I am a composite of many things. I’m not gonna bore you with an adjective that might fit, but there’s a slim-to-none chance of a new acquaintance harboring these lingering thoughts, “oh I can’t wait to get to know her better.” In a nutshell, I’m a nondescript person living in a descriptive world. Fair warning though, this post lacks some finesse, so if your bothered by minor gory details, maybe you should skip this one.

I’ve never considered myself vain. I’m not fashion conscious and wear minimal makeup on rare occasions. I carry some negative baggage on how I look. Meaning I wish there was less of me to see. I just feel so much better about life when I look decent in clothes. My yo-yo weight issues have kept me company for most of my adult life. I gain a few pounds then spot ‘Will Power’ close enough to become my bosom buddy, only to have the little shit disappear a couple years later, just as I’m relishing his long term commitment plan on maintaining for granted. He obviously doesn’t view our relationship in the same high regard as I do his. (Or he presumes I’m gonna stop shoving food in constantly). A couple years later I grow weary of lugging the extra 25 pounds around when suddenly I see ‘Will’ on the front steps again, willing to renew our friendship. He’s fickle.

I recently passed a milestone birthday. A biggie. As this momentous occasion loomed on the horizon last winter, there was a niggling in my brain suggesting I have a thorough maintenance checkup on some of my parts since my extended warranty had finally run out. (The dude from India just stopped calling). Went to my primary care for my physical and Dr. Arntz suggested:

1. Make an appointment with my orthopedic doctor who specializes in hands. Dr. Aubin diagnosed Dupuytren’s contracture (a thick cord of tissue that pulls a finger into a bent position, aka, trigger finger). I had a twofer. Yay Neese. A quick and easy fix though. A shot of cortisone in 2 spots of the fleshy part of my palm. Ouch. A sore hand for a week but it’s better.

2. Make another appointment with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Carpenter who replaced my right knee in 2019. Now my left leg was bothering me. X-rays showed my knee is not good but the pain is in the back of my leg, from my upper thigh to mid calf. He sent me to a neurologist who ordered a round of physical therapy after an MRI showed my back/spine is in pretty good shape. The physical therapy is for Piriformis Syndrome. Laymen’s term please. My big butt muscle is compressing on nerve causing tingling, numbness, pain and a limp. It’s fixable. PT is helping.

3. Have a thorough eye exam. When the eye doc asked about any noticeable changes I told him my peripheral vision was way off. Hubs strung a clothesline in the laundry room downstairs 5 years ago. When our shirts are partially dry I hang them up (no clothespins, just plastic hangers). As I turn from the dryer, the clothesline is literally 15 inches away and a foot above my head. I miss the damn clothesline 75% of the time on the first try. I don’t know why but that’s definitely different than a couple of years ago.

He wanted to run another test so I went back couple weeks later. He had me look through a view master like device. Simple enough. I pressed a button every time I saw a yellow dot. One eye at a time, the other eye was covered. Out of a possible 64 dots that flashed, I saw 6 with my right eye and 16 with my left. Never thought from my 3 minor health issues, my eyes would take the trophy.

Another referral to a specialist named Dr. Ambani. (The snowball effect with doctors. Still, would rather get a referral from my PC rather than have him try 6 different things before sending me to a specialist). She sat me down and explained my eyelids are so ‘hooded’ they’re covering part of my eyeballs, limiting my vision. One of the reasons I lift my eyebrows/forehead when I read-that movement simply lets me see better. Right eye is worse (I sleep on my right side so it’s puffier). She got out her iPhone and took 20 closeups of my face. It was embarrassing and quite unflattering. Said I should have surgery to remove some eyelid skin/fat (gross) so my eyes will open further. To make matters worse, my eyebrows were drooping and would sag even further south after removing eyelid tissue unless they were boosted north. Oh the ‘gravity’ of the situation.

These pictures and her diagnosis went to Medicare for approval, emphasizing this was for medical reasons not cosmetically. After a few weeks the surgery request came back with a thumbs up, so I was put on the surgery schedule a month in advance. I’m not gonna gross you out by trying to explain what’s entailed in the 2-1/2 hour procedure. Same day, in and out in a few hours, (which turned out to be my only criticism). I wasn’t coherent or ready to go home. The post op staff kept murmuring in my ear because they couldn’t get my hearing aid back in. “Wake up Denise, it’s time to go home. We can’t give you any more medication, let’s wake up now.” I don’t remember getting in the car, the ride home or walking to the house. I slept in my recliner for 36 hours. My head had to be higher than my heart to curb swelling. I was still pretty nauseous, so only a few sips of water and a couple bites of toast during that time.

What I looked like is hard to describe. Part Herman Munster, (but without the gaudy scar because my surgeon’s meticulous) part Bart Simpson, part walking wounded Civil war soldier. My entire head was wrapped in a foam ace bandage, beige colored, mummy headgear, cupping my chin. Tufts of my silver/white/gray hair stuck out everywhere. (My iPad Pro has facial recognition and it didn’t know me for 4 days-hahaha). My eyebrows were visible and my right ear (at least they remembered the appropriate ear for my hearing aid). If I hadn’t been mostly unconscious-even I would have found this hysterical.

Dr. Ambani warned me to leave the Civil War headgear on for 48 hours before my first shower. I stewed about this before surgery but since I was so miserable it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I could shower after Hubs unwrapped my head. Stitches and staples (really the thought of seeing staples in my head sort of freaked me out, but they were very small) dotted my hairline. Gulp. If you took a horseshoe and lined it up behind both ears, that was the section I could scrub without pain or feeling faint. I dribbled water over the front third, gently touched a couple drops of shampoo and rinsed. Pat, pat, pat with a towel. But I felt human!

I needed to keep Vaseline on my hairline and Bacitracin on my eyelids, so I looked like a grungy greaser an hour later. But both salves stopped the pinching and tightness. Only bruising was about 2 inches below each eye, kinda swollen too. I’m astounded at how little pain I had. Hubs cut a pain pill (mild opioid) in half for me 3 times during the first 3 days. That was it. I had 2 ‘spots’ on my head that bothered me a lot but we’ll get to that during my post op visit.

Day 8 after surgery for post op visit to have stitches removed (hopefully staples too). Nurse led me to an exam room and asked permission if a resident tagged along with Dr. Ambani to see patients today? Sure. Sigh. They walk in and Doc stops in her tracks. “Oh Denise, I love your eyebrows!” Me: “I know, me too! Noticed them a couple days ago and thought, well that’s where you guys were 10 years ago!” Doc wants more pictures (if she ever loses that work phone or gets ticked at me, she’s got a lot of ammunition). “We gotta have before and after pictures.” To make her point, she shows me (and the resident) a couple before’s. “Look at your eyelids. They were starting to cover your IRISES! Now look.” Sure enough, there’s a lot more of my eye showing, even with the swelling and stitches intact. The next before picture’s even worse. She had gently pulled the mass-of-too-much-pouchy-skin out towards my ears. Not sure if I looked more like a flying squirrel or a bat. This was a humbling experience. And embarrassing. There’s a strong possibility I’ve never looked worse.

She leans me back and starts removing the stitches and staples. Every tug stings because she catches a hair or 2 at the same time. She and the resident are having a teaching moment which is distracting but ok. “What kind of thread is that?” “Some of it has dissolved already. I use that type on kids more often so there’s less stitch removal.” “Why did you use that type of stitch there?” “Are you married? Do you have kids? Where ‘ya from?”

