You ever feel like a segment of your life passed before your eyes and you didn’t even get a chance to blink? For me that swath of time lasted almost 2 decades. Holy Rip Van Winkle. Oh I was there for those 20 years and busier than a one-armed-paper-hanger. From approximately 1980-2000 it’s safe to say, I missed a lot of stuff. Too busy with motherhood mostly. Our completed family numbered 5, resulting with two harried parents who were now in the minority. Yikes! For this unorganized gal, my job was time consuming. Hauling kids around, doctors, sports, and never ending meal planning, cooking for appetites which were never sated.

During my 20 year time-out from what was going on in the rest of the world, all subjects-politics, wars, price of gas, celebrity marriages, fashion, took second fiddle because I was consumed with performing a decent rendition of raising 3 kids. But 20 plus years after the last kid headed for college, one of the things I missed the most during those busy years-was music.

I grew up on music. No kid in their formative teens (during the 1960’s) can say music wasn’t a huge part of their lives. Best music era ever. The Beatles, Beach Boys, The Doors, Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, CCR, Simon & Garfunkel, Mamas & the Papas, Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, Elvis, Roy Orbison, Aretha, Sonny & Cher. The list was endless. Yet ‘new’ music and groups were the first thing eliminated when I was pushed for time.

What was the catalyst that ‘woke’ me from my music malaise? There were 2. First I started walking in early 1998 to help with my diet and general health. Walking became a healthy habit-ok-obsession. At the time I was loathe to admit it, but all of my favorite songs from the 60’s-70’s had me bleary eyed and bored to tears. Simply heard them way too many times. I needed a kickstart. And there he was, my middle kid, Joshua swooping in for the rescue. Pretty sure I was still using a cassette player but would soon move to the next level of fine-tune listening-the iPod. Josh made tapes of singers and groups I’d never heard of. He knew the most important feature was a great beat to keep my feet (and butt) moving. Then he set me up to discover hip-hop and buy my own walking music.

Maybe I didn’t prioritize the time for new groups and songs because I became totally enamored with the Chicago Cubs in the early 80’s. We were living in Davenport (160 miles from Chicago) and one of my friends in town had grown up with the lovable losers from Chicago’s Northside. I’d like to believe when I became a diehard fan their luck changed for the better. Sandberg, Sutcliffe, Smith, Davis, Denier, Sanderson, Eckersley, Grace, Trout, Matthews, Moorland would win the National league’s Central division a couple times during the 80’s and should have played in the ’84 World Series against the Tigers. Guess I wasn’t the muse I thought huh?

Mary Ellen’s daughter lived in Chicago so we attended several games every summer because we stayed at Laurie’s place. (We always did projects for her, painting or refinishing antiques for her apartment). Good times. Those fabulous day games at Wrigley Field came flooding back to me this week as a side note to my niece Kelli’s husband’s post about the death of Eddie Van Halen. (Jason was an ardent fan). Van Halen was huge when music was not in my life. How could have I missed pertinent tidbits about Eddie through the years? He’s Dutch. I’m Dutch. Goodness, he was born in Amsterdam when I was 5 years old. I should have been a big fan, but was too busy with homework, meals, laundry and baths. I knew he was married to Valerie Bertinelli and they had a kid named Wolfgang. I remember reading when Eddie was diagnosed with throat cancer quite a few years ago.

But the real trigger for Van Halen with me was our Cubs connection. You could count on the beautiful ivy in Wrigley’s outfield, Wayne Mesmer singing the National Anthem, Milo Hamilton, Harry Caray, Steve Stone, Lou Boudreau, Dwayne Staats and Vince Lloyd up in the TV/radio booths. Just before the starting lineup was announced, Van Halen’s “Jump” could be heard throughout the city of Chicago. When I commented on Jason’s, Van Halen post I said it was the Cub’s theme song during the mid 80’s for years to come. But after I wrote that I thought, no I think it was WGN’s theme song when they broadcasted the Cubs games.

I didn’t know squat about Van Halen. Missed the revolving door of lead singers Hager and Roth and whoever else might have been in the group during their peak years. I have had “Jump” in my musical library since I started buying songs and always have it on one of my playlists. Whenever that catchy synthesizer beat begins, I smile and belt it out with Van Halen!

I get up, and nothin gets me down, you got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around.

And I know baby just how you feel, you’ve got to roll with the punches and get to what’s real.

