Traditional things during my life that used to bug me when I was young are now what I miss with such an acute ache, it almost feels physical. Many of these feelings I struggle with are about religion/church/preachers/customs. Not God so much. I feel like God and I are on the same page and doing relatively well, considering it’s me He’s trying to work with. (He said I can be trying at times. Who knew)? This disillusionment didn’t just creep up on me. No, this started well over a decade ago. I was immersed in a job, (a calling really) a church and felt my work/good deeds/volunteerism were needed, worthwhile and appreciated.

I might be thin-skinned. (Ok, I am. No denying it). Lengthy story I won’t get into about issues I have with the church and organized religion. (Ministers and church politics mostly). Suffice it to say, since 2009 my time spent inside a sanctuary has been limited. Bitterness blossomed after my feelings were hurt, and I stopped spending time in a house of worship. And I was ok with that for several years, but find I still have this ‘longing’ for all the things I disliked about church services when I was a kid. I know, it’s complicated.

Some of my friends have embraced/accepted there’s no need to attend/belong to a specific church to know Jesus as your savior and rest assured that when the good Lord calls you home, you’re heaven bound. Most of me agrees with this, but part of me longs for the fellowship of belonging to an actual church. A building with a group of people who worship comfortably with you as a part of their church family. I know how easy it is to relinquish a habit which you’ve grown accustomed. When I’m physically hurt and can’t walk every morning, it’s not long before that daily habit is all but forgotten. Same thing when going to church on Sunday morning stops. Pretty soon it’s hardly missed. Not a feeling I’m comfortable with. Makes me uneasy.

First Reformed, the one I consider my home church, Rock Valley, Iowa…

We’ve been back in Jackson for 6 years. When we moved to Jackson the first time (from 1987-1994) we never went to church. It was like we moved out of Iowa and lost our religion. We had been very active in Davenport. But that would change during our 21 years in North Muskegon. Fifteen of those years were church infused. Equal parts of fulfilling and frustrating. The last couple years were downright unhappy-church wise. Once we settled back in Jackson, ‘going to church’ fell by the wayside. Again.

But I got this hankering. Something’s missing. So I’m church shopping again. Sigh. I’ve been to 7 churches so far. I might be too picky. Seems like all the ‘old-fashioned’ church service customs/traditions/music I ‘crave’ are like me, worn out and no longer relevant. In roughly 20 worship services I’ve not heard the Lord’s Prayer or The Apostle Creed. Not once. Same goes for any responsive reading-save for one church who does their scripture reading responsively. No liturgy before Communion. Only a couple churches offered a bulletin. When I asked for one, a gal responded, “just download the church app, that’s the way we do our collection too.” Ugh. Just ugh. That same day as I wandered around looking for the non-existent bulletin I noticed a folding chair in the Narthex, just outside the sanctuary entrance. On the chair sat a forlorn Communion tray, half filled with the newest fad, ‘hermetically sealed lunchable communion.’ No explanation, just sat there like it had been forgotten since the prior Sunday.

I’ve tried non-denominational, Presbyterian, Community, High Praise, Christian Reformed and 2 Baptists. Any more than ONE loud band-led, drum thumping, arms in the air, including 2 repetitive, monotonous verses sung over and over and I’m out. I just don’t get the allure of praise songs. Nothing excites me less about God than these awful songs except standing to sing them for 15 unbearable minutes. Nothing.

Yep, I thought you might notice. A Baptist Church. Actually, two of them. This from a Calvin Christian Reformed/First Reformed kid who memorized all traditional hymns/Lord’s Prayer/Apostles Creed sixty years ago. But there’s something spiking my radar when I stepped inside this big Baptist Church. (I checked out their website for service times beforehand and was happy to see 3 pastors-2 with small children. Children are a healthy part of Christian fellowship I think). Picked up a bulletin, stepped into the sanctuary, found a seat near the back and was blown away looking where the pulpit should be. Looked like a scene on a movie set from, ‘Under the Sea.’ The pastor explained Vacation Bible School was starting on Monday. Don’t know if this was a kit they purchased or their original concept but it was far superior from when I helped with VBS 40 years ago. Impressive. Slightly humorous that the small portable stand preacher man used for his sermon was sitting directly under a great white but I guess the lesson here is, the good Shepherd protects His sheep from the wolves or in this case, the shark.

Immediately I spot Bibles and Hymnals in every row. Hallelujah! I flipped through a hundred pages of the hymn book and recognized half of them (although they’ve not sung one that I know so far but they are traditional hymns). The bulletin lists several activities for men, women, teens and younger. By the time the service starts I gauge around 200 people in attendance, and I can see I’m in the minority in a couple categories. Not a lot folks with grey/white/silver hair (another good sign of a healthy congregation) and I’m about the only lady not wearing a dress, which I find a bit odd. (I won’t be dyeing my hair nor will I be wearing a dress. We’ve talked it over and God agrees to let me slide on both matters).

No praise music (thank you Jesus, can I get an amen)? A choir of about 20 line up to sing their special number first so they can disperse and sit with their families. Couple of hymns, prayer, announcements, then scripture is read responsively. His sermon explains the Bible verses in detail. Service was about 90 minutes. My reasoning has always been, God gives you a whole week, you can certainly give Him an hour (in this case hour and a half, probably making up so I don’t lose any more of my religion)…

For the first 4 plus years of my life our family of 5 (me the youngest) lived in a small house on the west edge of town. Surrounded by mostly empty lots and fields, a couple blocks north of Highway 18, this was the section of town that would get an enormous building boost in the years ahead. We didn’t have a lot of neighbors or kids my age but I was little and stayed close to home anyway. That would change when we moved a few blocks north and east, into the heart of Rock Valley. Houses in back of our alley facing 16th Street, more houses across 15th street. Not long city blocks, small town sized blocks. On the northeast lot of our block was the Methodist Church. As far as I can remember we had 5 houses and one church in my little corner of the world.

The neighborhood was a mixture of young growing families with a few older couples nearing retirement or already ensconced in their slower lifestyle. Seems odd that a young girl could spend as much time with the older folks on the block as I did with kids my age. A morning spent sitting in the enclosed front porch of Bessie Jacobs, listening to her stories or watching as she hand stitched a doll quilt for my doll that I still have. Her husband worked for the railroad and was gone a lot. She didn’t seem to mind the interruption when I knocked on her door. Sometimes she made me a 7-Up float (sure doesn’t sound very appealing now). Bessie lived just west of the church.

In between her house and ours but after the older couple moved out (related to the Ribbons’ family maybe) was a young couple, fairly new to marriage, their name escapes me, Ver Steeg perhaps)? They had a baby boy named Miles. (I had never heard of that name before). I must have been around 9. I went over as often as she’d let me in to play and ogle Miles. This wasn’t my first baby crush. That ‘bug’ had hit me hard soon after we moved to 15th street.

