I was a car buff before I hit my teens, although I didn’t know the difference between a 283 and a 327. Or care. But even as a snot nose kid, I could grasp the importance of this mode of transportation. Yes, for the first time, I was looking at the bigger picture. Cars were the means of getting me from one place to another. Didn’t get any better than that. I have enjoyed driving everything from a Nifty-50 (1950 green Chevy with a defrost fan on the dashboard. Cutest thing ever with a 3 speed on the column) to my favorite luxury car, a 1995 El Dorado, that was an absolute dream to drive, and every car in between the 2 green extremes. I love cars!

I learned to drive when I was almost 13. Right on the streets of Rock Valley (think Mom would have been more nervous teaching me on a gravel road) while Mom’s car was at Santema’s Chevy garage for some reason. Mom and Dad never drove automatics and this loaner from the dealer was an automatic. Mom thought it would be easier for me to learn on it. I think it was a ’56 or ’57 Chevy. I did great and loved tooling around on the widest streets in the county. Much like my obsession after I smoked my first cigarette, I couldn’t wait to drive again (legally or otherwise). Soon I would be taking driver’s training and could drive with a parent in the car.

Driver’s training was thorough. Many hours in the classroom and more hours learning to drive in town and on the highway. Stan Negaard taught driver’s training during the summer. At this point I really didn’t give 2 hoots about classes during the school year, but this class was different. Excelling in this would mean I would be driving very soon. During one of Negaard’s classroom sessions (yes, I did study for this one) he was yakking about something to do with transmissions. I raised my hand and piped up, “it’s because the gears are sanforized.” (How embarrassing, sanforizing was a fabric treatment for cottons. How did I ever even hear that word? I’ll never know). Negaard’s eyes glazed over as every boy in the class started laughing and a couple shouted, “synchronized transmission-not sanforized.” Anyway, you can see I had a bubbling enthusiasm for one class in my life.

Soon Mom was brave enough to teach me on our car which was a 1958 Chevy Biscayne (Canyon Coral, somewhere between pink and taupe-hideous) with a 3 speed on the column. (I don’t remember Dad teaching any driving lessons with me, only Mom). I really didn’t care who was with me as long as I could practice driving around town. The true test came when she had me drive across the railroad tracks (past the Lutheran and Methodist churches) to my grandparents house. Their house sat on the crest of a steep hill, right off Highway 18. This highway (very near where my brother Larry was killed when he was hit by a car) had a fair amount of traffic, but that wasn’t the hard part. The tough part was keeping the clutch and brake depressed until traffic cleared long enough for me to scoot out on the highway. Which meant easing the clutch out, giving the car enough gas so I didn’t stall or worse, start rolling backwards. Yikes. My knees were shaking so bad I can’t believe I didn’t stall it. Luckily, there was no one stopped right behind this brand new driver. You can’t believe how many times during my life where someone was literally up my tailpipe on a steep hill. But it’s been very seldom when I stalled a car. That was the only good coordination God ever gave me.

So it makes sense when one loves to drive, there’s nothing more frustrating than getting in a great set of wheels and it won’t start. It’s not a hard concept. I want my car to start and run perfect every time I’m ready to go. Anywhere. Any time. It’s not too much to ask. Everyone says they’re making cars better than ever and they can easily be driven for a couple hundred thousand miles. Right. I get twitchy when my car hits 50,000 miles. I don’t want a fan belt to fly off, an alternator or battery to go kaflooey, the check engine light to shine bright. I just want the car to start and go without issues-ever. Every time. Every. Stinking. Time.

But I know better. Life is messy and things go wrong with inanimate objects. (I have a healthy amount of rage for inanimate objects). A goodly amount of disdain. Just putting it out there, keeping it real. In my life time I have owned and driven some great cars and fair amount of sour lemons. In no particular order, these are some of my more memorable sets of wheels during my life.

1. The first new car we ever bought was a 2 door, shit green 1972 Chevy Vega hatchback. Shannon was 2 and called it, “my Bay-ga.” The payments were around 70 bucks (that was high for us). I had my heart set on a stunning orange Monte Carlo sitting on the dealer’s floor. But in comparing prices, the diarrhea Vega was around $2,400 versus $4,100. for the Monte Carlo (as close as I can recall). No way could we afford that. But I sure coveted the 1972 M-Carlo for a long time.

2. During some of our leaner years we drove a 1965 International Harvester pickup. The clutch went out, but before we could replace it, we’d park on the top of a slight incline, then push in the clutch and start rolling downhill, then “pop” the clutch with the gear shifter already in second or third. Talk about jerking and grinding! But the worst part was the passenger door kept flying open when we turned a corner. Shannon would be standing in between us and we’d each throw out an arm to keep her in place while I grabbed the fly-away door which was trying to swing me right out of the truck. Fun.

3. I was a stay-at-home-mom (meaning we only had one car through our first 18 years). Soon after we moved to Michigan in 1987, we bought a 1987 Chevy Astro Van (and my first automatic) with 12,000 miles-the first time there would be a car at home for me. Wow. Hubs was driving a 1983 Chevy S-10, meaning we had 2 reliable means of transportation-AT THE SAME TIME. I babied that mini-van as though it was worth millions! It was the answer to our prayers. We were 750 miles from family in Iowa, John’s Dad was critically ill and there was ample room for the 3 kids to stretch out a bit. Shannon got the back seat to herself so she wasn’t required to breathe the same air as her 2 gnarly, younger brothers. Best thing we ever did was purchase 2 Game Boys, which kept them happy and occupied.

4. The most luxurious car I ever owned was a 1995 2-door Cadillac El Dorado. The doors each weighed as much as a Volkswagen. No outside noise, Bose speakers, heated seats. It was luscious. This was after the Astro Van and 2 of the nerds had graduated and were in college and Adam wasn’t driving yet. (We got him a car when he turned 16, no way was he driving my Caddy). If I could find another El Dorado with low, low miles, I swear I’d sell my Jeep.

5. My first SUV and only Buick was a 2005 Rainier. Loved it but it was one size too big because most of my driving was now solo. Kids were grown up, Hubs kept getting new Chevy pickups so we took the truck if we were antiquing or hauling anything. I sold it to Shannon, who was now a mom to 3. She drove and loved it until she hit a deer which totaled it.

6. When my Dad moved from Iowa to Michigan at the young age of 88 after Mom passed away, he was driving their 4th Ford Escort (I think, after they moved up from the no-longer produced Chevette). The Escort had seen better days and Dad wanted something new-and different. He bought a 2006 PT Cruiser. (We searched for days because he would not even test drive one with an automatic transmission). When Dad passed away in 2008 I drove the PT for a couple years. It’s doors weighed as much as a newborn-preemie. But I had fun shifting a 5 speed for a couple years.

7. The coolest, hottest, neatest car we ever owned was a 1964 Chevy Stingray Corvette, 327- 365 HP, 4-speed on the floor. Hubs bought in 1992 and we it kept for more than 20 years. What a beast! We drove it a lot. Parades, car shows, Friday afternoon movies, church on summer Sundays, ice cream cones after supper. He spent most of those years dinking around with it. Lots of new parts, carburetor, tires, paint job back to its original Tuxedo black. It was a fun project for him-like a savings account that just kept gaining interest. Very cool muscle car.

