hand corner it reads, Lake Okoboji, Iowa. Must be our family version of day-cation.

 

Neese newborn, Larry, 4-1/2, 1951…

There was a kind of freedom in our small town that none of my kids have ever experienced. Really bad things just didn’t happen in Rock Valley. Oh there were accidents, marriages that failed, and a few folks with a questionable moral compass, but as a whole I felt safe, utterly safe in my home town. That didn’t change much for me when Larry died, but many things in my world did after October 11,1958. I was hopelessly lost without him, but to my parents, the world seemed to have ended. The tenuous thread that kept them (and us) together for more than 15 years was irrevocably severed. There were no affairs, no divorce, money problems, drinking, drugs, or gambling. Just two very unhappy people stuck in a loveless marriage, living in the same house with their 2 remaining daughters. We were almost 8 years apart, and had nothing in common.

Larry’s school project in kindergarten…

Dad would find comfort and purpose in doing for others. For Mom there was no comfort or purpose for a long time, then I became almost her obsession. I think she would have benefitted greatly with therapy and counseling to help deal with her grief. But once Dad had been saved, he could not equate her depression with any physical medical problem. For example, high blood pressure. He truly felt if she were a better Christian and prayed more she wouldn’t be depressed. When he suffered a herniated disk, of course he sought medical treatment. Then had subsequent surgery. But medical help or talking through her grief was not his answer for Mom’s problems. To Dad, she just flat out wasn’t the strong Christian he was. He would not allow her to seek treatment for her chronic depression. I’m pretty sure she was bipolar. At times pretty high on life, then sinking to some very scary depths.

Dad, 43, Neese 7 mo. Larry 5, 1951…

Mona got married quite soon after Larry died. To the world outside of our house, the word of the next decade would be “perception.” It was much more important how we appeared to others than how we were actually doing. Mom started becoming uncomfortably attached to me, period. Dad slipped further away, fulfilling his needs by helping others in need. Just never Mom or me. It’s said when tragedy hits head-on, you either get bitter or better. After Dad saw the “light,” he went so far over the top, we just no longer appeared on his radar screen. But to the outside world, we needed to be seen as a well-adjusted, happy Christian family. In the 10 years after we lost Larry, to when I moved out, we never celebrated Christmas. Not one Christmas tree in over a decade. So it was no surprise that I preferred to be almost anywhere else, usually at one of my friend’s homes. We had a quiet, somber house, not much laughter, rarely had the TV on.

Could I have helped them? Probably. But in this unhealthy environment, it would seem this young girl preferred to play one parent off the other. Usually got what I wanted, though sometimes it took a lot of effort, and caused fights between them (really, the only thing they fought about anymore). Makes me sad now, but at the time I felt they were both hurting me terribly. Either Mom was smothering and manipulating me, or Dad’s indifference. Dad’s indifference probably hurt more, because he always seemed to go out of his way helping others, but would not or could not help me with Mom.

Larry, 1st grade…

Well this has been a downer, sorry. Really just wanted to give Larry a shout-out in heaven on his 68th birthday. Hard to believe the last 55 birthdays celebrated without his little sister, Neese. Feel kind of bad that I keep blowing off his party invitations. Sorry, I’m a no-show again. I’d like to say “I’ll see you soon Bro, but not too soon.” I enjoy watching my 3 adult kids happy, healthy, and successful. But even better, the immense joy and pleasure I get watching and participating in the lives of my 4 incredible grandkid’s lives. One of my many and best blessings. By the way, if you had any say or influence with God when He chose the kids and grands to be part of my life then many, many thanks Larry. You’re still the best brother ever…

I was about 40, probably noticing how difficult my teenagers could be when I started reflecting back on my terrible-teens. Terrible two’s, what a joke, get real. Little kids, little problems, big kids, well you know the rest. Holy cow, I was an awful teenager. Don’t know why. Was I trying to get attention? Gee that’s very hard to believe now. The last thing I ever want to be is the center of attention, really. Maybe it was my way of dealing with my loss of Larry. Or how strict and mostly absent Dad was. Add that to how smothering Mom could be. I realized that we shared a very different home life. Just being in my friend’s homes told me we weren’t like them. At least the part I saw.