Her name was Cindy. She was the baby sister of my first bestie, Lori who lived in the corner house of my block. (In between us was another older lady but my ‘senior citizen empathy app’ didn’t shine as brightly for her). She crossed the wrong side of Neese. Although it wasn’t really her fault, she was blamed nonetheless. My parents decided to take a ‘real’ vacation in 1960 and visit some of their sibs on both sides in California. This was in our pink (Canyon Coral) 2-door 1958 Chevy Biscayne, with no air. During late June. I would have the whole backseat to myself-or so I thought. This older neighbor lady offered to pay mom and dad to ride along in our stifling hot 2-door car all the way to the west coast. Sigh. Then she asked if her granddaughter could tag along? I was allotted about a foot of space in the backseat. Miserable trip until we dropped them off. But I digress.

So between old people, a strange family that was a little scary but truly fascinating, babies, my playhouse, homemade swing set, eating rhubarb with gobs of salt as we played drive-inn (something radically new in our small town) and kids ranging from younger than me (finally) to some high school boys across the street, my little corner of the world was sweet indeed. Plus there were new worlds just a couple blocks away-in both directions. The school was another block east and had an awesome playground, a slide that reached the stratosphere (honestly 2 stories tall) and burned the backs of your legs from May until September. So hot but so cool!

To the west another block was our budding metropolis-downtown Rock Valley. Restaurants, hardware stores, dime store, grocery store, bakery, post office, couple of lawyer’s offices, bowling alley, car dealerships, gas station, utilities office, my doctor’s and dentist’s offices, even a clothing store. A true shopping Mecca. It looked a mile long to this young girl but actually was a few blocks long and just as wide.

From the time I was old enough to cross the street by myself (after my big brother Larry was hit and killed by a car while riding his bike), these precautions were repeated daily. For the first couple years I was not allowed to cross Main Street if mom wasn’t with me. It was very wide and quite busy. Our infamous “One Stoplight” was one block south from where I walked, but the 3 (if you count the grocery store) which captured my attention and money were all on ‘my’ side of the street so I wasn’t tempted to disobey my parents. (I was young, there was plenty time for me to get in trouble in a few years when I became a rousing success at it).

The store closest to our house that got the juices flowing was our bakery. Van Olst’s Bakery. When I was a teen it was a frequent stop on Friday nights after football or basketball games because they baked drool worthy confections all night long. The whole town smelled like donuts after 10. Heaven. Pure heaven. Bismarks, glazed, frosted, long johns, date filled bars, cookies, cones with that sickeningly sweet white creamy filling, almond patties, unsliced bread. Just thinking about that smell wafting through town makes my mouth water. And the Van Olst’s liked to talk after we snuck in the back door while they worked through the night. A mom and pop operation who worked very hard, as did their kids to make their business thrive. But my nighttime teen visits weren’t for a few years yet, so I brought my nickel or dime to spend during regular business hours, usually after school.

Life was all about hard choices back then. If I stopped with my nickel or dime at the bakery then I would have no money to spend at Ben Franklin, and that store was the bomb. Near the store’s entrance, a couple doors south of Van Olst’s stood an epic candy counter. Almost a square, missing a couple feet on one side so a clerk could sashay in and out while you were making your selection. Consisting of glass on 2 sides and dark wood, the different candies were divided into large compartments. This necessitated a couple of trips around the loop. Tough decisions in the life of an under 10 year old. A nickel bought a sizable paper bag of chocolate stars, chocolate covered peanuts or malt balls (my favorite). Mom left loose change (nickels and dimes) in a yellow candy dish with a glass lid that eluded dings and chips through my chubby finger days, a miracle in itself. The candy dish was one of mom’s parent’s wedding presents and sat daintily in the middle of our dining room table. If she was at work I was allowed to walk to town and use this money as I saw fit (a nickel at a time).

While I was enamored with the 2 live babies on the block, my dolls at home were just as important. Oh I had a fancy lady doll who had seams in the back of her nylons, and a walking doll (named Cindy, after the real baby on the block) that was nearly my size. But they both paled in comparison to my favorite, a baby doll named Lori Jean (yup after my best friend). I played with that baby doll for at least 5 years. Mom even had a seamstress make some clothes for Lori so I could change her outfits.

One day I asked mom for some money and not just for my nickels worth of candy. I had been visiting Miles while his mom gave him a bath. After she hoisted him out of the baby tub and dried him off, she took baby lotion and rubbed some on his arms and legs. Johnson’s baby lotion in a pink plastic bottle. He smelled so good while she got him dressed. Right then I decided I needed lotion to make Lori Jean softer and smell gooder.

Far away from the candy counter in the dime store was a section for babies. Goodness, I could spend some serious money here. Rubber pants, baby oil, lotion, booties, special soap, nighties, I wanted it all for my baby-doll. But with a limited budget my money would only go so far. I bought a white bonnet and the smallest bottle of baby lotion. Do you know how long it takes to rub a glop of lotion on a hard plastic doll? The friction alone nearly heated that doll to the melting point. These are some of my best childhood memories. Picking out and paying for after school treats by all by myself. Visiting my elderly neighbors, playing with new babies and friends on the block and my favorite standby, babydoll Lori Jean…

We didn’t watch a lot of television when I was a kid. Our black and white TV was in a small room off the living room that had been Larry’s bedroom before he died. I remember watching Captain Kangaroo before school and sometimes Captain 11 after school, but not many programs after supper. Ordinarily Dad had church commitments most nights. Mom was an avid knitter/reader, plus housework and laundry. I think TV bored her, so immersing myself with hours of the boob tube was frowned upon.

For the first decade of my life the only music I was familiar with came from school, church or TV. School consisted of, “Touch down every morning, 10 times, not just now and then. Give that chicken fat back to the chicken, and don’t be chicken again. Push up every morning, 10 times, push up, starting low. Once more on the rise, nuts to the flabby guys. Go you chicken fat go!”

Church songs were whatever our choir director had us practicing for our turn of special music during the morning worship service, or the songs we learned at summer church camp like, “We are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, we are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, we are climbing Ja-cob’s ladder, sold-iers of the cross.”

TV songs were usually the themes from popular programs like, “Keep rollin rollin, rollin, though the streams are swollen. Keep them doggies rollin, rawhide! Through rain and wind and weather, hell bent for leather, wishin my gal was by my side. All the things I’m missin, good vittles, love and kissin, are waiting at the end of my ride. Move ‘em out, head ‘em up, head ‘em up, move ‘em on, move ‘em out, head ‘em up-Rawhide!