Finished that small ordeal and she asked about any issues I have. “Well there’s a spot on my right forehead that’s mighty painful.” “Yes, there’s a clip under your skin (oh I can’t even). It’s gonna be very sensitive but will dissolve in about a year.” (I vaguely remember her explaining that). After I find I can still speak, I move on, “there’s a baseball size tender spot on the top of my head, upper left. Hurts even when I yawn.” “Hmm, remember when I told you had a receding hairline on one side?” “Oh bloody hell, I do not.” “Well, I wanted to match both sides, so I hitched your left side up a bit. Probably why that spot’s a little tender.” (Ok, there’s nothing more I want to be inquisitive about. So done).

I’m amazed at how well I see, especially when I’m concentrating on an object, then see how much my peripheral vision can take in at the same time without moving my eyes. Eyes are still sensitive to light but getting better. If I were wearing ear muffs, everything in front of the muffs is numb to my forehead. Think that’s going to take awhile to get feeling back. Never realized until now how appropriate it was when someone says, “Neese, you’re such a numb skull.”…

The month of June has some significance for this lowly, unimaginative storyteller. The name of my blog was relatively easy. Storyteller from a One-Stoplight Town is the way I remember my home town of Rock Valley, Iowa when I was a kid. With one lone stoplight (giving it a ‘big’ town feel for all 1,600 of us). A couple weeks after my 16th birthday, (late December, 1966), I came within one snide, sarcastic remark, a covert eye roll or a smirk of getting a moving violation (ok, ticket) when I was pulled over by our Chief of Police (after finally reaching my first big life goal of getting my driver’s license on the 1st try).

This, the very same stoplight that still makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. (I hadn’t come to a COMPLETE STOP after the traffic light went into blinking mode, flashing red one way, yellow the other. I was heading east, after 10 pm. In my defense, not only a rookie driver after completing 3 months of intensive driver’s education training, (the ONE TIME I raised my hand during the classroom segment, I offered the answer that car gears were sanforized instead of saying synchronized to the guffaws of every boy in the class) but still learning the nuances of a clutch and a 3-speed on the column of a gigantic 1963 maroon Chevy Biscayne, plus looking cool at the same time. Not an easy task for me. I failed, but didn’t get the ticket. A win, really.

Fast forward to eight years ago, June, 2014. I had been invited to a childhood friend’s house in Holland, Michigan. Our families had been close during the late 1950’s when we all lived in the same small Dutch community in northwest Iowa. My tribe of 5 (I was 7 at the time) had been shattered by a horrible accident which claimed the life of my 12 year old brother Larry. My friend Marlys and her family went to the same church as we did and her parents offered friendship and comfort during our loss. Not long after Larry’s death, the Kempema’s moved to Michigan and the Gerritson brood of 4 stayed in Rock Valley. We lost touch.

Marlys and I reconnected over 50 years later through a nostalgic site called, If you grew up in Rock Valley, Iowa. Comments on posts back and forth made us realize a lifetime ago we had been friends as kids. She was kind about my comments and said, “I hope you’re blogging Denise. You have a lot of words to get out there.” (I had never heard of a blog. I was pretty inept in the technical departments of cell phones, computers and iPads). Although I was slow to catch up with all the technology I was the proud owner of my first iPad and determined to realize its potential.

Miracles never cease. Marlys and I discovered we now lived only 45 miles from each other. She was computer savvy (like my son Joshua but he lived 180 miles away and was busy running his own company. Couldn’t really infringe on a lot of his time. However, Marlys graciously offered to show me the ropes (easy-peasy) of all things bloggy. After choosing a day, I drove over to renew our friendship in person and enjoy her hospitality, lunch and lovely home.

After lunch, Marlys pulled up her recent account (blog) about a trip she and Jim had taken after they retired. My interest was piqued. But could I do this? One of her first suggestions was to use my PC for the blog. Ugh, disappointed. I had just spent a fortune on an iPad mini with the most memory available. Sadly I said, “sorry Mar, if I can’t do this on my mini, it’s not gonna happen.”

Her fingers flew from her PC to my iPad looking at different blogging backgrounds, fonts, borders, which side I preferred for my archives to be on (what exactly was that anyway?). She encouraged me to use real names and to be truthful. I did reach out to my kids beforehand for permission, kinda promising I would do my best to not hurt their feelings or mortify them completely with my stories. Still, if my teenage angst, crushes, cliques blunders, petty crimes and misdemeanors were put out there for all to see, some of their outrageous antics would appear now and then too.

Since Marlys had made daily entries of their retirement trip (maybe a month long?) so that’s the length of commitment time I gave my blog. Logical, right? I knew I couldn’t write a story everyday though. My life is mundane, boring and often isolated. Who wants to hear about that? No one. I never imagined my blog in the long term. I had no agenda.

My only real ‘blogging goal’ was Larry. I started blogging when I was 63, and he had been gone for almost 55 years. But the memories I held about him (and us) were vivid and needed to be written down before I couldn’t remember anymore. The black and white pictures of him that somehow managed to convey how snow white/blonde his hair was, (while mine was mousey brown). How could I not write about his endearing lisp and make folks smile about the way he talked? “Motha, can I have a quata?” (Small issue with his R’s) His love for baseball, (he was a lefty) shooting marbles on our pea gravel driveway, catching pigeons in the rafters of farmer’s barns with dad. Oh my gosh I had so much to say!

I left that afternoon full of enthusiastic hope! By the time I had driven 45 miles, I was filled with misgivings. I can’t write, I’m not a writer. My 4-year-old great-granddaughter Jovi’s vocabulary is more extensive than mine. But my stories about Larry and our childhood were tumbling out of my head faster than I could type. If I proofread until there were no mistakes, typos, punctuation errors, and use better sentence/paragraph structure, I’d still be on my first story. No, these are my stories. I write for me. How my childhood, me-the-teen, marriage and motherhood has been perceived. By me. The good, the bad, the ugly and sometimes even mildly amusing. But they’re all mine. Ah-ah-ah.

Eight years and counting, I’m still here. Unbelievable. Whether I’ve exhumed some long-forgotten memory or a minor life event like grocery shopping last week, I’m just not done. Yet. After I whipped out the first 30 stories from mid-June through September of 2014, I called Joshua (my tech guru). “I need my stories published in a book. One book, just for me. Would if the Internet disappears? What happens when I’m in a nursing home and can’t remember shit? I need my stories next to me. They’ll be volunteers who can read me a couple stories at night, but I need them, literally, on my person. Really Josh, I’m serious.” He laughed, “Ma, you gotta write for awhile. Then I’ll get your stories in hardcover for your stint in the home.” (Maybe he thought I’d get better or get over it. Fat chance with either one buddy).

It all started with stories about Larry, eight years ago. With lots of help from Marlys and Joshua. Many thanks to both of them. This is story number 361, June 2, 2021. Still missing my big brother. And waiting on my tech guru. That book’s gonna be mighty heavy for this old lady to haul around…

When we moved 6 years ago, we downsized considerably. Current house is about 1,000 feet smaller than North Muskegon’s and all on one floor. The biggest plus is it’s substantially closer to our three kids. Consequently, several of our antique furniture pieces needed to find new homes. We (it was me) picked our dearest treasures and the ones without a lot of family history intertwined in their refinishing, grain and scratches moved to family members who had years to go before they need to downsize.

The next few months were spent making this new, smaller space our own. New driveway, sidewalk, deck, central air unit, paint, flooring, appliances, landscaping, tree removal. The house was built in 1963. Part of a large housing development of reasonably priced, smaller homes destined to be either a starter home or a finishing one (the category we now find ourselves). Several years later, (but way before we came to call it home) the single attached garage was converted into a family room and a 2-1/2 stall garage was added a few feet in back of the house.