Neese, 1965 at John’s, Rock Valley, Ia.

Well, don’t want to dwell on the why too long, suffice it to say I was a pain in the butt. Drank a few times, but never really liked the feeling of not being in control. Then there’s the taste, well that just sucks. Never took drugs, never smoked pot. But if there were pranks of varying degrees of legality or a mildly destructive nature, I was one of the go-to-girls. I was afraid of heights, wild carnival rides and fast cars, this was my way of being a daredevil. With a couple of these pranks, I’m fortunate to be able to state “never arrested” on my very mundane life.

First prank started innocently enough. I had been invited to a slumber party at Mary Klein’s house. She lived several miles out in the country, closer to Doon than Rock Valley. We were having a good time. I was the youngest one there. Not a lot to do on the farm during the middle of the night though, ho-hum. Someone, don’t remember who, wish I could take the credit, suggested we drive to Sioux Falls about 45 miles away. There was this truck stop that was open all night. Did that sound like fun? Most certainly did. We had to wait until the rest of the house fell asleep, then sneak away for our adventure in the Klein family car, yikes. Guess who got behind the wheel when we were ready to go? Me, the youngest and probably the most inexperienced driver of the group. I wasn’t even in driver’s training yet. Not to worry, I had driven a car several times before. Pretty sure I was about 14.

Looked innocent, but really, not so much. 1965…

The Klein car (Dodge or Plymouth) was gigantic, salmon colored. It boasted huge fins, and the dashboard was different and truly fascinating. On the dash was a bunch of buttons indicating Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drives 1-through-8–at least. I got it figured out. We slunk out of the drive-way, no headlights, and scooted to Sioux Falls. Got to the truck stop, ordered burgers, fries, shakes. We giggled, joked, flirted, and acted like it was an ordinary occurrence for a carload of young Iowa girls to be in there at 1 am. We had the best time! No drinking, no State Troopers, no accidents. We made it back to the farm without incident. A night this young girl would remember with a lot of fondness a half century later. Good times indeed, no guilt, well maybe just a little for stealing the car.

My second “prank” was with most of the same girls. Hmm, when I did stuff with my classmates I was usually fine. Any activities with older kids and trouble seemed to stick to me like a magnet. I’m noticing a pattern here that would have been helpful to recognize 50 years ago. Duh. We decided it would be so cool to put our “year” stamp on something permanent. The problem that night, we were dealing with 2 years. I wanted mine, 1969, the older girls of course wanted 1968. I was outnumbered and out voted. We decided on the round Quonset building near the Green Acres Drive Inn. Wasn’t too late but very dark when we snuck up, painted a big white “RV 68” on the side of the building. Now this had a different outcome than you might think. I don’t remember ever being questioned, looked at sideways, brought into any office, school or police. My name simply never came up. Who in their right mind would try and pull something like that and not even use their own stinking year? Though I didn’t get caught it was kind of a wake-up call that I was being really dumb. Unfortunately, that hardly ever stopped me.

Not another prank, just a hard life lesson. When I was very young, maybe 2nd or 3rd grade, I spent a couple days on a farm north of Rock Valley. Don’t remember the girls name or the parents. They were church friends, but I do remember this incident vividly. Two men (the farmer and a friend, it wasn’t my Dad) were talking while we were playing in the front yard. Both the men were smoking cigars. They were teasing us and jokingly offered us a puff from their cigar. I said sure, took a puff–and liked it. Oh boy. I think my friend got sick after she took a puff, but even at that early age I knew I was destined to smoke. If there is a gene that makes you prone to become an alcoholic, I got the gene that made me want to smoke. I started when I was about 13 and would take me almost 3 decades to quit. I didn’t seem to learn my lesson of being dumb any quicker as an adult, than when I was a dippy teen. Huh. I was the only high school cheerleader (not smoking-hot, just smoking) that went out during half time for a cigarette.