Somewhere around 1960 (I was about 9) mom purchased something that revolutionized home entertainment for this family of 3. I think mom’s paycheck was used for discretionary spending and saving. When she had a hankering for something new, she’d head to Vander Ploeg’s furniture in Sioux Center. It was her choice, dad was not interested in furnishing our home which was fine by mom. She wasn’t an impulsive shopper and rarely bought something ‘expensive’ on the spot. She needed to mull that over for a bit before deciding.

Most of the rooms in our house were not big. The dining room was the largest but used the least. The living room was square with a double wide opening off the dining room, 2 windows and a narrow door leading to the TV room. We had a couch, 2 chairs, mom’s knitting basket, magazine rack, ugly hanging light fixture (off-center), a pole lamp, a shelf holding a few pieces of mom’s milk glass collection and a nice early American maple bookcase filled with World Book Encyclopedias.

The new piece of furniture (adding class to the room) was perched on the north paneled wall, under the milk glass shelf. It went along with the early American theme and was about as long as a compact car these days. A real piece of Americana, an RCA Victor Stereo Console (with a genuine diamond needle)! Goodness the times I was scolded for ruining another dang needle. I thought I was helping by removing the minuscule dust bunny which collected at the tip of the needle when I usually yanked the whole thing out by mistake. Mom would traipse down to Van Manaan’s Electric to replace the one I broke.

There was a sliding door on the top of the cabinet to hold records (we didn’t call them albums back then), the turntable/radio (AM, don’t remember if the stereo had the FM band yet) was the other half. Quite the centerpiece for our nondescript room. Mom and I were fascinated with the wizardry of this new fangled way of listening to music. Dad, not so much. I was never allowed to use the stereo console for my music. Once I became a teen I got a radio and small record player for my room. Until then though, I had to be content with the music mom bought.

Records by George Beverly Shea, Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Tennessee Ernie Ford and various orchestra’s playing every waltz known to mankind. Each orchestra record included, The Blue Danube which was ok because it was mom’s favorite.

Mom was born and raised in the nearby town of Sioux Center and always had a soft spot for it (however, Sioux Center was our arch rivals in school sports, we hated them). One day after she had been shopping in Sioux Center she brought home a new record to play. I’d give my eye teeth to have that vinyl today because I can’t remember the name of the quartet and can only recall about half the songs on it when I had every lyric of every song memorized for a couple of reasons. Not all the songs were religious, (yay, I was a kid after all, but some of the songs had a gospel feel to them) plus none of the orchestra (waltz after waltz) albums had words.

I remember the group was made up of 4 young men (college or mid-20’s, maybe Dordt College?) who harmonized magnificently. I’ve sung the few songs I memorized from that album all my life. Kind of strange that the one most often screeched by this deaf person is religious, as if Ernie Ford, George Beverly Shea or the big group of Mormons wasn’t sufficient.

One of the songs was a bit risqué for this quiet household. For the life of me, I can’t remember the verse, but I loved it. The line ended with the word ‘swell,’ so the last word of rhyming line should have been ‘hell.’ Couldn’t have that out of Sioux Center boys, so they sang, “wella, wella, wella.” The song was Little Liza. “I had a dream the other night-and baby it was nice. I dreamt I saw a crowd outside-and they were throwing rice, wella, wella, wella. Little Liza, I love you, Little Liza I love you. I love you in the springtime and the fall, honey, honey, honey. Little Liza I love you, little Liza I love you, I love you best of all.”

Another song was, “Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree. Yellow bird, who sits all alone like me. Did your lady friend leave the nest again? That is very sad-makes me feel so bad. You can fly away, in the sky away, you’re more lucky than I. Wish that I was a yellow bird, I’d fly away with you. But I am not a yellow bird-so here I sit, nothin’ else to dooooo.”

For all my whining about the religious records mom had in the house, my favorite song from the “I can’t remember the group’s name,” was, Standing in the need of Prayer, with that gospel vibe. “It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer. It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standing’ in the need of prayer. Not my father, not my mother, but it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer. Not my sister, not my brother but it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer!”

At the age of 10 I recognized the significance of that catchy gospel tune asking for God’s help, guidance and forgiveness. Sixty years later, nothing has changed. “It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.”…

This young married couple just couldn’t catch a break. Dire straits. They liked where they lived though the house and yard needed work. (Real definition of work, infuse lots of money). They loved where they worshipped. Living just far enough away from parents so they were unable to monitor every second of this young couple’s life. He had quit the job he loved for better pay and hours. She worked too but most of her money went to pay for childcare for their bright, beautiful toddler. But with house and car payments, a credit card bill that grew even though it had been a couple years since they charged anything, they were falling farther behind.

Starting year 4 of their marriage and they both knew some major changes were in order if they were to succeed. So the Hubs contacted a headhunter who signed him up and began looking for a different job. The house they bought a couple years earlier and had lovingly picked out bright, outrageous room colors would go back on the market. The car was a sticky issue. It was relatively new but needed tires, brakes and pads. Plus the payments were too steep.

A friend offered to buy the car for a bit more than they owed. Dave, the headhunter called with a promising job lead 350 miles away, still barely in Iowa. Manufacturing toys-sounded like fun. Things might be looking up. Several couples toured the house and it looked as though they might come out ahead. They were young and dumb and didn’t do enough research on the job opportunity. And the company offering the job wasn’t as forthcoming as they should have been, but with the car and house payment eliminated, a lot of the stress was gone.

The job would require more hours and the new company helped find a house to rent and paid to move their belongings. Transportation was gonna be a problem. The choices for ‘means of travel’ were severely hampered by lack of funds. They had a few bucks but could ill afford a payment, which meant a junker requiring constant upkeep. Luckily, the Hubs was handy.

What Hubs found in their price range of $.01 to $600. was meager. The clunker that found its way to their driveway was a 15 year-old, worn-out, half ton, humongous, white International pickup with two wheel drive. Sigh. But it was paid for. Not one of their smarter decisions since they were now several hours away from the rest of the family. (Another negative they realized after the move was there was only one public school for the whole county. Each little town, village, parish boasted their own Catholic school). The local priest preferred calling this young family “his non-practicing Catholics,” hahaha.

The pickup was a beast. No power steering, 4 on the floor and a cab bigger than their first rental in Hinton 4 years prior. They were living about 10 miles from ‘the job’ so there weren’t many days when stay-at-home mom ‘had’ the truck. A friend convinced Hubs the truck would look better if it was painted any other color than white. In Gary’s department at work he found some leftover red International Harvester (toy tractor) paint which would be perfect. He offered his garage and a paint sprayer for this update on their cool set of wheels. Unfortunately the sprayer’s coverage was the size of Shannon’s 3 year old fist. Took forever. It looked fabulous-from 15 feet away, kinda like dim polka dots. But outward appearances were the least of our worries with “Goliath.”