The smallest room ended up needing the most work (and money so far, but we’ve yet to tackle painting the kitchen cupboards, new countertops and sink). The bathroom needed to be gutted to the studs. With closet space and storage at a premium, everything we own needed to find a permanent place in this home. As you stood in the bathroom doorway, just to the left was a clothes chute. Goodness, that’s just so 1963. My first thought was to ask Duke (contractor and super all around guy) to eliminate the chute in the wall. But unless I wanted to hang a clothes hamper/laundry basket from the ceiling, there was not a handy spot within 20 feet to toss your dirty socks and undies, so we decided to keep the laundry chute. Keeping a laundry basket in the basement, everything landed about 3 feet from the washer. Well how practical is that?

Keeping the laundry chute was a good idea. Kind of reminiscent of a different era of family life. The chute door has its own little squeak, which originates from the springs to keep the chute door closed. It doesn’t snap shut, just slowly squeaks its way closed once the clothes have plopped in the basket. Once in a while a bath towel clogs the chute if it’s bunched up, only to have me discover days later half of a laundry basket filling the wooden trough. I can usually slink my arm deep enough to loosen the traffic jam of grungy duds.

Our granddaughter Ariana and 4-year-old great-granddaughter Jovi have come over for supper on Tuesday’s almost as long as Jovi’s been on this earth (thanks God, she’s just the best, ok, they’re both pretty great). Neither are fussy eaters and I’m all about comfort food. They’re both addicted to mashed potatoes, so often it’s stuffed chicken or a beef roast.

Invariably, Jovi will have to use the rest room sometime during the meal. She no longer requires one of us to be nearby, usually leaving the table with her own set of instructions, “I need some privacy please.” We can hear her singing or talking while she gets the job done. If I’ve not put the small step stool by the sink, she might ask for help with washing her hands, otherwise she’s pretty independent and needs no assistance.

About a month ago, on a Wednesday, I went downstairs to get some meat out of the freezer. Glanced at the laundry basket to determine if I needed to start a load and noticed a full roll of Northern toilet tissue perched on top of the soiled laundry. Jovi! The little stinker! Once upstairs I held the roll for Hubs to see. Raising his eyebrows he queried, “Where’d you get that?” “Umm, it was on top of the laundry basket downstairs.” “Jovi,” he asked with a laugh? “That would be my guess,” I said as we admired her ingenuity.

The following Tuesday during supper I said, “hey Jovi, did you throw anything down the clothes chute when you were bathroom last week?” Her eyes went from grandpa to mommy to me, wondering if or how much trouble she might be in. “Yeah, I throwed toilet paper down there,” she answered nonchalantly.

None of could disguise our smiles around the table and Jovi knew immediately she was not in trouble. I however, should have been given 30 lashes with a wet noodle for bringing it up in the first place. Because we have now created a laundry chute monster. I swear she thinks long and hard all through the week what can be tossed down the chute when she’s here on Tuesday.

The next week, 2 mega rolls were downstairs. I keep extra rolls of TP in a small antique wooden box. Again, because there’s not an inch of extra space to be wasted this box sets right next to the heat register in our narrow bathroom. The following week, I decided to just leave the wooden box empty and put the extra rolls in the linen closet until after Tuesday’s supper. Wednesday morning we found 2 long strips of loose tissue (which appeared unused-at least I hoped so) and my new TV guide (which is kept in the family room, not the bathroom).

Two weeks ago my nighttime sweats (I hang them on the outside shower door railing) were no where to be found (haha, I knew where they were-all crumpled). Last week Tuesday, as I was changing from my (now clean night sweatpants) to my pj shorts, I discovered they had somehow disappeared during her new supper ritual would be my guess.

I know sooner or later Jovi’s going to tire or forget her Tuesday bathroom antics. Until she does I’m not sure how far I wanna take trying to eliminate the closest items she can grab to toss down the chute. If I get rid of everything within her reach, will she continue to search for something/anything to pitch into the squeaky door of darkness? Probably. So far, my toothbrush has remained unscathed and in its designated holder every week. A bit of a stretch for her near the back of the vanity, yet it’s remained in place (and dry) after she and Ari have headed home…

In 1969 we discreetly decided to elope. No one needed to know beforehand. (My folks, well my mom, had done her darnedest to break us up. Multiple times). There were a couple glitches we needed to figure out first. One was the dang newspaper in Sioux City. The Journal published all marriage licenses, making it impossible for us to get hitched at the Woodbury County courthouse because half of our home town 60 miles due south subscribed to that daily publication. Everyone would know by 7 am, after one person read our names. (Small town living). Luckily Sioux City bordered 2 other states, Nebraska and South Dakota so we could just get married in either one. But we needed to have 2 witnesses to sign our marriage license after the ceremony. We both had friends in Sioux City but really didn’t want anyone in on our little caper.

A few months prior, John (Hubs to be) was working at the television station KTIV. Most of his coworkers worked the night shift so they were not available. A friend from Rock Valley had just graduated from college and landed his first teaching job in South Sioux City. Since he’d hadn’t gotten paid yet he was planning on living in his car for the first month because he was broke. John rented a larger apartment and offered to share it with Dale, and pay all the bills until his big paychecks started rolling in. Dale paid him back immediately which took about every penny he had just gotten for a month of teaching. Many days after I got out of work and meandered to their apartment to find Dale sitting on the front porch railing, barefoot, wearing cutoffs, strumming his guitar.

We decided Dale was the most logical person to bring into the fold about our diabolical plan to wed under the cloak of secrecy before our parents found out. He said he’d be honored to stand up for us. Nothing fancy, 10 minutes, start to finish. Ok, one down, one to go. But who could we trust to not spill the beans until it was legal? Dale actually came up with a good idea. He knew another rookie teacher who would be happy to sign his John Henry on our legal document for a burger and a beer. Funny how those 2 guys came through as witnesses for our wedding ceremony (which is now working on anniversary number 52).

Hubs was instrumental into the way life turned out for Dale. They were having a beer together one night when John tapped a gal. Insulted she turned around and slugged Dale, thinking it had been him. One flirtatious thing led to another and not too long afterwards Dale and Beth got married.

It was the summer of 1971 and our new baby girl was 8 months old. We dropped Shannon off at my parents house and headed to Minnesota. Hubs and I had discovered a vacation hideaway that we were sharing with 2 other couples for the long weekend. It was Lake Shoakatan, a small lake and not many vacationers. We were joined John’s brother Arly and his new bride, Vicky and Dale and his new bride, Beth. It was kinda weird because I knew the guys much better than either of the girls. John’s brother Jimmy loaned us his boat which proved to be the fodder for jokes for years to come.

First Arly (a Navy man) was in the boat but the rest of us were not. Hubs threw him a rope which Arly promptly let go of and started drifting away. (To his credit, he thought he could just start the motor and back up for us). But Hubs had not put gas in the tank yet, so he slogged out to retrieve his brother and the boat. Then plopped down in the shallow water with his legs wrapped around the bow while he filled the tank, spilling about half of it on his crotch. He yelped like a junior high school girl and sprung outta that water like a Jack-in-the-box, trying in vain to soothe his nether-regions, while the rest of us howled on the shore.