 

Finally came to my senses and John and I quit on the same day, May 5, 1990. After that momentous and very smart decision though, we would not utter a civil word to each other for about 3 months. Some wicked side-effects. I was fine, he was a total tool…

I’m all Dutch. My maternal great-grandparents immigrated from Holland in the late 1800’s. With them they brought their deep belief in God, a hard work ethic, wooden shoes, and their language. Some which still lingers nearly 150 years later. That’s pretty amazing. While I wholeheartedly embrace “if you are going to live and work here, please learn our language. Then become citizens, abide by our Constitution, accept and love this country as your own.” Part of me loves the fact that in 2014, at least a few words of how they described stuff still lives in me. Not many, and how I wish I had learned more of the Dutch language. I’m really quite surprised by this. Not the part about me not paying closer attention. I was a self-centered spoiled brat. But the part about not learning more just because I heard it so much. I didn’t and that’s what surprises me. My maternal grandpa Gerrit Wanningen in the middle with his parents (my great-grandparents) and sister Jenny.

My great grandparents, grandpa Lakey, and sis, Jenny…

Mom was raised basically by 2 sets of Dutch grandparents. Her mom died before she and Floyd were 2 weeks old. She learned to speak Dutch before English. My Dad was Dutch too, but I don’t know how many generations back his family immigrated to the U.S. Yet Dutch was not spoken very much at our house. When Mom and Dad were talking about something or someone that they didn’t want my “nosey ears to memorize verbatim,” then use at a later date when totally inappropriate. Or keep until I needed good blackmail material, they would have a running Dutch conversation, but not very often. My paternal grandparents, Arie and Bessie Gerritson.

My paternal grands, Arie and Bessie Gerritson…

I did learn a lot of what was going on once in a while by sneaking down to the second or third step of our enclosed staircase after I’d gone to bed. I could hear them talk in the kitchen. They didn’t talk, really talk very often, and if they were in the den or living room, forget about it. It was too far away, but the words came through very clear between the kitchen and the staircase. Had to pay attention though. If I heard the chair legs scrape the linoleum, I had to hustle up those old steep steps. So very careful not to hit any of the creaks. Yup, I knew where all the creaks and squeaks were located on every step. Yet just a few years later when I consistently tried to sneak in after curfew, Mom had secretly installed her mysterious-bat-radar-stair-creaking-hearing-device and I got caught every stinking time.

I digress, back to Neese-speaks-Dutch. While whole conversations were not an everyday occurrence, certain words or phrases were. Thinking about the most popular ones, I have to say many of them tended to have a negative vibe. One though was a term of endearment Mom often used for me. KLANE-A-MAASHIE, means little girl. I have absolutely no idea how to spell any of them, so we’re going with phonics. Loosely spelled according to the way they were pronounced and definitions used in the Gerritson house. Going a step further, most would probably be lost in translation if I were to use them now in the Netherlands. Rock Valley Dutch folks seemed to have their own take on pronunciation. Plus over the years, mixing in a marriage to another Dutch person. Therefore we continued to mix and mash up these words. But my words nonetheless. Back by popular demand it’s my top 10 Dutch words, totally-Gerritson-fractured, but you get my drift. Drum roll please.

1. PLU-SHE: a piece of lint or fuzzy on clothing or carpet. My Mom could spot one from 30 feet, handing out detailed directions for retrieval to the nearest person.

2. AGG-A-WASE: being stubborn or pig-headed, bordering on a melt-down.

3. ZHAN-ICK: my favorite, means whining or begging until you got your way for candy, toy, movie, or shopping trip. I ruled with this word as a kid. Not proud, just the way it was.