One of the main concerns with the International was the passenger door. It had a problem staying closed, but only when the truck was moving. No car seats or safety belts to clutter up the interior, just a vast wasteland for a 3-year old to fly from one side (about a block long) to the other. This really hampered any travel when Shannon was involved. The requirements were a driver, plus a full sized human to hang onto the ‘kid in peril,’ to minimize the likelihood that she would get sucked out of the truck during a right turn. But with a bench seat larger than a queen size mattress the ‘hanger on of 3-year-olds slid precariously close to the swinging door at times too. This added another feature for the driver when he wasn’t shifting every 5 seconds. Grab the wife, hang on for dear life so she could keep the kid safe. Going anywhere turned out to be quite an adventure. What else could go wrong? Well.

Getting back to the ‘young and dumb’ part of the equation. They still felt the need to ‘go home’ every few months. Why? They couldn’t afford the gas or the extra mileage on Goliath, yet they found themselves meandering westerly on Highway 20, which was two lane until they got to 35 North near Ames. No matter, the truck didn’t approve of speeds above 50 anyway.

But this particular trip was one for the books. They probably had 50 bucks to their name and were maybe a 100 miles from Rock Valley. They spotted a gas station and needed to fill the beast, but when the Hubs tried to downshift, there was no clutch. Goliath just coasted kinda fast to the pump where it promptly stalled. No money for a clutch, now how in heaven’s name were they going to drive that thing?

Hubs had a plan. With mama in the driver’s seat and Shannon carefully tucked behind/beside her (and as far away from the gruesome door as possible) He-man started pushing. Her job was to have the gearshift thingy in neutral and when he screamed, “put it in first,” shift-without the clutch. So much pressure! She couldn’t slow down or it would stall. But if she went too fast, Hubs ‘the sprinter’ wouldn’t be able to open the driver’s door while she slid over, protecting the kid from sudden death with their killer passenger door.

He got the hang of shifting without the clutch, although it sounded rather bad. (Upon arrival, the family was unconcerned with their zany story, nor did anyone offer help. We were always on our own). They didn’t drive much during their visit though.

Leaving for eastern Iowa suddenly seemed much farther away than 350 miles but the Hubs had been mulling their predicament. They would only stop where there was a slight incline/decline so he could be in the truck, ready to shift instead of pushing, then leaping for his life. Getting through towns proved to be the toughest part of the trip, and Highway 20 hit every conceivable small town Iowa had to offer. Stopping for red lights would certainly cause a stall and if the street was flat, even harder to get moving again. When possible they took side streets, running a few stop signs and questionable lights (turning red) but never got stopped (which would have resulted in another stall). They made it back safely and started saving for a new clutch. In the meantime Hubs continued to drive it while learning where all the slight inclines were.

A year later, the family of 3 added another member (baby boy Joshua) forcing them to get serious about Goliath and the errant door. Money was saved and one day the Hubs came home from work driving a 6 year-old Chevy Nova. Four doors, but they all closed like it just came off the assembly line. Oh happy day! Unfortunately it wouldn’t be long before it (and us) blew a gasket. Literally. The gasket leading from the muffler to the engine blew, breaking the sound barrier until it was replaced. Hubs would replace it, a month later it would blow again. He wised up, bought a half dozen of the dollar parts and hung them on the 3-on-the-tree. But that’s a story for another day…

I give thanks on the day he was born every year. July 24, 1946 is worth mentioning. Taking into consideration I wouldn’t be born for another 4-1/2 years, Larry was not part of my life very long, but what an impact he made. I used to dream what life would have been like had he lived longer, but the decades flew by and it’s hard to imagine my life with Larry still in it, so I tend to focus on short section of my life when he was a part of it. A big part. After discounting the years I was a baby and adding up the total however, not very long. Five years-thereabouts.

I wasn’t planned. Oops. Mom and Dad had the all-American family, a girl and a boy. Money was tight, the house was small, pay on the railroad was not great and I think an occasional lay-off from work was involved every year. Mom stayed home with my sibs but was determined to find a job as soon as Mona and Larry were in school full time. (Kindergarten was half days back then). Just as Mom was seeing light at the end of tunnel after 8 years of marriage and 2 school age kids, I was getting ready to make my entrance at the end of 1950.

I never felt unwanted though. The four of them doted on their new baby sister, especially Larry. He could have been resentful, assuming he was the baby of the family but he loved me. When I was a toddler he let me tag along in our big back yard or empty lots across the street. He stopped me once after a neighbor kid told me we were growing raisins in our yard. They were actually bunny turds on the ground below the rabbit hutches. Larry always had my back. Even when it was a pain or embarrassing.

When we moved a mile away and a mere block and a half from Main Street, we didn’t play together as much as living on the west edge of town. There were more kids scrunched together in the middle of town. The school playground was 2 blocks east, and a shopping mecca to meet the simple needs of consumers-young and old, a block away in the other direction. Where you could buy multiple sweet treats when you had one thin dime in your pocket.

It was 1955 and there were limitations to where this 4-1/2 year-old could venture, but Larry was 9 and had the run of the town. He had tons of friends, was crazy about baseball and shooting marbles in our driveway. He had a BB gun, a Schwinn bike, baseball cards up the wazoo (early to late 1950’s, what some of those cards must be worth today!) and always had a baseball card of a less popular player/team clicking in the spoke of his bike. Dad was a big Yankee fan so Larry probably followed suit. The difference in our ages really started to dictate how much we saw of each other. I was busy making friends. Girls my own age who wanted to play dolls or drive-inn using my cool play house in the backyard.

Being born after him means I missed much of Larry’s already too short life. It still makes me part envious and a little bitter. So many everyday occurrences happened in his life I wasn’t privy to, him just being a daredevil boy. The 3 years we lived on 15th street before he died, he was this big kid who could be gone for hours without my parents worrying about him or getting in trouble. He was zipping around town with Dickie, Norm and Ken. These kids saw the goofy Larry, the baseball crazy friend who shot marbles left-handed. The fair haired, super blonde with a funny lisp. They had endless days with him hanging out at the dump and Van Zee’s sand pit with a small enticing island. Or catching pigeons in the rafters of barns after it was dark. I never got to go pigeon hunting with him and dad. Not that I wanted to but causes me pain to realize how much of his life I missed.

But we always had family time too. Mom cooked supper every night which was on the table by 5:30. Pretty standard procedure, no one was late or missed supper. We didn’t take long vacations, (I’m sure they were too expensive) but I remember several day-trips to Lake Okoboji, the Spencer County fair, visiting the Grotto in West Bend, Iowa, and the dam at Yankton, South Dakota on a miserably cold, wet day.

Larry mowed yards, shoveled snow, helped our grandpa Gerritson and sold pigeons for spending money. One Christmas he bought mom a new fry pan. A little bit on the small side, maybe an 8” for our family of 5 but she was thrilled. Many years after he was gone she continued to use his last gift. The black Bakelite handle had long since crumbled into pieces so she always had a potholder handy when she grabbed the naked metal. That was the year he bought me a small, stuffed brown bear, which I still have.