8. Oh the irony. The name of my story implies a Ford Mustang is somehow involved (or maybe just because I love Wilson Pickett’s version of the song-Mustang Sally, Guess you’d better slow that Mustang down). But no, that’s not it. I still feel bad about our Mustang. I bought it by taking over payments from this young couple from South Sioux City, Nebraska. In those days I didn’t have to refinance, they just signed the car over to me. I gave them a small amount of cash and they handed me the remainder of their payment book, taking themselves off the hook. They were about to lose the car so it benefited both parties. The car was a year old with hardly any miles. They had one child and were expecting another so their family of 4 would have been crowded. Tragedy struck a few months later when their whole family was killed in a car accident. Mom called me after she recognized their names in the Sioux City Journal. That 1968 Mustang however, was the biggest lemon we ever owned (and the only Ford). Should have been a couple of recalls but neither issue was ever addressed. The bucket seats were junk. The passenger seat broke almost every time someone sat in it. Half of you would end up in the small backseat, unable to get it (or you) back upright. Even more frustrating was a starting problem. If the weather was damp-between the temperatures of 28-40, it refused to start. Would not start. New battery, new starter, nothing worked or helped. When we traded it in, it had 38,000 miles on it. John told the dealer to ship it to Florida because it and Iowa weather definitely didn’t mix…

My parents didn’t go to church when they got married in 1942. Mom was raised by her maternal Dutch grandparents, and attended church regularly growing up. (Mom’s mother died when she was 2 weeks old. Her father was not ready/capable of raising infant twins in 1927) Dad said when he was a kid his family attended the Methodist Church occasionally but not consistently. About a decade into their 62 year marriage, they joined a small church called Calvin Christian Reformed. My sister Mona (more on her later) was born in 1943, my brother Larry (I’ve done several stories about him) was born in 1946 and the unplanned tag along brat baby of the family Denise, (me) blew into their lives in late 1950. I believe all 3 of us were baptized in 1953 after Mom & Dad became members. Most of the churches in Rock Valley had 2 services on Sunday, so I spent a lot of time in church, plus catechism, Sunday school and children’s choir.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own.

And the joy we share, as we tarry there

None other has ever known….

Thus, there aren’t many Sabbath’s between the years of 1953 and 1987 where I wasn’t sitting in a pew, usually twice a day. I’m trying to think why we stopped going for a spell after we moved to Michigan. Don’t know, we had great neighbors and they all attended services at various churches, but we just stopped going for a dozen years. After we moved to North Muskegon and languished at home on Sunday mornings for a bit, just as suddenly-we started going again. It felt really good-for a spell.

This is my home church…

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine, Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.

Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of His spirit, washed in His blood.

This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior, all the day long.

This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior, all the day long…

My dissatisfaction/disappointment/frustration with organized religion was my fault. I joined too much. Volunteered too much, saw too much, heard way too much, felt disillusioned, but was not ready to give up my Sunday mornings in the pew. When a minister told me September 12, 2001 that the attack on the Twin Towers was America’s fault, I was done. We changed churches and I swore, (sorry God, just a figure of speech) I would simply sit in my pew, (ownership issues) sing the hymns (now lip syncing cause I can’t carry a tune with my hearing loss), say the Lord’s Prayer, Apostles Creed, listen to the message, AND GO HOME. But that’s not what God had in mind for me. Sigh.

When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,

When you are discouraged thinking all is lost.

Count your blessings, name them one by one,

Count your many blessings, see what God has done.

God thought (no, He was sure) I had a job to do for this congregation. A select group from the congregation who no longer attended services because of age or illness. I was compelled. (Think the story I wrote is actually titled “Called”). But with this dream vocation came all kinds of required “church-business-meetings-stuff” which hindered my visits because I was in church rather than visiting. Church politics are unpleasant and not for the feint of heart. Hated every minute. After about a decade, I just walked away. From my wonderful mission and the church. That was 6 years ago and I haven’t been back. To any church. But I digress.

He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock, that shadows a dry, thirsty land.

He hideth my life in the depths of His love, and covers me there with His hand,

And covers me there with His hand…

These two congregations were about as different as night and day. The first one was an encompassing community church. Families from surrounding neighborhoods with lots of children. Much of the service was geared towards children/youth/family. They had adopted a more contemporary style worship. Praying for soccer tournaments that their kids were participating in, youth skits, children’s choir. The second Methodist congregation was more traditional. Sanctuary was 90 years old, with beautiful stained glass windows, and took up a city block. In its heyday (the ’60’s, when the vast majority of folks went to church on Sunday-period) it boasted (God doesn’t really dig boasting so maybe not the best word choice) 1600 members and 3 services on Sunday morning, but had shown a steady and steep decline since then. When we joined in 2004, there were 2 services with about 250 attending, but the member scrolls tallied closer to 450, many who were now my responsibility. But this church was located in a dying downtown where the wealthy folks who used to walk to church had long since moved to the burbs.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide. The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.

When other helpers fail and comfort flees. Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me…

This was more like the type of church I grew up in. Somber, serious, revered, traditional. The size of the building, organ and age of the congregation were different though. We were in our early 50’s and among some of the younger crowd. There was a youth group, though very few kids under the age of 8 for children’s sermon. The church was struggling but not to the point of admitting it yet (it got so much worse). I felt comfortable/needed/loved by those I saw on a regular basis. My list who no longer attended was significant.

It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer.

It’s me, it’s me oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer.

Not my father, not my sister, but it’s me oh Lord, standing in need of prayer.

Not my father, not my sister, but it’s me oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer…

A friend of mine recently posted an article that piqued my interest about different styles of worship service today. Namely big screens versus old-fashioned hymnals. I’m not surprised how strongly I feel on this subject. How can one worship God without a hymn book in your hand? Not possible. Sacrilege. Who wants to look at a 20 foot white screen with huge words (maybe a cute dot that moves below each word to help you keep up because there’s no music)? Where’s the reverence? I love how each song in the hymnal has verses 1-4, sometimes 6, plus the chorus. I know I’m pitifully old fashioned, not keeping up with the times, resisting the new guitar music accompanying praise (raise your arms and sway them-no I cannot. Because it reminds me of being at a rock concert. Where’s my lighter? Hey, I love concerts but that’s not how I want to sing praise to God).

I love to tell the story of unseen things above,

Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love

I love to tell the story, because I know tis true.

It satisfies my longings like nothing else will do…

For over 60 years, the most meaningful part of worship for me has always been the hymns. I love hymns. I have more memorized hymns/verses/chorus lines than I ever imagined possible. I can’t remember why I walked in the kitchen (most likely to snack) but those old fashioned hymns from the ’50’s & ’60’s have been stored in my memory bank and remain secure, loved, nurtured, appreciated and cried over. Many of which I haven’t heard in decades. I don’t know if these old favorite hymns are still popular and sung on a regular basis in some churches, but as a (now lax) Methodist, the hymns that make my throat close tight and my eyes lose focus from the tears, (so most of the time it’s impossible to sing these favorites anyway) are not used very often. What is it about those hymns I sang repeatedly as a child that continue to hold so much meaning for me?

There shall be showers of blessing, this is the promise of love.

There shall be seasons refreshing, sent from the Savior above.

Showers of blessing, showers of blessing we need,

Mercy drops round us are falling, but for the showers we plead…

This non-acceptance/it has to be my way hymn fetish reminds me of a wonderful lady I visited for several years. She had dementia and her faithful husband could no longer care for her. He placed her in a nearby long term care facility and spent part of his day (everyday) sitting/talking/watching tv/reading in her room. Over the years I watched her steady decline. Her use of language was almost nonexistent. Her head didn’t turn as her husband and I conversed. She was in another world and we weren’t privy to it. Aside from being Parish Visitor, I had volunteered (too much-yeah you’re preaching to the choir) to bring Communion to the shut-ins once a month. I took a class exploring the meaning and significance of Communion, and had a specific liturgy plus scripture from Sunday’s service to read. We were taught a certain way to dispose of any leftover sacraments. When I stopped to give Barb Communion, something miraculous happened. Every single time. She’d be in her own lost world, not even looking at me. But when I started reading the liturgy, she’d listen intently, bow her head as I prayed and open her mouth for the sacraments. Every month. That’s the way I feel about singing my favorite hymns holding a real hymn book, not up on the big screen.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free.

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me…

Compounding my hearing loss and the constant noise/ringing in my head for the last 20 years has been a challenge. I have this fabulous antique clock that I can actually hear if there’s not too much extra noise/sounds going on. It simply goes tick, tick, tick. But I love that I can hear that particular sound. It brings me comfort and I find it very soothing. Often a song will pop in my noisy head which perfectly matches that methodical tick, tick, tick. On a loop in my head and might stick with me FOR DAYS! A normal person might go stark raving mad but it bothers me not one whit. (Usually it’s a hymn cause I remember all the words).