4. SPUUT: making fun or mocking religion or God, never funny or acceptable.

5. FEECE: not very clean, you wouldn’t want to eat supper at their house.

6. HAU-KEE : an add-on room or shack.

7. BEN-OUT: stuffy, hot, tired or frazzled.

8. OOF-DA: heavy or too much of something.

9. SOT: really sick and tired of this.

10. MIS-LICK: not feeling well.

There were literally hundreds of Dutch words and phrases families used in my tiny corner of northwest Iowa daily. Even writing them with their odd Gerritson definitions gives me comfort. Takes me back to my childhood, the good and the not-so-good, but a big part of what makes me–me. About the title of this itty-bitty-Dutch-blog, hut-fa-duttie means “oh shit.” Heh-tah, too yet….

Mom always excelled at whatever hobby caught her fancy. For a time she was into walking, later bike riding, then for awhile she had beautiful flower gardens. She bought several odd shaped, flat vases, stuck in this green putty stuff with a porcupine like disk stuck on the putty to hold the flower stems in place and arranged flowers.

She entered some flower shows, even got some awards, but just as suddenly, was done with the flower growing and arranging hobby.

Knitting and crocheting proved to be more than a passing fancy. She would do this for many years, constantly improving. Mom knit me sweaters of every color (all 100% wool, each with a sewn in tag stating “Handknit by Florence”) but it was her pattern choices that were truly amazing. Complicated cables, popcorns, each one seemed more intricate than the last.

 

Plus she was sneaky about this. Mom would have one of her (mine really) sweater projects next to her chair in her knitting basket, (a cloth patterned bag that stood on 4 wooden-dowel legs, Shannon has it now) and work on it after supper. Little did I know at the time, she would also have a second, sometimes even a third sweater project going at the same time, but hidden somewhere in the house. When I wasn’t home, she’d be busy working on them. A new hand-knit sweater was never enough. Mom would have a coordinated wool pleated skirt to match or for awhile, I wore a lot of lined-wool Bermuda shorts, even during Iowa winters with knee socks. What a hoot! Distinctly remember a pair of black & white hounds-tooth wool shorts with a truly amazing winter white sweater.

 

Had a matching one for a kid I dated at the time, 1965…

 

She would buy me neat, simple pins to adorn the new sweaters, a rooster, mouse, paper boy. I wasn’t the only lucky recipient of these highly sought after prized sweaters. My bestie, Char Schelhaas received several, so did whatever guy I was dating at the time when the knitting needles were in her hands.

She had a couple seamstresses “on retainer.” The spinster Dearborn sisters. They could sew about anything, pretty sure they made my dress for Mona’s wedding when I was 10 (candle lighter duty with Ed’s little sister)

Me, Mona, Ed’s sister Linda, Sept. 1960…

Mom enjoyed knitting and crocheting afghans, baby blankets, booties, often gifts for co-workers or friends. For my 24th birthday she crocheted an afghan of 24 different colors plus white.

 

Kind of reminds me of Joseph and the technicolor dream coat-afghan. When Shannon entered her world and the poncho craze hit in the early ’70’s, I can’t tell you how many different ones she made, knit or crocheted. Vividly remember Shannon, her doll and me all in matching red, white and blue ponchos. I think the doll might still fit into hers… Shannon and one of the famous poncho’s, 1972.

 

Shannon w/ crocheted poncho by Mom, 1973…

Dad was a determined man when it was time to get the “word” out. Once he became a born again Christian, it was his mission in life to do “whatever it takes” so others would be saved too. He set up “tract racks” everywhere. Rock Valley, Sioux City, Sioux Falls, anywhere owners, friends, acquaintances would let him. These were palm-sized Mini-books with a message. How to be a better Christian, How to pray, Uplifting words when you’re down and out. Fire and brimstone ones to get you “scared straight,” though most tended to be on the positive side. He bought skids of bibles, Good news for Modern Man, The New Testament, The Psalms, study bibles, special bibles designed just for inmates. He had hundreds of his “testimony” printed up.