No matter how hard I rack my brain, I’ve only got so many memories of Larry and nothing I can do to change that. Five year’s worth-not much. The Saturday morning he was riding (my bike, because he needed the basket) bike and got hit by a car remains vivid but horrific. Mom screaming, running in the street after a phone call. An hour later there was no place to park for 2 blocks on 15th street-waiting for dad to get home from Hawarden-30 miles away. Members from our church-wanting to help mom break the news to dad their only son had been killed.

Still, it feels good to write another story about life with my big brother (repetitious, sorry about that). Larry would be 75 today so it’s been 63 years since I saw his beaming smile, blonde head or heard him speak. Each year brings me a bit closer to my reunion not only with Larry, but mom, dad, Mona and the grandmother I never met who died when mom was 2 weeks old. What a day that will be! Happy heavenly birthday Larry Wayne, July 24, 1946 to October 11, 1958…

When you’re young and strong, they’re the mundane chores you never think about until you can no longer perform them. All of a sudden the little things you’ve always taken for granted are not only elusive but pritnear impossible to accomplish. What a difference 5 years makes.

Seems like I just got this 70 year old body out of the repair shop for a routine maintenance check after my warranty expired, when another part wears out, cracks or freezes up. While none have had a devastating affect on my life, it’s become exceedingly frustrating.

Since when did mash potatoes become hard? (They aren’t if you cook them long enough! Some starchy humor). We often have mashed potatoes on Tuesday’s when Ariana and Jovi come over for supper. I blaming the Hubs (that was easy). About two years ago he made fried shrimp for supper (yum). We’re old and lazy and rarely eat at the table anymore unless some serious cutting with a steak knife is involved. BTW, not eating at the table goes against everything I grew up with or we did as a family when our kids were little. We ate supper together at the kitchen or dining room table more often than not. Now John and I fill our plates, and watch a 42 minute program while we eat before I clean up the kitchen.

So getting back to our little shrimp fest. Hubs forgot to turn the burner off which housed the pan of oil. (Had we been seated at the table like civilized humans instead of in the next room, one of us certainly would have noticed or smelled hot oil-I hope). It was on low but the pan was scorched beyond the two days I was willing to try and clean it. Well that was my potato pan, so I had to move up to a bigger sized pan when I’m cooking. Unfortunately I can no longer lift the pan from the stove to the sink, (3 lousy feet) drain the water and place it on a hot pad for mashing. I now prop it precariously on the side of the sink, tip the lid a half inch (doing my best to avoid the free steam bath burn) to get rid of the water. Ten years ago I could lift a peck of cooked beets in an 8 quart pan filled with purple boiling water and drain them suckers. Now I can’t do 2 pounds of spuds. How did this happen?

When we were in Yuma 5 years ago I went to a church craft show with my sister-in-law and bought a small rectangular piece of gorilla shelf liner used in cupboards so tableware doesn’t slip and slide around. The outside edge is crocheted. My purpose was using it to open jars and plastic screw topped Diet Pepsi bottles. Kept conveniently on the counter and it’s worked until 2021. My hand no longer has the strength to twist this grippy cloth and if I do get the lid to budge, pain shoots through my hand, pulsating in the bottom of my thumb for several minutes. Dang it, this is making me crazy.

Hubs ordered a gadget with several sized openings which have tiny grippers which hugs whatever sized lid you’ve inserted. Instead of my fingers and thumb doing most of the work, my supper bottle of Diet Pepsi is unscrewed with more of a twist of my wrist causing no discomfort. So far it’s worked great.

My next annoying ‘why can’t I do this anymore’ is my stinking ‘smells wonderful’ shampoo. The 16 ounce plastic bottle has a lid where the top part opens when you ‘pop’ it up with your thumb. My thumb has decided its no longer going to participate in this daily exercise. There’s not a big enough gap between the lid and microscopic indentation where my thumb should easily be able to snap that sucker open. Most days I can’t get it open using both thumbs. Argh. Now I have to grab the wet washcloth, using 2 thumbs and push up on the lid flipper.

I know what you’re thinking. Just leave the exasperating, aggravating lid off the shampoo and pour a dot every morning, eliminating that minor irritant. However, you simply can not grasp how obsessive I am about my shampoo. That little quirk started 20 years ago when I got hooked on a John Frieda Shampoo for colored hair (by accident-the shampoo not the coloring part. I was still doing that on purpose). I forgot my overnight bag when I was driving 800 miles to visit my parents. Stopped at Walgreens during the trip and bought a set of travel sized hair care products. After using it once I wanted to grow my hair long just so it would be easier to smell. Sick, I know. A few years later Frieda discontinued the hair color treated type, forcing me to buy every bottle available on the black (after) market. Ok, it was e-Bay but every bottle was exorbitantly expensive. And I ran out of the shampoo (but not the conditioner-might have enough for my life expectancy) maybe 3 years ago. No problem because I stopped dyeing my hair about the same time.

Stumbled upon a great Bath and Body Works shampoo soon after only to realize they produced it occasionally. Our local store just started carrying the shampoo again so now I’m up to my eyeballs with bottles of the stuff which should suffice for my lifetime. Should I leave the bottle open and unprotected, my fear is when Hubs is showering he might fall prey to one of his sneezing fits (which last about 5 minutes with wind gusts between a Category 2 and 3). The tile wall is fairly safe but a less than pound plastic bottle of my favorite smelly shampoo on a dinky tiled, grouted shelf would be toast. You understand my concern now right? I should just look for a generic bottle that’s easier to open and fill it with my shampoo.

Here’s my last irksome task which has become combative. Everything gets placed in the sink before I do dishes (yes I still wash them by hand and never use my dishwasher. A waste of kitchen space in my tiny kitchen) that has a lid, like our double wall, insulated water glasses, Hubs loosens them or I end up carrying it into the family room, soap suds running down my arm and I’m about to fling that sucker across the street! The big picture is my overall health is excellent and I fully recognize and accept these loathsome changes as part of my aging process. I have much to be grateful for but that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to ‘pitch a bitch’ about what’s happening in my life that’s driving me to distraction. Anyone younger than 60, you’ve been warned…

Facebook. I love it half the time and hate it just as often. I realize without FB I would have 100 less people that I’m friends with, mostly from my Iowa childhood hometown. For a loner that’s significant and I’m grateful. But FB is nosey and likes to keep track of everything. So I don’t post or comment very often. Pictures of my grandchildren, food or canning pictures and my WordPress blog post that I move from their platform to share on my FB home page. I stay away from all quizzes where they ask leading questions like, “what would your first name be if it was your grandmother’s maiden name?”