Once we were all safely aboard and seated our goal for the afternoon was for all 3 girls to ‘get up’ on skis. Beth got up immediately. When they swung the boat around to pick her up Dale was full of praise on how well she did. Then he said, “now I’m gonna teach you how to swim.” (Holy shit). Vicky had a bit more trouble getting her long, slim body up but after a couple of tries she did well too. I was up next. It took me several attempts but I was finally sailing through the water-upright. I screamed at John, “don’t turn the boat, don’t turn,” but he eventually ran out of lake and I swung out doing about a hundred, flipping head over heels and lowering the lake by a foot after swallowing half of it.

What a great afternoon. We were all bushed but proud of ourselves. I remember looking at Vic and Beth. Beth was dark and petite, Vicky, an all American Dutch girl, blonde, lithe and leggy. Then there’s me. Brown hair, pouchy tummy from my 8 month old, yet thinking, you know for having a kid, I don’t look too bad. My tummy wasn’t any bigger than either of the newlyweds. So there. (Found out a couple weeks later, both were in their second trimester. My fragile high self esteem promptly deflated). Hubs turned off the motor and tossed the anchor overboard so we could just enjoy the lake and sun. Unfortunately the anchor rope was not tied to the boat. Hubs stood up with this shocked look on his face and immediately dove in the water after the anchor. Haha, another reason for peals of laughter at poor Hubs expense. (We knew we had to replace the anchor before we brought the boat back. An expense we absolutely could not afford but had to be done).

A couple years later Dale and Beth moved to Minnesota and Arly and Vic moved to Montana. Things always gotta keep changing. The weekend get togethers, card parties were a thing of the past. We tried so hard to move to Minnesota and came ever so close in 1980. Hubs applied for the engineering manager’s position at Artic Cat in Thief River Falls. We spent time at Dale and Beth’s before heading further north for the interview. Beth was kind enough to watch our kids for a couple days (by then we had 3, Shannon, Joshua and Adam, plus they had 2, Sarah and Beau). The interview went great and Hubs got the job with all sorts of great perks.

By the time we stopped to pick up our brood, their 2 had full blown cases of chicken pox so we knew what awaited us after we got back to Spencer. They all got the pox during Christmas break, Shannon and Josh much worse that 1 year old Adam. The job however was not to be. The economy was the pits and Artic Cat was on the verge of bankruptcy. They stood by their job offer and moving us but we thought it would be harder job hunting from the near Winnipeg than from Spencer, Iowa, so we turned the job down.

A few years ago we were invited to Dale and Beth’s home again. They were still living on the farm but had recently bought a cabin on Otter Tail Lake, not very far away, so we spent most of our visit at the lake. Pontoon boat rides, eating out and one of the fanciest homemade meals I’ve ever had. Fried walleye. For breakfast. I kid you not. One of the cutest details I remember about the cabin was Beth’s window coverings made out of birch branches.

While we were there we convinced them they needed to come to Michigan because we were 8 hours from Niagara Falls. (Neither had ever been there). A couple years later they drove to our house, rested up for a spell and off we went. We drove on the American side because Dale had never been to Cleveland. He wasn’t that impressed although driving around the city, we went right past the Indian’s baseball stadium at night while they were playing a game which looked kinda cool. They were awestruck (who isn’t) with Niagara and we enjoyed the biggest bucket of Buffalo wings the Anchor Bar offered.

During our lifelong friendships, this is a sample of the good times we shared with these amazing friends of ours. Last week, after opening the cabin for the season Dale was enjoying another sunset over Otter Tail when he suffered a fatal heart attack. From that laughable weekend in 1971 as 3 fairly newlywed couples just trying to figure out marriage and parenthood, three of our 6 are gone. My whole life I’ve heard older people complain that all their friends are dying. I can’t tell you how hard these constant deaths of my friends have hit me lately. Arly, Vicky and Dale. You are loved and missed more than you know…

I’ve never thought of myself as a women’s libber. I was never tempted to join a march or rally since the last time I was a drummer in my high school marching band. (Go Rockets) It was my choice to be a stay-at-home mom and not join the workforce until much later. It’s never been a goal of mine to be on a stage or in front of a microphone for any reason. Ever. That’s just not me. Definitely not a leader, but I don’t always follow very well either, and certainly not remembered or known for playing well with others. I am mostly content in my tiny group of one.

I read an obituary in a newspaper recently, which reminded me of my mom. Not the obit but the way it was titled. Something like Mrs. Bill Smith. What is it about the title Mrs. that bugs the ever lovin snot out of me? I don’t know but it always has.

I remember mom writing checks when I was a kid. Back in my hometown she didn’t have her own checkbook. My parents paid cash for most things so she never carried a purse (how could she survive? Really? She carried keys, a pack of spearmint gum and her wallet. If she was heading out of town to shop, a tube of lipstick. She preferred blouses and slacks with pockets or topped with a shirt jacket to hold her stuff I guess, otherwise how could she manage without at least a small clutch? But if she wanted to write a check in Rock Valley, she’d just ask the clerk who magically produced a blank check bearing the name of Valley State Bank. The checks from the store were not individually numbered, yet somehow mom kept track of that running balance total of their joint checking account in her head. I never recall them arguing about a bank overdraft. She would have been mortified. I think she just kept more in their account than she ever planned on spending.

When I was in school I watched mom sign the few checks she wrote out like this: Mrs. Richard Gerritson. That just seemed wrong. So wrong. Her name was Florence. Why would she write my dad’s first and last name on a check she was signing? Like she was more of a secretary or less of a partner by signing for my dad. I used to tease her about the signature (but it really rubbed me the wrong way). I think it was just the way married women of that era (mom and dad got married in 1942) signed their name. But it wasn’t her name. Why would she do that?

By the time I got married in 1969, I’d decided I would never write Mrs. before my name. Thought I did ‘good’ by taking his last name, I certainly wasn’t taking his first. My name is Denise (though I’ve been called many other colorful monikers, not all of them kind). Please don’t add anything before my given name. Not Ms., Miss or Mrs. Just plain Denise. Or Duh. Better yet, Neese.

About the same time I was taking such a firm stand on my own self-salutations, there was a gal (gal is probably insulting to her, sorry) who was taking on a much bigger platform on women’s issues. Her name was Gloria Steinem. I didn’t pay much attention to her (remember I’m not a marcher or joiner). Hubs and I were newlyweds, broke but happy. We were starting a family. But mom was suddenly taking a bigger interest in what was going on in the women’s movement.

Sometime during the mid-70’s mom dropped the Mrs. Richard on her check signature. She simply signed them Mrs. Florence Gerritson. But this was merely the first baby step in her evolution. There might have been a bit of defiance on her part or maybe just trying to be more independent. But I think her minor assertiveness that was brewing was mostly to honor her paternal grandparents who raised her since she was 2 weeks old when her mom died. She adored both of them. (Mom married in her mid-teens, so maybe she just didn’t get to use that maiden name of hers long enough).

We come from a long line of Dutch folks with lengthy last names. Many Dutch names have 2 words like my married name, Van Berkum. Neither mom’s maiden or married name had 2 words like mine but both names had double letters in them at least once. (Another quirky thing about the Dutch language, double letters appear frequently).

The line on a check blank where you scrawl your ‘John Henry’ is not quite 3 inches long, because many of us have longer, more complicated signatures than Jo Diaz. Mom gave her name and signature a lot of thought over the years. She finally chose to use her full, baptized name plus her married name when signing a check during the last couple decades of her life. That’s 32 letters plus 3 spaces. She filled up the allotted 2-3/4 inch line, then finished with a flourish on the invisible line beneath with almost as many letters on the second line as the first.

Florence Elaine Wanningen Gerritson. What a hoot!