I will Sing of my Redeemer, and His wondrous love to me.

On the cruel cross He suffered, from the curse to set me free.

Sing, oh sing of my Redeemer, with His blood He purchased me (He purchased me).

On the cross, He sealed my pardon, paid the debt and made me free (and made me free)

The only incidents I can honestly remember involving birds when I was young was getting pooped on. Nice. I was riding my bike home from the swimming pool and wearing my bathing cap. (a requirement at the pool) All of a “sudden something warm was runnin in my eyes, but I found my baby somehow that night.” Sorry bout that, seemed to good to pass up. Looked up and the culprit was flying just ahead of me. I recall seeing Red Wing Black birds perched on some farmer’s fence along fields in Iowa, otherwise, I got nothing. No hawk flying into my windshield, not one instance involving some kind of bird. You’d think there would have been something in my life that could be brought up, but if there was a poignant, scary, tragic, funny bird story in my life, it’s buried pretty deep.

However during the last 15 years, several times I’ve had a gentle nudge to pay closer attention to the birds that live around me. Equal parts says this happened in my slow-down-and-watch-the-birds-for-a-spell (after I hit 55). Second part were things I witnessed in North Muskegon. Sure we had seagulls flying around but as dwellers on a lake it was paramount that we be able to see the water, so no over-abundance of trees in our yard. The final part of my passion for birds was because of my friend, Rosemary.

Always the early riser, I went downstairs at the crack of dawn one morning and started the coffee. Looked out my bay window and noticed a tussle going on near some low evergreen shrubs in my neighbor’s yard. It was a Peregrine falcon killing/eating something. I did not move because I was afraid he’d flee. (The only reason I knew what kind of bird he was is peregrines were frequently featured in our local paper because they nest/raise their young-uns from the highest point in town). The highest spot in our area was on the smoke stack of the BC Cobb plant about a half mile away (as the crow-er-peregrine flies). Every spring this happily married falcon couple returned to raise another batch of babies. Soon there would be pictures in the paper about naming and banding the rather homely babies. Well this falcon finally decided he needed his breakfast to go, snapped up his meal and took off towards the Cobb plant. I opened the sliders, walked out where he had been to see if I could spot some evidence. Sure enough, a few grey/brown feathers were stuck in the dew of the grass. Sparrow, probably.

The second time a bird made an impact on my life was a nice summer day when I was canning a bushel of Bread & Butter pickles. I heard a loud thump on our front porch. The door was open but there was no one standing in front of our storm door. Hmmm. I walked in the living room, looked through the window and see a bird on the porch floor. Half sitting, half lying flat, not moving. His head was brown turning to a gray back with a black mask like a cardinal’s. The end of his tail was bright LEMON YELLOW! I’d never seen such a bird, dead or alive. I ran to get my bird book (a gift from Rosemary) and discovered he was a Cedar Waxwing. Absolutely stunning. While we had only one tree on the side yard in back, our front yard boasted 3 big pines.

I quietly walked out on the porch, leaned on the railing and saw he was still breathing. He must have flown into the window and knocked himself out. After about an hour he opened his eyes and instead of having his belly resting on the porch, tried to stand on his spindly legs. After a couple tries he could stand. He did not seem frightened of me or nervous about me being fairly close to him. He ruffled his feathers a few times so I could enjoy the reason he’s named so. The ends of his flying feathers looks as though they been dipped in melted red wax. Amazing bird to see in person. Ten minutes later he gave me a fleeting glance and flew to our nearby blue spruce tree. I was hooked.

Lastly Rosemary. She’s about 15 years younger than me and went to the same church. We didn’t have much in common. Her work took her all over the world as a big wig in the retail world of loss prevention. My job was visiting the elderly, home bound folks from the church. Rosemary asked if she could visit a couple ladies on my list when she was in town. Of course, they love seeing/visiting/listening to someone other than me all the time. (No comments necessary here folks, thanks). Rosemary enjoyed visiting her small group immensely and would report to me every month, unless there was an issue, which would mean a phone call.

Sadly about a year later Rosemary was diagnosed with breast cancer when she was in her early 40’s. Although she was much younger than most of the folks on my list to visit, once she had surgery (she opted to have both breasts and ovaries removed as a preventative measure, because her mom died of breast cancer in her early 40’s) and started chemo therapy, our roles really changed. Now I was part caregiver, friend and substitute mom.

Rosemary had been left several acres when her dad passed away, about a mile from Lake Michigan, which was the reason she was moving to Muskegon from Grand Rapids (about 50 miles away). Before she got ill, she had her dream house built. She was still putting the finishing touches on her fabulous house when she was diagnosed.

Without going into her excruciating cancer journey, (I wrote a story about Rosemary in November of 2014) my point was her wooded acres. There wasn’t a better birder around than Rosemary. Feeders everywhere outside, including several for hummingbirds. And the windows of her house made it easy to become a fan of the birds. After a long day at the Johnson Cancer Center, it was peaceful and pleasant to sit in her house and watch the simple lives of her birds. The icing on the cake was her love of Baltimore Orioles every spring. I wanted them at my house so bad. Rosemary wasn’t sure I could attract them or humming birds. According to her, both liked to have a nearby tree to flee to after eating or becoming frightened, but I was willing to try.

I had some success with both birds while we lived in North Muskegon thanks to Rosemary’s encouragement (ok, prodding). But nothing like the variety of bids we’ve watched/fed since moving to Jackson 4 years ago. More trees, quiet neighborhood and I’ve upped my game in offering better foods and feeders. Hubs keeps the feeders filled and corn on the cob hung from a tree for the squirrels. Rosemary would be pleased and thrilled about my feathered friends who regularly dine in my back yard. The birds are too far away to get good pictures, and you know what a lousy photographer I am.

This is our third year of enjoying several pair of Baltimore Orioles snacking on oranges and grape jelly. (No, not my home canned stuff. It’s way too much work to feed to the birds). They show up about May first, eat heartily for 6-8 weeks, then we don’t see much of them anymore. This year Hubs was doing an outside project for a couple weeks near the feeders. Said he heard a different bird and finally spotted him-an Eastern Bluebird. I wasn’t getting around very well after knee replacement so I missed the few times John got to see them. But I was rewarded one morning when I was raising our bedroom shades. There sat a grumpy bluebird in my clump river birch tree just staring at me. I stared back until he blinked and flew away.

Besides the Robins, Blue Jays, Cardinals, (go Cubs) Martins, Red Winged Blackbirds, purple finches, Northern Flicker and Hairy woodpeckers (they love our suet) we’ve added a couple of pair of Rose Breasted Grosbeaks, American Goldfinches and one little Indigo Bunting in the backyard. We marvel at their beauty and antics.

I got a new Hummingbird feeder this spring, and placed it in front of my large living room window. I hoped they would be less skittish if they weren’t close to the other feeders and birds. They didn’t show up immediately but but the wait has been worth it. I can’t believe the difference in size and colors of the hummingbirds. Since the feeder is only a few feet away I have captured some decent shots on my phone. I’m tickled because I often see them fly into my clump river birch from the feeder. My tree is only 3 years old but I can easily watch them flit from branch to branch. I know they can be terribly territorial but I’ve only caught 2 near the feeder at one time giving each other a ration of grief.

I’m envious of bird watchers who routinely hike out in the woods, feast on their amazing finds and post them for the less fortunate (namely me) to enjoy. I’ve yet to see an owl or pileated woodpecker. (I live a sheltered life). But I’m very grateful for the wonderful varieties who make their appearance in my yard everyday, summer and winter. It took me this long to realize everyday life without some feathered friends is for the birds…

Once in a while, out of the blue, a post on Facebook from an acquaintance (the topic which really holds no interest for me) mentions something about their life. At that precise moment it feels like the wind’s been knocked out of me. Not painful but the memory hit me so hard. Bam, it feels like yesterday when in reality I was going through this almost 50 years ago. Maybe some of you (not so young ones) were too.