Favorite picture of my Dad. Probably late 1970’s…

The story on how he was a sinner, enjoying worldly things. His love of money until he lost his son Larry at age 12, and became a Christian. At times it was almost like he was possessed. Tough to live with and even be around. Sometimes his methods leaned towards “shove it down your throat until you realize this is for your own good. There’s only once chance to get into heaven.”

Dad’s Testimony. Larry’s school pic from 1958…

What else could he do to get God’s message out there? He spoke frequently in prisons, and nursing homes. Using the New Testament, especially the gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. These books tell different versions of the birth, life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Often he used The Sermon on the Mount with the encouraging beatitudes. Other times Corinthians, Love is patient, love is kind. Lucky for me he didn’t care or study the Old Testament very much. He could have gone the prophet Ezekiel’s route and laid on his left side for 432 days or something. This might be categorized as “spuuting.” A Dutch word meaning making fun of God or religion. Sorry God, and you too Dad.

Pretty sure I saw this saying, and suggested Dad use it…

So Dad was not a prophet. But somewhere along the line experienced an epiphany, or perhaps we’ll just call it a “sign!” I don’t know where or how this idea popped in his head, but I think it started in the early ’70’s. He would get permission from a farmer to use a tiny spot of their land to erect a good-sized sign. These were fellow Christians and supporters of his “mission in life” agenda to save sinners. This pretty much included all drivers zipping through northwest Iowa.

Dad really appreciated the local farmers letting him use a spot for his signs…

The signs were hand painted on plywood. Constructed, then erected by Dad, touched up or repainted constantly. Most were positive messages. Once in a while there would be a “scared straight” one, sometimes offending someone who would ask the farmer for Dad’s name and come over and state his objections. Dad took this well, he was not thin-skinned. God had made him “prophet tough” in that respect. Dad would re-paint the sign in a more positive light.

Making sure anyone driving past-GOT the message…

I can remember seeing catchy phrases on billboards or advertising near a church when driving. I’d stop, jot it down on something, (no never wrote it on any of the kids) then call Dad with a new idea for a sign. Once in a while it was such a clever play on words that further explanation was needed. (ok Dad, let’s go through it again) Plus always giving him the correct spelling and punctuation. Don’t know if you can really see it on any of these pictures but Dad’s commas on most of the signs are hysterical.

One of Dad’s favorite signs…

Never close to bottom of the line, they always look more like apostrophe’s to me. Sorry Dad, couldn’t help myself.

This was a ministry that was very important to Dad. One he really enjoyed and always prayed would touch someone he might not ever meet. It was one of the hardest things for him to give up when he left Rock Valley. He had a couple guys lined up who would keep them in good repair, or erect new ones. Deep down though I know he worried that his “sign ministry” would not be the same without his constant care and attention.

Trying to catch your attention and make you think…

After Dad passed away, while we were cleaning out his apartment, John came across the 4 x 8 sheet of styrofoam board. It was covered in pictures, newspaper articles, and awards Dad had received over the years for many of his various “good works.” (No one would ever accuse him of being too humble). John suggested that we take it along to Rock Valley and set it up at his funeral. Maybe someone there might want it. Good idea, but there was one particular picture that had to be mine. Just the most appealing, captivating, smiling shot of him. A newspaper photographer got while Dad was being interviewed for something. He had just gotten off work and was still in his striped bib overalls. Must have been summer as his “constant long sleeves” were rolled up almost to his elbows. Found the picture. See above. I know he would have rather been photographed in a suit, clutching his bible, or behind a pulpit. But my all time favorite shot of my Dad. Awesome.

Grandpa Rich teaching Shannon, 2 how to pray…

Dad’s body was flown to Iowa. We drove and hauled the “Rich wall” along. It was the talk of the luncheon after his service. John carefully cut off the picture I wanted. Lo and behold people were standing in line to take a small piece of Dad’s legacy. I’ll take that as a “good sign” Dad…

Dad dressed up, ready to save your soul…