Several years before she passed away mom was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. After a few chemo treatments she suffered a stroke which affected one whole side. She was unable to walk alone or sign her name because she was right handed. Dad had a suggestion. He often used ink stamps when he bought Bibles or tracks to pass out to the masses. If someone found one of his Bible’s he’d left (on purpose) somewhere, dad wanted to be available for them if they needed an extra nudge/encouragement before giving their life to Christ, so he added his name, address and phone number in the front or back. Simple and easy to use, the ink stamp sat in its own puddle (inkwell). He just grabbed the small handle and ‘stamp’ his name, sometimes with a small biblical quote like, “He Lives, or Jesus Saves.”

That’s exactly what mom did. She chose one of her cursive, ‘paragraph long’ signatures from a used check as her template when she still had beautiful penmanship. The stamp still took up 2 lines like before, long, tiny and neat. But this was a hit. No more Mrs…

The Hubs sauntered in after feeding the birds and squirrels with a question, “when do I need to set out the hummingbird and Oriole feeders?” “First of May is when they arrive,” I replied. I was already gearing up and bought the 2 biggest jars of grape jelly Meijer had last week. (No I don’t feed them my homemade grape jelly, it’s too much work to make it and I don’t want to spoil the Orioles by giving them the good stuff). “Oh, by the way,” he continued, “your rhubarb is up if you want to pick some.”

Memories flooded through me, and my mouth started watering (in the best way). I won’t say something crazy like I’ve had this obsession with rhubarb since I was born. Pretty clear I was about 6 when my lifelong devotion to this super/sour fruit began (I think it’s really a vegetable, but that doesn’t seem right). It was after we moved to 15th Street in 1955. I was almost 5. Our family of 5 moved into one of the oldest houses in town. My dad started remodeling and never stopped until he sold the place in 2005. Our lot wasn’t particularly wide (like most city lots except Rock Valley wasn’t a city, maybe 1,500 souls of mostly Dutch descent), but the backyard was deep. And it was all ours until you hit the alley that divided us from the backyards of the houses facing north on 16th street.

At the back of our lot was a huge double garage with a dirt floor that bordered the alley. Dad kept all kinds of tools and building supplies on a workbench that ran almost the width of the garage. He wasn’t super neat but always seem to know exactly where everything was when he needed it. In the northwest corner of our yard was a patch of rhubarb half the size of dad’s big garage. And it was then I discovered my love for this strange plant. (Ha, I do eat plant based foods).

Mom warned me, “The leaves are poisonous. If you want to eat rhubarb, bring the stalks in the house and I’ll cut off the tops, bottoms and peel it.” (as if I could eat just one-haha) “After the outside is peeled, the rhubarb is kind of wet. Your uncle Floyd and I ate rhubarb when we were little. Grandma Jantje (yon-chee) would give us a small dish with a bit of sugar in it. We’d dip the rhubarb in the sugar before we took a bite. Want to try some?” “Sure,” I said with my mouth full of drool. It smelled so good.

A new business had recently opened in Rock Valley. It was called a drive-in. You drove to the place, parked in the lot but didn’t get out of your car. The menu was printed on the side of the building. Usually a high school girl walked up to your car to take your order. She’d walk up to the window, hand the order to the cooks and a few minutes later she’d bring a heaping tray of food which she’d latch onto your partially lowered window. Dad would glance at the sandwiches and pass out the food. It was such a neat, new concept. Boiling ‘Hot August Nights’ (thanks Neil) and mom wouldn’t have to make our non-air-conditioned house any hotter. We’d just head over to the drive-in for supper. Or a dessert of soft serve ice cream after supper when we went for a ride to cool off.

This was an inspiration in our kid-friendly packed neighborhood. Let’s play ‘drive-in.’ We had a perfect spot in our backyard. Dad built a neat playhouse before we moved, complete with windows, door, even a chimney, which he loaded on a flatbed and moved to our new house. Our busy drive-in had the obligatory 3-C’s. Customers, cooks and carhops. A real pretend thriving business.

After learning how to trim rhubarb it became part of my daily diet all summer long, though not as good in July as in spring. The stalks get bigger and tougher. But over time there was a transformation in the way I ate rhubarb. I’m not sure how this particular change took place. Since we moved we had a lot of kids on our block. It might have been one of the Schmidt’s, Van Oort’s, Hamann’s or Beumer kids, or possibly my sibs Mona or Larry. However it came to be I’m not quite sure, but I stopped eating rhubarb with sugar.

It tasted so much better doused in salt. (For the record I’m not a salt eater, never have been. Don’t sprinkle it on baked potatoes, sweet corn or watermelon. However, rhubarb and French fries are my salt-free exceptions). We’d trim, peel and cut the rhubarb into bite size pieces. Grab a melmac bowl from mom’s cupboard, dump in the rhubarb, add some cold water and lots of salt. Let that marinate. Whatever you ordered at our state of the art drive-in, hot fudge sundae, hamburger and fries, chocolate milkshake, what came on your tray was a small bowl of dripping wet, salt infused, delicious rhubarb, sprinkled with more salt than you could shake a stick at. This is how we spent many days for a couple of our summers in the 1950’s.

After the Hubs and I eloped we moved frequently the first few years, but I don’t think we ever lived where we didn’t have a nice patch of rhubarb for me to munch on from April through mid summer. As I (slowly) learned to cook and bake, Rhubarb cake was one of my first recipes to become a favorite. When I couldn’t keep pace just eating fresh rhubarb with an especially large crop, I’d freeze bags of 4 cups of diced rhubarb so I could make the cake or a new recipe for bars during the winter.

A lovely couple, Ed & Phyl Hopper were on my list to visit a couple times a month for several years when I was parish visitor. One day they were laughing as I was reminiscing about my love for fresh rhubarb as a kid. Phyl piped up, “we’ve always enjoyed rhubarb sauce. I used to make it all the time when the kids were home. I’m surprised you don’t make it since you’re such a rhubarb fan.” Told her I’d never heard of cooking rhubarb to make a sauce (wouldn’t it have to have a lot of sugar)? The next time they were on my visiting list I brought them a package of diced rhubarb from my freezer. Dang, you’d thought I’d catered them a 5 course meal! Plus she still had to cook it. Four cups of rhubarb. Frozen. Who knew how happy that could make someone? From then on I brought along a package of rhubarb, it was no big deal.

Ed and Phyl ended up moving a hundred miles east to the Lansing area to be near their daughter as they grew more frail. When I drove to Jackson to visit my kids, Ed & Phyl’s assisted living place was 10 miles out of the way, so I often stopped to see them. They were taking most their meals in the dining room instead of cooking, so I never brought them rhubarb again which always made me feel bad. I should have learned how to make sauce and brought some for them, but I never did, just grabbed some cookies or sweet breads out of the freezer.

I’m constantly thankful for the amazing/mundane moments I remember and forever grateful for my super sized storage bin which resides from my nose northward. While much of the space is taken up with useless dribble, the silly, heartfelt, poignant, painful, tear producing life events remain vitally important to me. Many have been there over 6 decades, others like the Hopper’s only a decade or 2. (While what I ate for lunch yesterday is forever gone. Meh, I’ve still got the pertinent stuff). You might want to heed this advice. I’m not suggesting you need to blog, but I’m strongly encouraging you to write your story down. Buy a cheap notebook, jot down memories you had when you were young or something significant that happened last month. The special times way back with your grandparents, classmates, kids, friends, spouse and parents. The not-so-great days when all you could muster was a shower and clean clothes. Start documenting the days of your lives. For when we can no longer remember…

Mom started an ongoing, amazing project with my kids when they were very small. Her first priority was only inviting one kid at a time to stay with her and Dad. That way, my one-of-three was the center of attention while they were in Rock Valley. She was convinced each were the brightest toddlers in the universe (which is a pretty standard behavior and belief of most grandparents). How they became so gifted with such superior intellect was never questioned. She knew from my report cards I was not cut from the same cloth as those individuals belonging to Mensa International.