Nearly four months ago it started out simple enough. It must have been posted by one of my friends but I don’t recall who. A question posted from The Slow-roasted Italian. Worded like, “Who adds mustard to Mayo when you’re making potato salad?” Oh my goodness. I’d say I started a shitshow or shitstorm but I’m trying to refrain from saying shit so often. (I don’t think it’s working). Well sh—. Never mind.

For the record, I don’t care for Mayo (whatever brand, but dang folks are passionately loyal and vocal on that subject), or Miracle Whip, the brand I prefer and never add either to my sandwich, not even my favorite, the BLT. But something’s gotta hold my Pea, 7-layer, Veggie slaw or potato salads together right? So it’s got to be one or the other as the base for my dressings. In my defense I don’t use one more often than the other in the various salads I make. But if I’ve always used Mayo for my pea salad, I would never switch it to Miracle Whip. Wouldn’t taste right. And I would never use anything but Miracle Whip in my potato salad. Period. There lies the rub. I never imagined there would be such a heated debate on my humbly written comment on how I make potato salad and what goes in it (or even on top of it). “Paprika you fool,” not sliced egg dusted with black pepper.

Anyone who follows my blog knows I couldn’t cook or bake when the Hubs and I eloped in 1969. Not because my mom was a bad cook. She was a good cook but never wanted me in her kitchen or messing it up. She wasn’t eager to teach me and I was less than eager to learn.

Once the Hubs and I got hitched, I knew that had to change. We had to eat-period-and dining out wasn’t an option. (Payday was every other Friday, and a stop at McDonald’s was a big stretch on our minuscule budget). John’s mom, Mag was willing (even enthusiastic) to share her prowess in the kitchen. She was a fantastic cook and baker and I was better at retaining skills if the lesson was visual. So that’s the way she taught me. By standing side-by-side in her kitchen or mine. The only problem, Mag rarely measured ingredients. She just added a dash of this, a squirt of that, a small amount from the palm of her hand, a rounded spoonful, a titch or a pinch to most of her entrees and salads. Who needs those pesky measuring spoons anyway? So that’s how I learned. A few years ago, Erica my daughter-in-law asked for my potato salad recipe, I finally had to break down and make a big bowl with measuring cups and spoons handy. (After she made a large quantity for a potluck she lamented what a pain-in-the-ass it was and it would be long while before she offered to bring that stuff again). Hahaha.

Verbatim this is the comment I wrote: Miracle Whip, titch of yellow mustard, sugar, salt, pepper, potatoes, eggs, diced celery, radishes, sweet pickles, green onion. You’re welcome…

To which I added a picture of a bowl of my potato salad in my beautiful Blue Delft Bowl. Over the past several weeks there’s been 550 comments-about my comment. Holy sh—. Granted I answered almost half of those. Many were positive, heartfelt, grateful and nice. No one knocked my bowl. Duh. A few were downright unkind and most of those were written by guys. Sous-chef? Gourmet cook? Asswipe? I don’t know, but I never answered with a negative comment. Not once. (Although I did bless a few of their hearts).

The words in my comment causing the most discussion was MIRACLE WHIP and SUGAR, followed by hotly contested RADISHES and SWEET GHERKINS. (I mean who in their right mind would add such outlandish ingredients)? Only me I guess. Probably 50-50 on MW vs. Mayo. The Miracle Whip-ers were “yum,” “that’s my recipe,” “sounds good,” and “looks delicious “ while the Mayo enthusiasts were, “Hellman’s,” “Best Foods,” “never MW,” and a gif of Jim Carrey gagging (which makes me gag just to think of him-period).

But I learned a lot about the tastes we’ve grown accustomed to when talking about “their family’s recipe for the best potato salad in the world! And don’t you dare try anything different or change my mind.” Olives, bacon, orange juice, vinegar, green peppers, paprika, Bermuda onions, garlic powder, tomatoes, (my favorite food but not in potato salad) cucumbers, jalapeños, dill pickles. The list of people’s favorite ‘must include’ ingredients was lengthy. Others thought potatoes and eggs were enough and came down pretty hard on “too many crunchy things in there,” “or is this really just a dessert?”

For a gal who avoids confrontation at all costs, it was an interesting few weeks. A couple times a day I’d read through the 40-50 new comments and answer a few, smiling, nodding or shaking my head in amazement thinking, it’s just a picture of the way I make my potato salad. Cool your jets. Be nice. Heaven help me should I actually ever write something controversial. Not in this lifetime…

We were nearing our third anniversary and the year was 1972. We were living in Hinton, Iowa, population-not much. Renting a small 2 bedroom with an oil burner stove which kept the dining room 105 degrees, but the rest of the house a cool 50 something. But no heat worries because it was summer.

We had some great neighbors, an older couple with a spitfire, ornery chihuahua named Ginger (who smoked), a newlywed couple with a long-haired dachshund named Kippen, and Keith and Patty behind us. Keith and Patty were a few years older than us. Keith worked nights like John. Patty and I became friends passing the evenings together after the kids went to bed. By kids, I mean her 2 hell raisers and our little angel. Curt was about 6, Glenda was 4, and our 18 month old, Shannon (the angel).

Our lot went as far back as the next street so Keith & Patty actually lived kitty-corner from us. We plowed up a big section of back yard and shared a garden with them one summer. Emphasis on the ONE. Patty pulled/ate everything before the veggies matured. You know how vegetable producers just take big carrots, clean and cut them to look like baby carrots and sell them that way in the store? Well Patty picked all of our carrots when they were babies, about 2-3 inches long. Never shared or explained her motives. We got some tomatoes that summer because the crop was too much for her. But besides hoarding our summer crop or their bratty kids, we liked them a lot.

Keith brought this hair-brained idea to John. Keith been approached/invited to attend a sales pitch/seminar to buy lake property (minus the lake, which was but a sparkle in their eyes so far), before any groundbreaking took place. Get in on the ground floor while the prices were cheap. If Keith brought along another prospective customer (sucker) as an incentive he would receive a cash gift. The extra guest (sucker) would also receive a very nice gift, but no money. John was skeptical, I was totally against the whole idea. We didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together and we knew it, K & P weren’t in much better shape-ok they might have been rubbing quarters. In simple terms, neither of us had an extra dime to be spending on speculative ‘Lake’ property. But Keith was motivated by those dollar signs.

Being gone an entire Saturday was appealing but what to do with Shannon was an issue. Driving her 60 miles to my parents would cost about as much as hiring a babysitter for the day. Plus we’d have to drive back to Rock Valley to get her on Sunday. Our local babysitter was a divorced school teacher who was in her 40’s. She was a great kid watcher but harped on us constantly about the dumbest things. She was obsessed with our few piddly antiques, trying to buy them from us for a pittance. (We started collecting antiques because we couldn’t afford the new white, particle board dresser for $49.99 from Sears when we were furnishing Shannon’s room. We found an old oak dresser at a yard sale for 5 bucks-more in tune with our budget of zilch). She could not be in our house for 5 minutes without offering to buy the little bit of furniture (antiques) we had accumulated.