A young mom posted she was looking for a specific, gently used piece of toddler equipment (toy) for her kids to play with outdoors this summer. Another mom piped up she had one in perfect condition and was looking to get rid of it. A deal was struck. Sort of. This is the part that happened to us all too frequently during our life in the 1970’s. After the seller mom quoted her price-the buyer mom said, “sounds good, but would it be ok to wait until Friday to pay and pick it up then?” How many times during those first few years of marriage did Hubs and I have to wait for something, (whether it was a new shoes, hunting license, fuel oil, haircut, groceries, gas for the car, maybe even a prescription) because we had absolutely no cash to our name? Too many times to count. Part of this was our fault yet we stood by our decision for years. Hubs and I decided we didn’t want our kids in daycare, so we were a one income family. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how broke we were most of the time during our first few years. (Now having worked in the world of daycare with infants my mind has been forever changed. I’d have to say it’s been a wonderful experience for all the babies I’ve nurtured).

One of my favorite old cartoon shows called Popeye had a character named Wimpy (before political correctness ruled the world). Wimpy was always short on cash and used the line again and again in his favorite restaurant, “I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today,” he’d say. That was our life throughout most of the first decade of marriage. There was never enough money to go around. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. As much as I love, love my native state of Iowa, money wise, the best thing we ever did was move to Michigan. Actually hurts my heart a bit to write that, but it’s the gospel truth. Salary, job opportunities, housing was better in Michigan. Education, insurance, cost of living, better in Iowa. Now 30 years later, our grown kids and grands have made Michigan their home, (thus even in retirement, we continue to live here where it snows. And snows). None have any loyalty whatsoever to my Hawkeyes or the Cubs. Ok, they all were pretty young when we moved here, but still Iowa’s embedded in their DNA.

When looking back to those painful first few years, there was a lot of happiness too. We realized what a pickle we were in by the phone calls from the bill collectors. There was no screening calls, caller ID, not even an answering machine. When the phone rang, you answered it. Could be someone calling long distance (which was cost prohibitive and didn’t happen very often). I needed those calls from Mom, Mary Jane, Jeanene, Helen and Char. Didn’t want to miss out on those important conversations. But when the dude on the line was from Beneficial Finance, you’d better have an exact date when they could expect a payment, no ifs, ands or buts about it.

Life could be downright negative if we focused on how little we had at the time. A rental house that was frigid and used fuel oil, a car we couldn’t afford and didn’t start when the temperature was between 28 and 40 degrees, which is frequent in Iowa. A freezer which periodically thawed our meat we could ill afford to waste. But running around the tiny living room was the brightest, cutest, most precocious toddler in the world. What could really be wrong? We were young, in love, healthy and new to the world of parenthood. The best, scariest journey of our lives, shared with a thirty pounder who brought joy to everyone she encountered.

Ok, maybe not every single person in the entire world-but most everyone. We were at a Sioux City truck stop off highway 75, right before you made a right curve into Leeds. Probably 1973, Shannon was 2-1/2. Her vocabulary already rivaled mine. Dang she was a smartie. The 3 which made up our cute little family were waiting patiently for our food. Shannon was peeking over the top of our booth, flirting outrageously with 2 older women in the booth behind us. She’d stand up on her tippy toes, (in her white high top corrective shoes) lavishly handing out her mega watt smile, looking for a response in kind, then turn around to keep tabs on what mommy and daddy might be talking about. But she just couldn’t leave those ladies alone. (Duh, they were truly smitten by her charms. Talking about how adorable she was. And where in the world did someone 2-1/2 get such a head of hair already)? They just didn’t know how honest she could be. Brutal. She gave them a coy smile, then addressed John in a very loud voice, “daddy, why are those ladies so fat?” (Please Jesus, now would be a good time to take me home). Needless to say, it would be months before we dared venture into that restaurant again. Kids say the darnedest things whether it’s appropriate or not. If only we could have afforded to pick up their check. We slunk out of that place like someone had spotted cooties on us.

In the long run, the good has always far outweighed the bad. The formative years of being married, raising our growing family, finding our strengths, realizing we were in this thing for the long haul. Finally learning to cook, discovering the pride in watching Joshua scoot in for a touchdown in flag football or Shannon’s first dance recital which felt like it lasted 2 months when her routine was 90 seconds-tops. Wringing my hands watching Adam, the smallest player on his team walk up with a good stance at the plate and take a nice swing at his first T-ball game.

No, it wasn’t all fun and games. All three had to get through their teens (yikes) with us as parents (double yikes). Not always easy. But they eventually reached adulthood, mostly unscathed. No arrests, no rehab, no hard drugs that I know about and all got college degrees (and then some, then some more). Their successes, maturity and happiness probably have nothing to do with the lean years John and I survived through during the beginning. But when I reflect back on those first years, so painfully broke at times we ate a can of Starkist night after night I realize life back then was still pretty good. The simple truth being, if you wanted your marriage to not only survive but thrive it definitely was not for the weak or wimpy…

Some background for any newbies I might have picked up reading my blog recently. I am the most technically challenged, inept person on earth. I didn’t know how to send an email in the year 2000. Hubs finally bought me a laptop so I was forced into the new century, yet years behind most elementary students. (But I was content, trying to remember where my fingers were supposed to be during typing class with Mr. Tyler). A decade later my techie kid, Joshua convinced me to buy an iPad, saying I’d never use my laptop again. He was right.

Not long after, I received an invitation from a classmate of the Hubs (Ray, 3 years older than me) to join a closed group aptly named, If you grew up in Rock Valley, Iowa. (I did grow up & join). There were about 40 fledgling members, mostly within a decade of my age, one way or the other. I didn’t know all of them, but most. The posts (almost daily in the first few months) from that group (growing everyday, but steady for quite awhile once we hit 100 members) were hilarious, sad, ordinary, thought provoking and off the wall. Someone would write, “do you remember when the cow got out of the Locker plant pen and ran through town? No one could catch him.” (I did not because I was 5 when it happened). Some of these threads would garner 300 comments and go on for days. I loved every minute, being relatively new to social media. (Ah, the good old days when FB was still social instead of one political platform after another).

One of the group’s frequent readers/contributors/commenters had my curiosity piqued. A gal near my age but I simply couldn’t place her. She (Marlys) figured out how we were connected. Our parents had been friends when we were very young and we attended the same church. Her family moved to Michigan a couple years after my brother Larry was killed in 1958, which was still a vivid memory for her. When we started chatting we were surprised to find out we now lived about 45 miles from each other. (Thanks God, that was a good one). Marlys mentioned (in a very kind way) every time I posted or wrote a comment, If you grew up in RV, I wrote copiously. “What others say in 50 words takes you 500. That’s not bad, it’s just the way you write. I hope you’re a blogger.” (I didn’t know what a blog was). I’ll refer you back to being the least techie person on the planet.

Well Marlys had me read a blog she had written when she and her husband Jim had taken a long, nostalgic vacation. I. Was. Smitten. Hook me up please. Which is precisely what she did. Invited me to her house for lunch including hugs and loads of encouraging words. Helped me choose a blog name from several I was mulling over (in memory of our mutual hometown, Rock Valley which we both still carried deep feelings for. Our cute little town only had one stoplight back then. (It’s now doubled in size and traffic lights).

I left her house enthusiastic but nervous. I’m not a writer. My vocabulary sucks. I have punctuation issues and my spelling is dicey. (Thanks spellcheck-at least most of the time). I thought blogging was far beyond my capabilities. But I was determined. Really, who was I trying to impress anyway? No one is gonna read what I write. Once I realized I was writing for me, I lost most of my insecurities. Suddenly all those words and stories swirling around my head started taking shape. This blog was for me. I gave it 3 months-tops and I’d be done writing, stories depleted, memories spent, all out of words. Ha.

The very next day I wrote my first blog post about my big brother who left me too soon called, Larry Wayne. The date was June, 11, 2014. Five years ago. Unbelievable. I thought I’d be done way before this. I just topped 250 blog posts. Sounds like a huge number, at least to me-because it is. So how come I’m not done?