Mom kept most everything, the most-organized-neatest-bordering-hoarder known to mankind. Worksheets from school, articles with my name in the school newspaper or The Bee, the dress I attempted to sew in Home Ec (the reality was actually 90% machined stitched by my teacher, Miss Weiner. Thanks for the help and passing me that year). Which is why it’s puzzling after Mom passed away in 2004 there were a few items I was expecting to see again but never found. One was a red wool jacket from Tijuana she bought me when we went to California in 1960. It had hand stitched appliqués and beadwork and fit this 9 year old for a couple years. After I outgrew it I never saw it again so assume she gave it to someone, which was not like her at all. With sentimental things, she was a saver-not a giver-awayer.

The other perplexing thing which disappeared could fill a 3 ring binder. Twice. She got on this kick when Shannon, our first born was about 16 months and started verbalizing, using the vocabulary of gifted kindergartners. (She was advanced for her age. Guess parents think the same as most grandparents right)? Mom started filling a notebook titled, “Conversations with Shannon.” Brilliant, hilarious, quote worthy quips from their littles (which moms and dads should write down but are too busy, frazzled or tired). But this is the kind of stuff mom, ‘Mimi’ to my kids had been waiting for her whole life.

But when Dad, Mona and I cleaned out their house neither the Mexican jacket or Mom’s conversations with my kids were found. Hard to believe, she must have thrown them out. Or I missed finding them. She had some clever hiding places but these reams of paper would not be something she would have hidden. More likely sitting in a knitting basket next to her chair so she could peruse them over and over while laughing/crying about their content and the sweet memories they invoked. Whatever the reason, I did not find them.

A couple weeks ago my granddaughter Ariana asked if I could pick up her and my 4 year old great-granddaughter Jovi after they dropped her car off to be detailed (real meaning, shoveled, shampooed, hosed, vacuumed and have 3 layers of dirt and dust scraped from the dash and windshield). As adorable as those 2 are, both have issues keeping a car tidy, so they were letting someone else do the dirty job. Where’s Mike Rowe when you need him? I zoomed right past the place, had to turn around, waiting 2 minutes to drive 100 feet before hitting the right entrance.

Ari lugged Jovi’s car seat (which needed a thorough scrubbing as bad as the car, but even a guy testing the waters of new business has his limits) to my car. Mommy snaked her way around my backseat, securing Jovi in her car seat and plops a small backpack on the floor and goes back to talk to the detailer (now on a backhoe). Jovi gives me a 100 watt smile and says, “hi grandma, you found us. Where’s grandpa?” (Guess we are forever known as a twosome, joined at the hip). “He’s waiting for us to come and have supper at our house.” “Ok,” she says dubiously, further confirming we obviously always need to be in the same place at the same time.

She leans over as far as her car seat belt allows and snags one strap of her backpack. “Do you have any snackies for me?” “Ah no, supper is ready and we don’t want to ruin your appetite. We’re gonna eat as soon as we get to our house.” “Can we check the magic drawer first?” She pronounces it do-war. (This tradition started a couple years ago when I had been on a trip and brought her back a t-shirt. I didn’t think she’d be very excited getting clothes so I added some M &M’s and a couple of circus peanuts to a snack bag on top of the t-shirt in a drawer of my dresser) “Sure but if there’s anything in the drawer you have to wait until we have supper and then ask mommy first, ok?”

Jovi unzips her backpack, grabs a small notepad and a miniature magic marker. (My jeep, yikes). Just then Ari slides in the front seat and says, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to write or draw in grandma’s car Jovi. Can you wait until we get to grandma’s house?” “No, I’ll be careful. Will you take the lid off my marker please?” (Who can say no when she’s so polite, right)?

It’s only 3 miles to our house. About half way there, Miss quiet-as-a-mouse pipes up with, “I’m done with your letter grandma. Here, take it.” “Thanks so much Jovi, I didn’t know you were writing me a letter. But I’m driving and can’t look at it right now.” One minute later we’re at a stop sign, so Ari and I glance at the note that’s resting in my drink holder. Mommy quietly pointed out a logical sequence of letters (when you’re 4) to me. With a little squinting you could see what she was trying to convey.

“Wow Jovi, this looks awesome, especially since I was driving on a bumpy road. You’re getting so good at writing your letters. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks grandma. Read the letter to me.” A ‘gotcha moment’! Well played Jovi. My mini-Mensa snookered her grandma. I should have started documenting these snippets of conversations with my grands and great-grands years ago. While there should be a hundred conversations in a notebook by now, this is one of the few that’s written down. But this cute one just popped into my head from about 7 years ago.

Our grandson Graham was about 4 and spending the day at our house. We were making cookies for him to take home. I kept a large bag of assorted chips in the cupboard, milk chocolate, semi-sweet, white chocolate, mini morsels, butterscotch chips. When I opened the bag so Graham could pick what kind of chips he wanted in his cookies he said, “how come you have so many bags of chocolate chips?” “Hmmm, I like to keep a variety so when I decide to make something that calls for chips, I already that kind in the house. I really don’t like to run out of stuff.” His eyes were as big as saucers, he lowered his voice, glanced around and conspiratorially whispered, “does grandpa know how many chocolate chips you have in the house?”

During the grind of every day life, oftentimes it’s the little things that count. We need to pay attention to those. And remember them…

Michelle, one of my Facebook friends (I helped care for her son Nick when he was a baby in FCC’s daycare) posted a picture with both of her boys (Gabe & Nick) the other day. They were creating new ‘family moments’ and having the best time in their new hot tub. That one picture flooded me with warm, watery memories which started 35 years ago.

• 

We were living in Davenport (1981-1986) and had some good friends named Mike and Paula. Mike sold tools to John at JI Case. We were pretty close in age but we’d been married longer and our kids were older. Their oldest son was about the same age as our youngest. We had supper at each other’s house and Paula was nearly as addicted to sunbathing as I was. On beautiful summer days I’d call in a lunch order at Yen Ching’s, ($3.35 for Mongolian Beef with an egg roll-Paula always got some chicken dish) load Adam in the car (Josh and Shannon were old enough to be left alone for a couple hours), pick up the food and head to Paula’s. The rugrats would lunch on PBJ, or Mac and cheese (not Chinese, you think we were made outta money)? Jenny still took naps but Adam and Mikey would play outside while the 2 sun goddesses devoured our Chinese food and soaked up some serious vitamin D. Paula was petite, dark and very cute. We were good friends although I was a bit intimidated by her. No grown woman should be that adorable.

It was more fun to go to their house at night as a family, especially during the long, relentless, miserable winters in Iowa. They had a new hot tub, plus VCR’s (although I think Mike decided Beta Max was going to sink the VCR) had just been introduced so we could rent a movie for the kids, while the grownups enjoyed the hot tub. Temperatures would be hovering below freezing (sometimes below zero) when we donned swimming suits and stocking caps, tossed our robes onto frozen chairs and slunk into 102 degree water. Never failed, after a half hour Mike and Hubs would be too hot and full of piss and vinegar (ok, beer). They’d hop out of the tub, all white with red splotchy skin and run for the nearest snow pile and dive in. All of a sudden there’s 2 abominable snowmen squealing like pre-pubescent girls, racing their way back to the tub without slipping or freezing to the patio. Crazy goofballs.