This-soon-to-be-lake-property was near Des Moines, about 4 hours away. Since we were their guests, tagging along for a free lunch and gift to be revealed later, there was no way we were driving. We had a 1968 2-door Mustang which had a collapsible front passenger seat (unintentionally-a flaw which had not been recalled) and only started when the temperature was above 45 degrees. Keith was driving a big Chevy Impala which was much roomier. Not too long afterwards Keith would accidentally fire his 243 high powered rifle right next to the Hubs (trying to hand the gun to John in that car, through an open window, with his finger still on the trigger, rendering Hubs deaf for a week. Took out the car floor, bell housing, clutch plate and buried the bullet in the cement. Dumb ass).

With the lure of a free meal, (and Keith’s cash gift already burning a hole in his pocket) we got on the road early. No GPS or Siri steering us in the right direction, just an old, creased Iowa map. The itinerary stated the sales pitch would be the first part of business (so you couldn’t sneak out), lunch, then driving out to the housing addition site to see our future vacation home, visualizing where the lake would be. If we couldn’t afford to build right away, simply hang onto the lot until it’s worth a ton-o-money. Yeah right.

The sales pitch was a hard sell, frenzied speaker, high on everything but life. The pressure was enormous, but for these 2 broke kids-a walk in the park. We knew pressure. We had bill collectors calling. Lunch was a turkey or ham sandwich, a handful of potato chips, cookie and a glass of punch. As his sermon wound down, small boxes were handed to us. Oh goodness, what could it be?

Well, it was a chintzy set of dishes. Orange. Melmac. A set for 4. Kinda like plastic, kinda like rubber. Bendable, like undone bacon. The dinner plates were the size of saucers, the cups held 6 ounces. As poor as we were, we threw them away after we got home and bought our first set of Corelle Old Town Blue dishes.

I don’t remember the exact location outside of Des Moines-proper, where the future lake homes neighborhood would be. I had trouble visualizing the ‘big picture’ with nary a drop of water in sight. But there were some eager prospects looking to sign up for payments in hopes this would be a successful venture or their new home shortly. Hubs and I had no such vision that day, but I think Keith was sorely tempted. Patty was the practical half (and the hardworking half) in that marriage and after a couple of sharp elbows to his rib cage, he thought better of signing on the dotted line…

It was a fairly common practice back in the late 1940’s, 50’s and ‘60’s. Mothers hauling their young-uns, en masse to the doctor to “get your kid’s tonsils out. Adenoids included at no extra charge!” (The adenoids part may or may not be true. It sounds snarky though). Our family physician, Dr Hegg performed these tonsillectomies routinely right in his small, downtown office. Many kids in our elementary or junior high had their tonsils removed. The medical community felt it stopped a lot of infections. My Mom set up such an appointment one day in the early 50’s for my brother and sister. Mona was about 8, Larry about 5. The reason I was not included in that day’s festivities was because I was 1.

I don’t know how many sore throats my sibs had before Doc suggested getting rid of those unruly balls in the back of their throats. Penicillin shots were doled out to combat serious throat infections but I think many of these constant infections stopped once the problem tonsils were removed. Mom brought Mona and Larry home after a few hours and nursed them through their recovery. In a few days they were feeling great.

Doc Hegg’s office was about 2 blocks away. I walked to it many times by myself. I was never afraid to go to Doc’s office. Once again I had woken up that morning with a fever and terrible sore throat. Mom would take my temperature, give me an aspirin before she went to work. Doc Hegg’s office didn’t offer set appointments. You stepped into his outer office and sat down on one of the U-shaped bench seats and waited your turn. As Doc called “next,” the person closest to the inner office door went through it. Then the rest of us ‘wait-ers’ would shuffle forward, moving ever closer to said inner door, leaving room by the outside door for the next sicko to start the waiting process. I can only remember a couple instances when someone went-in-out-of-turn (a lot of dripping blood or a broken bone accompanied this particular person. The rest of us were uneasy/queasy with this poor dude’s mishap and just wanted him taken care of and out of sight). Mom would call me at home from work and tell me it was time to walk to his office and get a shot. I dreaded the shot but hated being sick worse.

After the age of 8, I routinely ended up parking my butt in Doc’s office’s last seat, especially during our long winters. People who knew Mom and Dad would talk to me sometimes, trying to make me feel better or offering comfort because I was alone. The only part I was nervous about was the actual shot-which hurt, but I knew by tomorrow I would feel a lot better. Doc was a bit gruff, mumbling and chain smoking as he cared for Rock Valley’s patients. I never had money when I went to see Doc but Mom would stop by in a few days and pay for the shot and office visit.

After a couple years of penicillin shots every couple months, Doc thought it was time to have my tonsils removed, but he no longer did tonsillectomies in his office. (His namesake, Hegg Memorial Hospital’s groundbreaking would not happen for another 5 years). Doc did surgery at the Le Mars hospital about 40 miles away. He called Mom and offered several dates to choose from for my tonsillectomy. I would stay in the hospital overnight. Probably the biggest concern was their use of ether for anesthesia. It was well known for causing nausea and vomiting, not the best solution after just having your tonsils removed.

But I did great. Wasn’t sick afterwards and got pampered and treated to cool foods that went down easy. When I was awake and alert a volunteer came to my room pushing a decorated cart. I think she was surprised that I was 10 years old instead of 5. She explained every “kid” who’s a patient at the hospital is offered a small gift to pick out from the cart for being so brave. Problem was these ‘gifts’ were geared towards someone younger than 7. Hokey little stuffed animals that bordered on embarrassing for this big 4th grader. But I couldn’t let this opportunity slip away either. If they were offering me a present, I was taking something off that cart. I chose a little blue and white stuffed doll with an elastic strap sewn on the top of her head. A small plastic O-ring was stitched on top so it could be hung somewhere for babies to grab and tug, developing their dexterity. That little doll hung on a nail in my bedroom until I left home. Now she sits with most of Larry’s toys in an antique cabinet. I just love my little baby toy because of my bravery.

When Mom came to the hospital late the next morning, she asked if I felt well enough to stop somewhere for lunch on the way home? “Sure do. This sore throat’s nothing compared to the ones I’ve had. Let’s go.” So we drove to Sioux Center and stopped at a restaurant in town. Mom looked the menu over carefully, searching for soups, jello, puddings and other soft foods. She said I could have a malt if I ate it with a spoon instead of a straw (no sucking for a few days). I ordered a hamburger and French fries, best food I ever ate. Slid right down the hatch-no problem. I hadn’t felt that good in a couple years.