At first I could only write stories from and about my past. Nothing about my present life. But as I’ve said from the get-go, this writing business has a mind of its own. Often I have an old memory in mind, but once I start typing, I don’t always know where this particular installment’s gonna take me. Or how it’s gonna end. This storytelling has been one long emotional roller coaster ride. For me, my blog has been often painful, mostly therapeutic, rewarding, sad, goofy, joy filled, gut wrenching, truthful, and horribly embarrassing. There’s just not a lot of subjects I find taboo-thus some of my traumatic childhood stories. (Except politics. Not ever gonna change anyone’s mind on how I feel or how they do, it just creates hard feelings and enemies. Where’s the social media in that)? Believe and feel how you want, I’ll do the same. Period.

While several posts have been about a long ago family tragedy, some stories have been mildly amusing (at least to me, though not everyone gets Neese humor, which I guess is understandable), poetic and somewhat embellished. For the most part when I’m talking about my past, I cry when I write-and every time I reread that particular story. Although much of my life has not been filled with sadness, but reliving something-even though it was a happy event may cause tears. For example the birth of our youngest son. The story was called Party of 5. He wasn’t exactly planned but we were ecstatic as his due date grew near. (Shannon was almost 9, Joshua, 4-1/2) Adam however was breech, feet first, and my cervix closed around his neck after his shoulders made an appearance. We both almost died. (I’m convinced had it been the early 1900’s neither of us would have made it). Long story short, doc hopped up, straddled me and pushed Adam’s head out before any loss of life. Thanks for helping out that day, God. The emotions of reliving, telling that story made me cry for days. Hubs still harbors a huge resentment because I refused to see a specialist in Sioux Falls or Sioux City. We were living in a much smaller city. John was right, I should have had a C-section.

Celebrating my 5th anniversary compels me to start at the very beginning because I have something to prove to myself. I’m going to be brutally honest and count how many stories out of 255 so far are really good. Geez, I hope it’s more than 10 or that will indeed be brutal. While I’m gonna keep writing, for the next few weeks you might spot an installment that looks vaguely familiar or not, because I’m gonna repost the ones that have a special meaning to me. I know there’s a few and hope if you’ve been reading about me and my mundane existence for awhile, but never started at the beginning, you’ll enjoy a few of my favorites. I know there’s a couple folks out there who have been along for the entire blogging ride. For those few, I’m eternally grateful. Thanks again to one of my idols, Neil Diamond. Whenever I’m lacking a title for a new post, I can usually count on a favorite lyric or song title from Neil that fills that little niche for me. Keep reading, I’m not done writing. (I heard those groans)…

When the date of Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) upcoming high school graduation open house was being tossed around there were very few choices. Because Michigan kids get out of school later than the rest of the nation, most Pioneer kids will hold their parties late in June. For Landon, who’s committed to Holy Cross with a basketball scholarship, he’s supposed to be there before he even gets out of school. Squeezing an open house would actually occur a week before he dons his cap and gown.

Ok the date was set and Shannon was going over menu ideas which would consist of most of Landon’s favorite foods. Shannon asked if I would be able to make potato salad (not on his favorite foods list but most grownups like it). The reason she was hesitant to ask me is because it would only be 6 weeks after my knee replacement. Six weeks sounded like an eternity. I said, sure I can do it. Hmmm.

The Lowder’s know a ton of people and all were invited. (Landon’s great aunt Carolyn flew in from California to attend). Aww. I’m thinking 25 pounds of potatoes, 3 dozen eggs, 3 jars of sweet pickles, 3 bags of radishes, 2 bunches of green onions, plus celery and a whole lot of doctored up Miracle Whip. Forget the whip, I might need a miracle.

It’s not that I’m not doing well. I am. But I still tire easily and haven’t been sleeping worth a toot (both driving me crazy). Standing in one spot for more than a few minutes is not very comfortable. I needed a plan. Realized I would have to be seated for parts of this endeavor. And accept my limitations. Dicing all those veggies would fall on the Hubs. He filled a 3 quart bowl full of colorful veggies (but forgot the 3 jars of pickles which I did). I hard cooked the eggs and stuck them in the fridge overnight. Took a plastic gallon container and mixed 3 jars of Miracle Whip with a large squirt of yellow mustard, several shakes of salt, pepper and couple tablespoons of sugar, slapped a lid on and stuck it in the fridge. Next day all I’d have to do was peel, cut, cook 25 pounds of potatoes, drain, cool and dice. Yeah, I said ‘all.’ Ha-ha.

These large quantities added altogether is impossible to mix thoroughly. So I divided it up in thirds. I eyeballed the 2 huge pots of cooked spuds and start dicing one third in a big bowl. Add one dozen chopped up eggs and 4 cups of diced veggies. Glop on Miracle Whip and start incorporating (I detest the words incorporating and infusing when I read them in recipes). Ok, I mixed it all together. When it looks exactly like my mother-in-law Mag’s Famous Potato Salad I dump the whole works in the plastic container and sprinkle the top with pepper. (Normally I slice an egg on the top, then pepper the top with pepper). But Shannon’s gonna dump one container at a time in a pretty bowl and set it in a larger bowl of ice so I’m not bothering with the pretty sliced egg. I repeat this little scenario 2 more times and I’m so pooped I hardly scoop from one bowl to the other.

Dirty dishes, silverware and pans cover every square inch of my small countertop. I. Just. Can’t. Even. I need to sit for a bit before tackling my tiny kitchen, which resembles a bombed out building. I’m befuddled why a bowl of potato salad can tire me out so. It has to be a combination of my non-existent sleep pattern and taking medication at night to help me sleep. I can count on one hand how often I take OTC drugs for anything. But laying in bed or sitting in a recliner for hours when I should be sound asleep has freaked me out a bit. Why in the world can’t I sleep? I am not going to start taking a prescription to help me sleep. But I really need to sleep, not this fitful tossing and turning for hours.

My potato salad is chilling by 1:30 and the kitchen’s clean by 4. Hubs is grilling supper on so my day is pretty much done. When Shannon was discussing food she mentioned ordering assorted cupcakes. (Why, I could do that. But my expertise in cupcakes stops at the puny number of 3 and doesn’t include complicated fillings or cute swirly frosting, though my frostings are good). Besides, she sounded like she was having fun choosing from the large variety offered. When the number 300 was mentioned, I’m grateful I bit my lip hard enough to refrain from foolishly offering. I could not have done it.

Landon’s party was a rousing success in spite of the weather. The Lowder driveway was filled with a long table capturing Landon from an adorable baby to 18 year old handsome, honed athlete. Two tents were set up, tables and chairs everywhere. Cookies, cupcakes, salads, slider sandwich fixings and get this, 2 people working chicken fryers. Constantly frying wings plain, barbecued and lemon pepper, piping hot. All afternoon.

But a mere 15 minutes in, our May/June monsoons returned. It had been cloudy all morning but at 1:15 the sky suddenly went dark gray. Sheets of rain pelted guests, hail pinged the driveway, strong winds swayed the trees on the golf course in the back yard and water dripped into my Potato Salad. (I hadn’t even made my way outside yet and was watching the changing weather from my favorite chair in their living room). Garage door was raised, boards with Landon’s pics brought in, dried off and rehung on fireplace mantle, table and slider doors. The long food table was moved inside their pristine garage. Joshua glanced at his phone’s weather radar and said Jackson was the southern tip of the storm and it wouldn’t last long. A good half hour later the rain had petered out, grey skies prevailed and party goers kept coming.

Another milestone in Landon’s life over and done. But this young man’s just getting started. He leaves for Holy Cross in Massachusetts in one week. New beginnings. Freshman on the basketball team. Low man on the totem pole once again. But if you’ve kept up with my blog, you remember 4 very short years ago, Landon, # 3 made the varsity team and had a huge impact on Pioneer’s team. Barely 15, he entered their first game and nailed a 3 pointer. The whole student body rose in unison and screamed, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman.” Best basketball moment-ever. Ok buddy, do that again…

Most days this is the way a conversation gets started at our house. Hubs leads with, “Hey, what you doin today?”

Me: “Well, I’d like to go to Meijer either today or tomorrow for a few minutes and buy some sweet corn. It’s on sale this week. Can you help me with freezer corn?”