We really missed Mike and Paula when we moved to Michigan in early ‘87, (ironically to the town where Paula was born and grew up). We saw them a couple times when they were visiting relatives but basically lost touch for a couple decades. Why do I let that happen? I should have tried harder to keep a connection with them. (And a lot of other friends too).

I’ve talked about this before but it’s pertinent to the story. So in 1990 the Hubs and I did something astonishing. On May 5th of that year we both stopped smoking-cold turkey. Whoo-ee, tough days for awhile. Months of unrest and uncivilized behavior, but eventually he got over it. Haha, I might have had a few issues too. But for the first time in our married life we were non-smokers. (Our kids thanked us profusely).

Back in the ‘90’s we weren’t much for traveling. All of our vacation time was spent going back to Iowa. John’s dad had passed away but his mom and my folks were there, all of our siblings and most of our nieces and nephews. Yet we wanted to acknowledge that quitting this ugly, smelling, disgusting, costly, unhealthy habit, should deserve some special recognition.

By the time we decided to quit, Hubs was burning through 2 packs a day plus a pack for me. I think a carton was about 11 bucks, but Hubs never bought his smokes that way (and I refused to use my grocery money to buy his). He’d stop at this drive-thru gas station/party store and order 2 packs on his way to work (which cost significantly more buying by the carton. We were easily wasting a couple grand a year (which we could ill afford). I was anal about not running out of cigarettes, but that didn’t bother him. He just run to Buff’s Party store a mile down the road at 9 at night. He’d rarely ask to bum a cigarette from me. He wasn’t fussy about what he smoked, if they were out of Marlboro’s he’d just get a pack of Winston. On the other hand, if a store was out of Tareyton’s, I’d go to another store. He hated Tareyton’s, said they were as dry as a popcorn fart. Whatever. Didn’t want to share with him anyway.

A few months later we decided a hot tub was a great way to celebrate our momentous achievement to be enjoyed by the whole family. We searched long and hard for the perfect hot tub. Size and price mattered. The business we were dealing with in Brooklyn invited our family to come after they closed one night to try out tubs until we found the ONE. Hubs had already poured a large new patio and added a couple sections of privacy fence because our backyard was highly visible.

We all loved the hot tub. Joshua invited his high school friends over (mostly girls) after football and basketball games. Invariably the next morning John would lift the cover only to discover the scummy remnants of makeup, lotion and hair products from the teens. John asked the girls to rinse off before they got in. It was a lot of work to empty, clean, fill and heat it back up. We had recently acquired some new-fangled technology and were quite enamored with it. A cordless phone. Sure enough, a few weeks later John was hunting for the phone and found it on the bottom of the hot tub. Argh, kids. Shannon had Ariana and was attending MSU full time but still found opportunities to come home (30 miles) and play with Ari in the hot tub. But no one enjoyed the hot tub more than Adam.

He was 10 and assumed it was his personal swimming hole. While I thought the best outside temperature to use the hot tub was around freezing, Adam used it daily-year round. In the summer we’d just turn the heater off. He’d snorkel, dive under to save Ninja turtles, Star Wars action figures or see how long he could hold his breath. We bought a floating table, spill proof, double insulated cups. He could always find ways to stay amused in the hot tub. When he was sick of playing alone, he’d talk Josh into playing games with their plastic coated deck of cards. They spent hours in that tub.

The hot tub proved to be a fabulous reward for the whole family. We were in a quandary in 1994 when we were moving 150 miles west. We were buying a house on a lake near Lake Michigan. The house was fairly new and had a small deck off the back. But the back of the house faced the lake and we didn’t want our view blocked by a hot tub. By this time Josh was in college, Shannon was earning her Master’s degree and Adam was beginning 10th grade. So we sold it before we left Jackson. But the years of hot tubbing with the kids remains high on our list of great memories…

I do some odd things on the second day of seven. Every week. It’s a sort of a cleansing, and I start thinking/anticipating about it on Monday. It’s a ritual. This week’s Tuesday started out when I noticed 2 jars of Parmesan cheese in the fridge. That shit drives me nuts. Not the cheese, but having duplicates in the fridge opened at the same time. I blame the Hubs because of a serious affliction he’s had during our married life. He cannot ‘spot/find’ anything in the fridge ranging in size from a gallon of milk to one lone jalapeño in its own zip lock bag in the veggie drawer. If he can’t find what he’s looking for in 1.2 seconds, it’s definitely not there and we need a new jar/container of whatever. Sigh. I combined the 2 jars and felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Ah, neater and more space. (It’s the little things in life folks).

I thought the empty Parmesan jar might be good for something besides the garbage so I tossed it in a sink of hot, soapy water. Twenty minutes later, sweat poring off my forehead, the ‘stickum’ had not disintegrated from where the label was attached with 8 dollars worth of gorilla glue. I could have bought a set of 6 glass jars with 18 interchangeable lids in less time (and work). Why do I fart around endlessly with stuff like this? My bottle of Goo-Gone was gasping and pushing more air than goo spray so I gotta add that on my grocery list. Better yet, check under the sink first to see if I’ve already purchased a spare. Yup, brand new bottle. Combined those 2 bottles with one teaspoon leftover-which I couldn’t throw away. Argh. Dumped it in a throw away foil cake pan and nestled in the Parmesan jar to rid itself of its sticky residue sometime during my lifetime. I hope. It’s sitting on my counter which is looking cluttered, just what I’m trying to avoid on purge Tuesday.

Noticed when checking the nether regions beneath my sink, I spotted twin bottles of Easy Off window cleaner. One with 2 T. left, the other dang near full. Tried my best to combine them, alas the full one would only hold one of those 2 tablespoons. You know it, couldn’t throw that minuscule amount away either, so I ran around the house like a deranged cleaning woman, washing all the glass on every antique curved glass china closet, bookcase and secretary in the house. By then the bottle had to be pointed heavenward so the tube could suck up that last drop. It’s not that my antiques didn’t need the (Jovi) fingerprints, dust and grease removed. It’s just that an hour ago the simple act of spotting an extra Parmesan container, or the Easy-Off squirt bottles ends up making more work than either were worth. And yet I can’t stop myself.

I’m not against throwing stuff out. I throw junk away ALL THE TIME. That’s why it’s called my Tuesday purge. Tuesday is garbage day at our little house and I’m forever trying to find ways to make our itty-bitty space appear bigger and neater. I’d say I go through the fridge with a fine tooth comb, but just talking about my fridge and a hair comb in the same sentence makes me gag. But I am pretty thorough. Leftovers are particularly susceptible on Tuesday’s. My mind walks backwards trying to determine exactly what night we had that delectable supper. If I reach day number 4, it goes in the garbage.

On Tuesday I want a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging (underneath, what’s wrong with you people)? Any sliver of bar soap, liquid soap, shampoo dispenser or toothpaste tube looking as flat as me goes in the garbage. Kleenex boxes that lift up when you try to pull out the next tissue is emptied and dumped. Any leftover Kleenex are stored neatly on top of new box. Newspaper ads, TV guide with listings until Sunday just might make the dumpster 5 days early. I got those programs memorized. “John, please eat that lone banana. Why not have it with the last serving of Raisin Bran and douse it with a good helping of 2% or I gotta make rice pudding with the leftover milk. Don’t want to waste the milk but the jug’s going in the garbage today.” You can see how this has become problematic right?