What a change when I had my kids during the 70’s, just 15 years later! Tonsillectomy’s were no longer encouraged but were frowned upon. I’d never really thought about that common childhood surgery until Joshua, our middle kid was school age. That poor boy was sick all the time. He’d just get over a throat infection and finally finish a round of antibiotics when I’d walk in to check him late at night and his room smelled like he was baking 4 loaves of bread. All yeasty and sour. He’d be running another fever, his tonsils swollen, inflamed and coated grey, covered with a moldy gunk. He suffered through mononucleosis, an enlarged spleen which kept him bedridden for a couple weeks, all because of his enormous tonsils. But Dr. Miller was required to document Joshua’s infections to ‘prove’ his tonsils needed to be removed before he could recommend surgery. I’m pretty sure he had to have 6 throat infections within a 12 month period before they took out those loathsome things. Our other 2 kids had sore throats on occasion but nothing like the miserable years Josh had with them from age 4 to when we finally got the go-ahead to get them taken out.

Think Josh was 8 when his tonsils were taken out and felt about the same way I did afterwards. So happy not to be sick all the time. In the months following, he grew several inches and gained 10 pounds. Surprised at how hard he could play and how much food he could eat. So Hubs, Shannon and Adam still have their tonsils but for Josh and his mom that tonsil train was a trip worth taking…

We moved to Michigan during late winter of 1987. This was a big change. We were 750 miles from our Iowa hometown. Hubs and I morphed from newlywed rookies to seasoned veterans in the marriage department (18 years and counting then) and had 3 kids, 16, 11 and 7. Although the two states were similar weather wise (more snow in Michigan, Iowa totaled more blizzards), there were many differences.

In the natural resource department Michigan took the prize in water (the mighty Great Lakes plus thousands of smaller ones) and trees (billions and billions). Iowa has better farmland, crops and the meat industry is up to the task of feeding the world. Iowa had a couple of great grocery store chains like Fareway and Hy-Vee, but neither could compare to what became my favorite shopping mecca after we moved to Jackson. A chain called Meijer (Thrifty Acres).

I’ve lavished praise about Meijer on my blog before. A colossal shopping experience with a mixture of (remember this is 1987) K-Mart, Walmart, popular grocery store, lumber yard, drug store combination. Jackson did not yet have Menard’s, Lowe’s or Home Depot. Established in the 1930’s and headquartered in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the Meijer family had their finger on the pulse on how families wanted to shop. With approximately 250 stores in 6 Midwest states, Meijer’s goal was really one-stop-shopping. No need to drive another 4 miles down the road to the lumberyard or bank.

One of the kids need a haircut? Meijer’s store had a barber/beauty shop. Hubs spilled a glop of ketchup on his suit jacket? Just haul it along when you’re at Meijer and drop it off to be picked up, dry cleaned and retuned to our favorite store. Want to rent a VCR tape of Adventures in Babysitting? Stop in while you’re at Meijer. They carried several copies of all the latest releases.

Right after we moved, the boys were playing basketball in the driveway and broke a small pane of glass in our garage door. Hubs gave me the measurements and while I was shopping, the Meijer lumber department cut the glass for me. (We replaced panes twice, after that John removed all the glass and replaced them with wood panels, cut to size at Meijer of course). We had several doors leading outside of our rambling ranch. We bought 4 Forever Storm doors-at Meijer.

One small Meijer section was a restaurant where you could get an omelette, toast and coffee for a couple bucks. If hubby was tired and cranky (much like hauling the kids along) he could sit and enjoy a fresh donut or bagel while people watching or visiting someone at the next table. But he often roamed the store while I shopped because he was as fascinated with it as I was. Don’t bother with a trip to the liquor store, there’s plenty of booze, mixes, wine and beer at Meijer.

Have a package to mail, need a money order, pay your Consumer’s bill, or buy stamps? No need to go to the post office, Meijer had its own postal department. Need a fancy bonsai shrub, some mulch, tray of annuals, a fresh flower bouquet or bird bath? Right, it was all in the Meijer nursery. Prescriptions got filled, Shannon needed a new pair of tights, Josh outgrew his boots again, or a new Bugle Boy shirt for Adam, some marked half off-at Meijer’s. Need a couple of porterhouse steaks but want them cut thicker? Meijer meat department. You can see how I became so smitten with this chain.

With the demise of K-Mart, Montgomery Wards, Sears and others you realize businesses that remain stagnant or refuse to update, remodel or change don’t have a long future ahead of them. And Meijer did change with the times. More stores were staying open 24/7 and only closing a couple days a year. Some people wanted/needed to shop at 10 pm while daddy was watching Sports Center and the kiddos were sound asleep. A couple years after the aforementioned big box stores opened, Meijer got rid of lumber, doors, glass and downsized several other departments that were lagging behind, because there was stiff competition from these new businesses.

But Meijer never scrimped in the grocery/produce/meat/bakery/frozen foods department. It’s awesome and extensive. Why supply 8 varieties of potato chip when you can offer 20? Hubs grew perturbed when he was along because the plumbing or nuts/bolts and screws had dwindled down to a couple of packages of picture hangers when he expected the department to look the same as 1990 before Lowe’s and Menards arrived.

It’s because I’ve been a loyal Meijer customer for over 30 years, (often shocked when I return from a 2 week vacation to find my store is still open-without my shopping or money) an unpaid champion/cheerleader/advocate that I feel entitled/compelled to (gasp) criticize Meijer. I am so ticked off with my favorite store! Because they have incorporated a new sales gimmick that discriminates against every senior citizen or any shopper on a fixed income. I’m not allowed the savings unless I’m willing to buy the number of products the store insists on. It’s a racket and a bad business move. Why should I be penalized into purchasing 3 enormous boxes of cereal so I can get them for 3 bucks a piece instead of $4.50? If I only need one, I have to pay 4.50. Is this really good business? Is it fair? Not hardly.

I realize it’s been a tough year. For all of us. The pandemic, first time ever I experienced empty shelves in the grocery store and shortened shopping hours. For months Meijer didn’t offer their weekly sales flyer that normally comes with the Sunday paper. They still have not recovered because this week’s ad is one newspaper sized sheet, so 4 half pages when they used to have 10 or 12 half sheets. Of the skimpy sale items listed on 4 half sheets this week, 40 of them require a certain quantity if I want to get the savings. Forty. Requiring me to buy anywhere from (2 or more) to 10. So if I buy 9 yogurt containers I have to pay regular price unless I ante up for that 10th one.

Each time I walk into Meijer (we have 2 stores in Jackson) I stop a manager and voice my concerns about their crazy strict sales requirements, hoping they will pass my dissatisfaction on to the powers that be at headquarters. I hate to think my love affair with shopping at Meijer has come to end. But they need to change this discriminatory sales practice to get back in my good graces…