Hubs: “Sure, how much are you planning on getting? You always buy too much.”

Me: “I looked in my canning journal and we did 5 dozen ears last year. But we still have 6 bags left, so I thought 3 dozen ears plus 4 for supper might be enough this year.”

Hubs: “Sounds about right. Let me know when you wanna go. I’ll ride along so you don’t have to lift that heavy wooden box.”

Me: “Thanks, did you have anything planned?”

Hubs: “Well, I should drive down and check Shannon’s office buildings to see if I need to mow again with all the rain we’ve had this week.”

Me: “You could swing by Hinkley’s and get me some donut holes while you’re in the area. You haven’t stopped there in months.”

I really don’t know why I planted that seed. He’s the bakery nut, not me. Never saw a donut he didn’t like. I much prefer homemade goodies, German Chocolate cake, cupcakes, fruit or cream pies, bars (not the drinking establishments) but the gooey goodness of a pan of cherry, rhubarb, raisin spice, or brownies.

Yet there’s something special about Hinkley’s. It’s not the first bakery I’ve craved/lusted after during my life. First there was Van Olst’s Bakery in Rock Valley, which really had an unfair advantage over this wayward youth. The Bakery was literally one block from my house. The smell of fresh, sweet Cinnamon Rolls, Almond Patties, Bismarck’s, Date Bars, Glazed Donuts, Long John’s, and homemade sliced/unsliced Bread wafted to and through our house late every night but Saturday. No kid is born with that kind of willpower. I stopped there almost every Friday night after football or basketball games. Standing around talking, watching Papa Van Olst and his adult/almost grown kids knead, shape, slice, bake, frost and fill trays for their next morning’s opening. Always bought a treat before I’d head home. Fond memories of a very special family’s dedication to their thriving small business.

The next time I became fixated on a bakery was when we lived in Davenport during the 80’s. (Although Hubs and all 3 kids had a real ‘thing’ for Super America’s donuts when we lived in Spencer. It was a GAS STATION. How can they even be considered seriously as a bakery? The family was simply blindsided by the over use of sprinkles). A hole in the wall a few blocks from our house called Mount Ida Bakery. Our family’s favorite until Shannon discovered the sweet treat she was devouring was sporting half of a wasp. Talk about freaking out. Yikes. None of us wanted to imagine where the other half of the wasp was exactly. That ended our frequent trips/fond addiction to Mount Ida.

We frequented a neat old bakery in Muskegon called Ryke’s. Their cakes were legendary. We brought a full size sheet cake (frosted with different shades and sized purple polka dots) for Ari’s high school graduation party. We lived in North Muskegon for over 20 years and I dare say Ryke’s changed ownership at least 3 times. Just felt like it wasn’t the same anymore the last few years we lived there.

And then there’s Hinkley’s Bakery in Jackson, Michigan. A grand old unique institution. Opened in 1720 and soon became a hit for the newfound 13 colonies. Sure the distance was prohibitive. Still, every week at least one, sometimes several tired horse riders (with a sweet tooth) from one of the quaint 13 would appear out of nowhere, sporting homespun duds, requesting an extra large box of glazed donut holes for church services. They always bought the biggest quantity because they had church services 3 times on Sunday. Thanks to Hinkley’s, church membership almost doubled whenever donut holes were on the menu. Everyone knew when holes were gonna be served because the Pony Express dude was gone for a week in advance to get them to the church on time. (They were too frugal to use Uber or Grub Hub).

Jackson hadn’t really become a town yet-they were still waiting for that first Republican to show up. But there sat Hinkley’s, in the middle of nowhere (but someday would be lower mid-Michigan-pretty much surrounded by The Great Lakes/though not yet named). Wasting delicious aromas on the local wildlife (stinky Wolverines) 4 nights a week. They’re closed Sunday, Monday & Tuesday. Hey, when you’ve established the first ever monopoly, you call the shots (shots-not like bullets or booze but hours of operation). Even if the customers are hundreds of miles away. (Their slogan- If you bake, fry or frost it, they will come).

To this day the Hinkley tradition continues. They remain in the original building, which at the time was ultra modern. A lone business, without a town just yet. It would be another 100 years before the city of Jackson was born, yet the owners of Hinkley’s somehow knew they were in for a huge local contract before the city would prove to be a thriving community.

When the city of Jackson was still in its infancy, the state of Michigan decided to build and open the first state prison in, ta-da Jackson (named after Andrew). The prison would push hard, trying to force Hinkley’s into opening 7 days a week, but you know how big monopolies operate. “Dey ain’t gonna make us bring dem baked goodies every day. No siree. We need the sabbet to honor God and duh first two days of the veek to recharge our own selfs. We ben vaitin a hunert years, and nobody gonna tell us how to run dis bizness.”

Now when you buy baked goods (the lines can be very long outside the door-they thrive on this kind of shit when it happens) the staff at Hinkley’s use neat boxes so your chocolate crescents don’t have to touch your Bismarcks. The box clearly states Hinkley’s has been open since 1913. That’s a downright fib. Honest, they have been in business since 1720, but got grandfathered in 1913 to save on city taxes. You would have thought since the town was actually built around them, they would have least named the street they were on Hinkley Road, but all of a sudden they grew humble and decided to call their street Blackstone.

The recipes from Hinkley’s remain highly guarded secrets. The bakery has never changed hands, but has been handed down/bought to family members for nearly 300 years now. The head baker Brian is 4th generation (their family’s longevity is as legendary as their donut holes). Must be something they eat or their short work week. Whatever the reason, we are most grateful (and fatter) for our famous little bakery. Hinkley’s. Frost on…

I’ve listened to many versions, heard conflicting stories and vividly remember Dr. Carpenter’s wise words: “the first 2 weeks are pretty uncomfortable and I wouldn’t make any big plans for 2 months following surgery.” One friend breezed through knee replacement and said between week 2 & 3 suddenly the pain was gone. Another recent joint recipient has been told multiple times wait until you hit the 6 month mark, you’ll be thrilled how good you feel. I fall somewhere in between. No, I haven’t actually fallen.

I just passed the one month date post surgery and I’m feeling pretty good. It all started to come together when I hit the 4 week mark during physical therapy. The day I forgot I was still recovering from major surgery. Went grocery shopping at Meijer, making my way through the store using the grocery cart as a walking tool. Stopped home to put the cold stuff away, then made our way to Chelsea Wellness Center for my therapy session, still using a cane.

Therapy is hard work. My muscles quiver under the strain of trying new ways to make my weak legs stronger. And yes I said legs, not just the one sporting a nifty new joint. In 4 short weeks both legs seem to have suffered losing some strength. I notice it when I’m coming up a flight of steps, using my stronger leg first, then bringing up my surgical leg. My left leg is quite a bit weaker than it was before surgery-on the other leg! I dunno why, but many of my exercises include both legs so it must be a common denominator after knee replacement.

oo

After therapy, we stop for a sandwich (my first time in a restaurant) then head to Shannon’s house. She routinely picks up Jovi (our 2 year old fabulous great granddaughter) from daycare early and we usually stop to visit them. Jovi has played a pivotal role in my rehabilitation. I didn’t see her for almost 2 weeks after surgery, fearing she might accidentally hurt me (or be freaked out about it). Well neither has been the case. Shannon and Ari talked to Jovi about grandma’s hurt leg several times prepping her first visit. She’s been just awesome about, “my gamma’s boo-boo.” She wasn’t quite sure about the purple bruises on my leg but the incision was a breeze. After greeting me, she gathers up a fleece blanket and pillow, walks over to me gently pushes up my sweats to see how much healing has progressed. “Gamma’s boo-boo,” she says reverently, softly placing a pillow and blanket over the incision. “Read book,” she asks as she runs to pick out her favorite. Carefully climbing on my lap, via my left leg, we read the same book until she grows weary of it, while constantly monitoring that the pillow and blankey stay put on my boo-boo. Yes, nurse Jovi Nightingale has been a huge part of my healing process success.