Hubs has his own chores on Tuesday’s. He brings the dumpster down to the end of the driveway. Our garbage service comes quite late in the day and I don’t want John hauling it down there too early because-something else might turn up ‘pritnear empty’ like the Bath & Bodyworks foam soap dispenser. If we each use the facilities and wash our hands a couple more times before 2 that sucker’s gone! I need to utilize every penny’s worth of my $27.10 garbage bill each month.

John’s duties include emptying every small trash bin from various rooms in the house and replacing with brand new, repurposed Meijer bags. If you don’t have a storage bag filled with bags for your little garbage receptacles, we are not in the same economical class/social circle. There might be a room or 2 that’s only yielded an errant fallen leaf from a plant or some ploujes (Dutch word pronounced plue-she’s) which are pieces of lint/fuzzy from socks picked off the carpet. These are not exempt from the Purge. Hubs empties them into another, fuller Meijer bag (yes we conserve) so we’ve got 7 more days before we see how full we can get those slackers. (Hubs thinks I manufacture garbage. I think I’ve just got an eagle eye and can spot a bit of trash much easier that he’s able. Yes, it’s a gift).

Some weeks there’s not much in our garbage on Tuesday, other weeks, if I’ve been canning or on a ‘baking spree,’ (that’s what Mom used to call it) Hubs would be hard pressed to fit in another toothpick before he hears the Emmons truck rumbling down the street. He’s not one to leave our dumpster down by the road, so hauls it back to our convenient spot by the back door. For a couple days there’s not a lot to be thrown out (we’re only on day 2 from leftover suppers and I’m pretty good about snagging those dishes for my next day’s lunch, but it won’t be long before I’m giving the eagle eye around the house, gearing up for next Tuesday’s purge…

Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping, left its seed while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains,

Within the sounds of silence… Paul Simon

One of my favorite Simon & Garfunkel songs since it came out in the mid-60’s. At my age however I view the lyrics much differently than I did going through my teenage angst years.

During my late 40’s I faced my first real health issue, although in seriousness, it was barely a blip on the radar screen. My overall health was excellent, Hubs was starting a new business, and our last kid was in college. Finally. (When you space each of your children 4-1/2 years apart, having ‘one’ in college literally lasts forever. Still, better for me than having them a year apart and going stark raving mad).

A small crisis started taking shape around 1998 in the life of this busy 40-something, wife, mom, grandma and Parish Visitor. I began to lose my ability to hear. While this was troubling, I was unsure of how far the domino effect of my deafness would affect the rest of my life. Without a doubt, every facet. I didn’t recognize these changing nuances at the time, only in my rear view, years later.

Upon its inception, the loss of hearing was minor. Confined only to my left ear for a couple years until my right ear concluded it was a competition and tried to out-deaf my left. Sibling rivalry at its finest.

1. I had no real fear of darkness but suddenly I didn’t like the dark. As if I couldn’t hear in the dark, it somehow affected my sight. Crazy. Soon the house took on the appearance of a major airport runway. Strategically placed night lights gave me a better sense of security when I moved about.

2. I stopped blasting the radio when I was in the car. It was no longer carefree fun to sing to the oldies. I had to have it quiet so I could determine where outside noises were coming from like fire trucks and ambulances. I could hear sirens-but didn’t know what direction the sound was coming from-ahead or behind me until I spotted them.

3. Phone calls became annoying after being a favorite pastime. I missed a great deal of conversations and my usual response was, “what?” Luckily cell phones were making great strides with text messages, which has been a lifeline for me.

4. I didn’t ‘lose’ my sense of humor, just my ability to ‘use’ my sense of humor. I always had a quick wit (sometimes even clever) with a humorous, sarcastic, self-deprecating way with words. Now if I was with more than 2 people, I couldn’t keep up with conversations. I’d still be processing what was said 90 seconds ago, thus missing an opportunity to say ‘anything snarky.’ I can’t tell you how much I miss that. I really do. You lose a lot trying to add to a joke 2 minutes late. Believe me, I’ve tried.

But the biggest challenges/changes were just beginning. First I was diagnosed with Meniere’s, which sometimes accompanies a hearing loss. The minuscule inner ear ‘hair cells’ (affected by sounds flying past) were lying flat as a pancake when they should have been standing at attention and swaying in the breeze of sounds. Meniere’s causes fluctuation in the fluid of my inner ear which affects my balance. I get dizzy if I look up or down, don’t feel safe climbing higher than one step on a ladder. Any sudden/jerky movements of my head or laying down with my head flat makes me dizzy and nauseous.

Ever so slowly, (probably 3-5 years) with the stealth of a starving panther, my head started producing noise which goes against the very definition of DEAFNESS. When someone’s deaf, their world should be silent. My head was filled with annoying, obnoxious sounds-all the time. Wind tunnel, dentist drill, chain saw, aircraft carrier, the snowy sound of TV station after it went off the air, live electrical wires pinging off the pavement. The more hearing impaired I became, the louder the noises. My hearing specialist said it’s my brain’s way of substituting for the sounds it no longer hears, so it makes sounds up in their place. Believe me, it’s the only time in my life my brain has ever worked overtime. I begged the doctor for surgery to cut every nerve causing this incessant noise. I literally begged. Can’t be done.

Honest to God, it’s enough to drive one mad. That’s the gospel truth.

I became fairly proficient in blocking out the noise-during the day while I’m busy, working, cooking, chores, shopping. But late at night, my life becomes almost unbearable. Sleep is elusive. For a spell, the white noise from a fan helped. Now I can’t hear the fan, but Hubs has become so ingrained with that particular noise, he can’t sleep without it. Oh the irony.

It’s late, I’m tired and in bed. Thank God for my day, pray for my family and friends. Gave Him a quick heads up that I’m grateful it’s my ears affected and not my eyes. The house is quiet and dark (well except for the 20 strategically placed night lights, but none in the bedroom). The 747 in my head has not received the green light to land from the tower and has enough fuel to circle the airport (my head) all night. When I listen, really listen to the noise between my ears, I’m amazed I haven’t gone off the deep end. How can anyone live with this constant racket? It’s impossible. I’m depressed and isolated. The less I hear, the smaller my world becomes. I’m positive I can’t understand the words spoken to me because there’s so much interfering noise in my head. It now supersedes any loss of hearing. No doctor can convince me otherwise.

Sounds of silence. What I wouldn’t give if this were true for me. Almost anything.

The reason my whacked out head issues have been on my mind of late is because of a guy who made the news. A CEO of a chain of restaurants (he founded) that the Hubs and I frequent. This successful guy came down with COVID a few months ago. Since his recovery he’s encountered some debilitating side affects from COVID. The worst being tinnitus. Noises in his ears/head are so loud and distracting he thought he’d go crazy. (Inappropriate for me to say, “Dude, I hear ‘ya,” because I can’t, but I sympathize and know what he was going through). But not exactly. The difference is the way we came to be in the same boat, so to speak.

My profound hearing loss/Meniere’s/tinnitus has been a long, miserable journey, culminating in 2 decades-so far. Kent Taylor didn’t get that slow, subtle introduction. No pokey decline in his hearing, with little blips of distracting noises that increased over the years. I don’t know how long it took for his full, 130 decibels of mind blowing, gut wrenching noise that never lets up, but it hasn’t been a year since he had the virus. His head full of wretched noise was more of a wham/bam/thank you/ma’am/in your face.

If that ‘full frontal assault’ had been the case with me, constant, unbearable noise you cannot fathom that no one else can hear, I can say without hesitation, I too would have taken my own life. Absolutely no doubt. Sorry God. I feel terrible for Kent Taylor and his family for the loss of his life, but certainly understand his motives and his escape clause…