Departing my favorite nurse/caregiver (Jovi and Hubs are tied for offering the most assistance) we head to Ann Arbor to watch 9 year old grandson Graham in his little league game. I’m nervous about walking on the uneven grounds of the ball field and sitting in a collapsable chair but neither turn out to be as scary as I thought. There’s a slight incline getting back to the Jeep so I grab Hubs arm. The game ends in a tie (dang it) and we are homeward bound. But it’s been 8 hours without an ice pack, Tylenol or putting my leg up and I’m exhausted.

I pay for it during the night. Fitful, restless, can’t find a comfortable position for my leg. On my back, turn on my side, now the other side, flip onto my back again. Finally get up about 3, take half a pain pill, get an ice pack and spend the rest of the night in a recliner. I don’t feel very rested in the morning but there’s a definite change as I walk. I don’t know what you call it but it’s the last part of my step. It’s just easier to finish each step. The part where I glide (ha-ha-not-hardly) from the heel of my foot to the ball suddenly feels like I’m doing both feet uniformly.

I was itching/antsy/ to start driving again. Hubs didn’t think I was ready after 4 long, miserable weeks as passenger in my own Jeep. (He actually looks for the first available spot in the parking lot. Yikes, who does that? No car I’ve ever driven in the last 30 years has ever been so close to the store I’m trying to spend money in. It’s just not the way I roll. I park far, far away). I swing my right leg to & fro, back and forth and insist driving will not be a problem. He finally relents and lets me drive easily and happily to buy us an ice cream cone. Funny, I’ve not driven since but plan a stop to Meijer soon and he won’t have to accompany me and wait during physical therapy anymore. Yay, me.

Haven’t used my cane for a couple days either. My balance seems some better probably because my steps are more sure footed. I still will take the cane when I leave home. So I’m hopeful the worst is behind me, and happy if this is as bad as post surgery gets. Except for the not being able to sleep part, which I haven’t figured out yet. Why I have so much drama during the night is still troublesome. I’ve tried different methods, aids and supplements to no avail. Sleep has not been my friend since I hit menopause almost 20 years ago, but sleep now seems to be public enemy # 1. A big part of my lack of sleep is feeling so disjointed in the morning. I’ve been a morning person forever. Mornings are when I’m engaged and ready to tackle what needs to be done or fixed. But my motor is slow to start these early mornings because I feel out of sync. Instead of showering by 9, I listlessly mope my way through the AM, trying to ignite my normal spark. I know I’ll feel better after I shower and make the bed, but part of me is still on downtime when it’s really my uptime.

I never really was very inquisitive about the actual surgery-makes me kind of nauseous thinking about what has to be done when getting a new joint. First I asked why my thigh hurt worse than the knee or incision? Answer was, that’s where the tourniquet was. One of my therapists asked if I knew what exactly happens during surgery? “Um, no I don’t.” When he used the word, “Sawzall,” I was grateful to be sitting down in a chair at the time. Had I been laying on one of those gurney thingy’s, he would have soon found me on the floor…

Mom was good at many things. She had a terrific work ethic, loved saving money, and an obsession for keeping our home spic & span, windows included. When Mom learned something new, knitting, gardening, flower arrangements, her goal was to be an expert in that endeavor whether it was a hobby or something as trivial as a new recipe.

This-be the best you can be didn’t lend itself to the breakfast table however. Mom should have been a super breakfast planner/cook. She was highly organized and a good cook with everything she attempted. I attribute her lack of bubbling enthusiasm/expertise of all things breakfasty due to her lack of coffee addiction. She just never was a coffee nut. She would drink coffee to be polite when we were entertained by another family after church on Sunday nights, but never acquired that coffee craving the way Dad did. (He took coffee in his thermos to work everyday whether it was -28 or 95 above).

It wasn’t that Mom thought I was better off heading to school with nary a crumb in my tummy. She thought I should eat something, but since she rarely ate anything before dinner (noon meal) she wasn’t well versed in breakfast planning/foods. Dad liked Wheaties or Rice Krispies (topped with a sliced banana) but he didn’t eat either before going to work. What was that about? Both of them rose at the crack of dawn, you’d think they’d grab something healthy or Mom would fix breakfast, yet neither were compelled to that whole ‘breaking the fast’ after a night’s rest. Cold cereal was a nighttime snack for him. (He ate 1/2 package of instant oatmeal, cooked in the microwave every night for at least the last 5 years of his life).

The Gerritson pantry never housed much cold cereal, probably resulting in the reason I’ll only eat 2 cold cereals (oddly enough neither Wheaties or Rice Krispies) of the 487 varieties now offered. When my kids were young I think we averaged at least 6 different cold cereal choices at all times. Mom had normal breakfast fare in her repertoire of cooking skills but they were never offered in the a.m. If we were hungry for pancakes, French Toast (made with Hillbilly Bread) fried or scrambled eggs, bacon & toast, we ate it for supper, not breakfast. I’m not opposed to breakfast at supper time, maybe because I seldom ate breakfast food-for breakfast. I’ve often thought a big breakfast was too heavy of a meal in the morning.

So back to Mom, little Neese and the breakfast dilemma before school all those years ago. My # 1 choice was toast. Half the time, toasted with real butter. That’s it. Topped with jam occasionally but when butter wasn’t enough, I’d usually choose cinnamon/sugar. Not separately but mixed together. Mom used to buy a small plastic container (yellow?) of cinnamon/sugar already mixed. (Goodness, I haven’t thought about that in well over 50 years). Wonder why she didn’t mix it up herself? Convenience? I don’t think it was very expensive. When you took off the lid, there were small holes like a salt shaker in the top so I could sprinkle it on my toast.

Before I got a bit older (later elementary/junior high) and Mom’s work schedule required an earlier start time, she was happy to make me a bowl of oatmeal. Set the smallest pan on the stove with a cup of water, couple shakes of salt and wait for it to boil. Pour in a half cup of Quaker Quick Oats, boil it for a minute and let it rest for 5 minutes. Dump it in a Corelle cereal bowl, dot the top with a couple pats of butter. I can only remember eating oatmeal with brown sugar (never white) and milk. I still eat oatmeal with brown sugar and milk but haven’t topped it with butter since I was a kid. I wasn’t fond of Cream of Wheat so oatmeal was the only hot cereal on our menu.

Mom wasn’t fond of making a sink full of dirty dishes before she went to work, (she couldn’t leave them until noon or when she got home from work. No, that just didn’t do it for her neat-nick personality) Mom made perfect soft boiled eggs (again only requiring one small pan). If she was making eggs for me, she’d make some for Dad at the same time, though he had already left for the State Shop. When my 2 eggs were done to perfection (solid whites, yolks runny), she’d pluck them out of the boiling water, then continue boiling the other 2 hard for Dad’s lunch pail the following day. After cooling mine off under cold water so she could handle them, she’d grab a butter knife and wop off the top half inch of egg-shell and all. Set them on a plate with toast where I’d use a spoon to dig out bites of the runny yolk egg. Our household was not high on the use of salt or pepper so I can say with certainty I never used pepper on eggs (or much else) but think I used a pinch of salt on them.

Where meals were concerned, (other than breakfast where she did not excel), Mom had a plan. She took out chicken, a beef roast, hamburger or pork chops from the freezer and often did prep work on her lunch break. She’d brown the meat and stick it in the fridge during the afternoon so she could pop it in the oven as soon as she got home. I can’t remember eating macaroni and cheese, Campbell’s Tomato soup, or Spam when I was a kid. Ever. Once in a while we’d have TV dinners, if Mom had something to do that night, maybe ladies aid at church or a fun filled night at the laundromat. With TV dinners or pot pies, we always ate Swanson’s brand (although they were usually our Sunday-after-church-meal for Dad and I when Mom worked every other weekend at Valley Manor) but that was not the norm. Mom cooked from scratch almost every night. Meat, potatoes, vegetables and gravy. There might be something sweet to eat afterwards but she never went all out for the dessert portion of our meal. Pinwheel cookies, Oreos, Pecan Sandies or maybe an ice cream treat like a fudge bar or ice cream sandwich. Some were homemade, (she made the best sugar cookies) some store bought.

I never fully appreciated Mom’s dedication to mealtimes. Not haphazard, or packaged, it was like she had a 45 day menu plan ever looping in her head. If she was stumped, she’d ask me or Dad if we were hungry for something specific-but not the day of. No, that one was already in the books (her head). Never figured out until recently, I’m exactly the same way. I head to the basement and grab 3 or 4 main course ideas from the freezer. Haul them all upstairs and decide what I’m craving for tonight. The rest just thaw in the fridge and for the next 3 days I know what our big meal is gonna be. I might do a bit better in the breakfast department than Mom, scrambled eggs, pancakes and French toast are my specialties. I find it endearing that I tend to do things the way Mom did in the kitchen, though I think I’m a little better cook/baker than she was. She definitely ruled in the Divinity, 7 minute frosting categories and her cinnamon rolls are hard to beat.

It was a definitely a different era. Still most of my friend’s moms cooked when I was in school. Though times were changing, many of the moms started to work outside the home. Maybe some gave up home cooked suppers on certain nights because time was in short supply after they were employed. Mom however continued to make supper every night until I was long gone and her health began to fail. I should have appreciated you more Mom. Sorry. Thanks for my lame breakfasts, good dinners when I didn’t stay at school for hot lunch. And all the tasty suppers you cooked-even after you were working full time…

I’ve not had much personal experience with surgeries. (Thanks God). Still have my appendix and gallbladder, though missing my tonsils and adenoids for the better part of my life (not lonesome-type missing-just no longer residing in me-missing). After I’d started walking (‘she walks with purpose’-one of my favorite lines from the series Deadwood by Al Swearengen) about 5 miles a day for a couple of years in 1998, I acquired a limp. After several cortisone shots, it was determined my great toe needed repair work (actually wasn’t that great-it was just big and refused to bend). Other than breaking the same elbow 3, possibly 4 times (and counting) I’ve been lucky in avoiding hospitals.

Which brings me to my latest surgery notch on my belt (these are belts no one wants to wear or add new notches). I’ve just passed the 2 week mark since my knee replacement. One can’t help but worry when surgery is in your future. Just going to the hospital is scary. The place is full of sickness and germs. You’re either there to have something repaired, removed, replaced or a serious illness. MRSA infections breed and flourish no matter how many times those attending you wash their hands. BTW, during my 48 hour stint I never witnessed one person who came in my room and literally washed their hands before or after helping me. Not once. That surprised me. But everyone did use the automatic hand sanitizer dispenser. I’m not gonna put my hand on a Bible and say I was coherent at all times, (drugs were involved) yet think I’d remember that one nurse who thoroughly scrubbed her hands with soap while singing happy birthday for 20 seconds.

My main concerns throughout this ordeal should have been my brand new knee joint recently hammered into place, pain management, learning how to use a walker, avoiding nasty germs-lurking about, my rather-hard-to-look-at-incision, the tiny catheter resting in my upper thigh-busy pumping novocaine into a numb leg, my mouth (which was as dry as a popcorn fart), my constantly chattering teeth or walking down an endless corridor twice a day for physical therapy. But no.

I’ve had even less experience with prescription meds. For the last decade I’ve been taking one medication for Meniere’s Disease (a disorder of my inner ear which causes dizziness, balance issues. Probably started after my slow hearing loss really took a nose dive). It’s a mild diuretic (water pill) which helps balance the fluctuations of fluid in my inner ear. As far as meds go, I’m not counting the times I’ve been sick and needed temporary antibiotics etc, just the one constant prescription. And I’m not trying to minimize the destruction from drug addiction. I know it’s an epidemic, destroying lives of those who get hooked and those who love and worry about those addicted. I realized as a young age after drinking a few beers a couple of times, I loathe the feeling of not being in control. Although I sure could use better self control with my eating habits. Weighty issues makes me feel bad in a different in a kind of way however. I just don’t look or feel good when I’m carrying extra weight. Plus it takes a toll on my health (and my joints).

I read all the literature given to me, filling several folders about my surgery, rehab, most often prescribed medications before I was even admitted. I thought I was informed. Ha. The last time I took prescription meds for pain, they caused me all kinds of grief. But that was almost 20 years ago. It was Vicodin and I suffered hallucinations. Kept seeing this guy coming out of my laundry room (15 feet away) who I felt was trying to harm me. When Dr. Carpenter discharged me, there was pain medication prescription waiting for me at the pharmacy. I did not understand how much the side effects of the pain pills would affect me.

I was prescribed Norco for pain. Hubs knows how dicey I am under ‘the influence,’ so he immediately cut them all in half. Hoping maybe smaller increments spaced a couple hours apart might help more. But there’s a thin line between being goofy for a couple hours and letting the pain get out of hand. For the most part I took half a Norco about every 4 hours for the first week. And felt worse with every one I swallowed. (In my altered state, my defense is I was slow to realize how bad the pills were making me feel).

Not trying to get graphic here but sometimes there’s just no other way to explain the situation. Ok, the side effects I was so slow to recognize were right there in black & white on my explanation sheet for pain management. Common side effects: constipation, nausea, vomiting, drowsiness, dry mouth, difficulty urinating, confusion and itching. I was suffering from 5 of the 8 listed. I could barely eat because I felt nauseous like there was no room in my body to squeeze in a few more mouthfuls of food. Dry mouth kept me sipping ice water (with a lemon slice). But my inability to to move any waste products (ok, poop) or water (pee) was literally scaring me. I’d been given laxatives as soon as I was admitted to the hospital to counteract constipation. How can I not pee? I can feel I gotta pee, but it takes 10 minutes to get the party started. And then it was a tiny dribble.

These trying side effects can’t possibly just occur for people recently coming back from surgery. So just how does one become hooked when the side effects are so debilitating? Do people simply talk themselves into a new way of life by saying, “Ummm, I like the way this makes me feel for a couple of hours and if I never urinate or defecate again in this lifetime, I’m ok with that.” I was terribly uncomfortable, hated how I felt, and was scared shitless. Literally. Scared. Shitless.

On day 10, I told John I was not taking another Norco unless the knee pain was unbearable. My stomach was in turmoil so I moved to ibuprofen. Not a smart move Neese. Basically, the identical side effects, which took another 2 days for me to reach that conclusion. Dang, I’m dense. Bloated and miserable, it dawned on me that the side effects of the medications ordered to help me were causing more problems for me than my newly minted knee. Holy shit. Talked it over with Shannon and the pain reliever with the least amount of side effects was Acetaminophen (Tylenol). She dropped off regular, PM to help my horrible sleeplessness, (feels like restless leg syndrome, just gotta keep moving that sore leg to a different spot) and Melatonin in case I didn’t care for Tylenol PM. (I didn’t. It made me feel groggy until noon the next day). I started a sleep routine, Tylenol and melatonin an hour before bed. No Facebook or internet for a couple hours before bed. A cold gel pack and pillow for my leg in bed. And a book to read until I got sleepy. (Yikes, I’m reading Dean Koontz’s 5 book series on Frankenstein. So much for calm and soothing).

Good news, I’m feeling better. Discharged from home physical therapy to facility therapy which starts this week in Chelsea. Learned how to go down the basement stairs, so decisions about what to fix for supper, and when to do laundry are again in their rightful place. With me. Graduated from the walker to a cane this week. This is a tricky one for me. My balance is not great on my best days. Now I’m trying to maneuver a very stiff leg, using a cane in what I consider the wrong hand! What? Carpenter advised me to use the cane as long as needed when leaving home. If I feel comfortable lurching through my little abode without, that’s fine too. His main concern is me not falling-ever.

Went back to Dr. Carpenter for my 2 week check up. He was pleased (well it was his all his doing). He was satisfied with my movement, motion and mobility so far and tickled with how ‘straight’ my leg is. He was a little surprised at how badly bruised my leg is. He looked on the inside of my calf up to the new joint, then on the outside from my ankle to my thigh and said, “ah, don’t be too concerned with all this bruising. This was me-ah-us during surgery.” Right doc, I already figured that part out…