Ah, can’t you see me standing here, I got my back against the record machine

I ain’t the worst that you’ve seen, can’t you see what I mean?

Might as well jump, (jump), might as well jump. Go ahead and jump, (jump) go ahead and jump.

Eddie Van Halen, you still rock…

You’d be hard pressed to hear me criticize McDonald’s. (Who’s got the best fries, right)? Wasn’t crazy about the giant corporation, but I worked for a fabulous owner/operator for several years. I’ve blogged about both the job and ‘da owner, so I won’t rehash that story. Suffice it to say it was great working for him. I was just a lowly crew person but I loved it. If you wanna catch up on the years I was with McDonald’s, here ‘ya go. http://dvb517.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-boss.html

A couple weeks ago I wrote about some of the odd adventures on my (mostly fabulous) walking path I utilize everyday. My biggest concerns are stones that find their way on the blacktop path from the road’s shoulder, where I have the unlucky knack of placing one foot or the other in exactly the wrong spot resulting in a nasty spill. I use a walking stick which helps, but I’m constantly watching the path right in front of me to ensure I make it back home sans injuries for another day. Another dicey concern is how close the walking path is to the road at times, which is busy with distracted drivers and has a speed limit of 50.

A couple days after posting that story, I was on the last leg of my walk (3/4 mile from home) when I heard sirens. I’m profoundly deaf so I’m listening to funky music through headphones which are pretty jacked up. (I’ve tried several varieties of ear buds. I hear nothing through the left one and the sound in my right ear is like someone provided me with with a string and 2 cans. One can is at the bottom of the pond and the other is hooked over my ear. Tinny, muffled, garbled are all appropriate adjectives that fit).

I have an awful time differentiating which direction noise is coming from but soon see a couple sheriff’s department vehicles and an ambulance zoom past me from behind. When I’m about a half mile away I notice all cars/trucks are hitting their brakes. Soon I see what has caused the ruckus. A tan Ford Bronco has jumped the curb and is resting smack-dab on the walking path right in front of McDonald’s. Had I been 6-8 minutes earlier the tan Bronco would be sporting a mega sized, white haired hood ornament. Namely me.

Before the Ford got to his embarrassing resting spot, he hit a smaller SUV (with considerable force) who was trying to turn into the entrance of McDonald’s. That poor dude got hit so hard, it was resting in the south lane. Upside down. A deputy noticed me slowing down, (hard to notice, I walk the speed of sloth) ambled over as I was taking off my headphones and said, “ma’am, could you either turn around or use McDonald’s parking lot to get to the corner?” “Sure, no problem.”

This particular ‘still frame’ remained etched in my head for several days. You just can’t help but think-I’ve walked that exact spot hundreds of times. My number would have been up for sure and it wouldn’t have been pretty. Yikes. (Why did I not take a picture? I’m the only person who never takes pictures of these moments as they happen. There was nothing gory to see as I approached).

Three days a week I see a couple guys about my age (Lord they seem much older but gotta admit they probably aren’t. Sigh). They drive to McDonald’s, park their car and walk part of the path. I usually stop and talk for a minute (goes against everything I believe in about my walking protocol, but they are nice and I’m trying to be kind. It’s a stretch. The struggle is real). I usually pass them going in one direction or the other which is astonishing. But I’ll take it.

Just a few days after the Mc-upside-down-car vs. Dude-I’ll-park-on-the-Mc-sidewalk-and-show-you fiasco, I’m nearing the two gents, about to overtake them with my great speed and agility, so I give them a hearty hello and zip right by them. I have Meniere’s which causes fluctuations in my inner ear, causing balance issues, so I use a walking stick to help steady me. Meniere’s usually affects one side of your head/ear. Mine causes a lot of racket in my left ear, leaving it virtually useless other than keeping my glasses on my mug straight. Looking right causes no problems but glancing left is better served when I come to a complete stop and slowly turn my head back and forth.

As I’m closing in on the McDonald’s drive through entrance I glance up to make sure no one is in the middle turn lane on the road, then make a quick swipe left to eliminate someone from behind who might have their blinker on and turn in front of me. (I know the pedestrian has the right of way but there are numerous walkers, joggers, bikers, runners who are dead from having the right of way). I step from the walking path to the McDonald’s cement entrance and get about 2/3 the way across when my peripheral vision picks up something huge on my left side. I pause, look left and a car has run into the curb, six feet from where I stand. I look at the driver who gives me a scathing look and throws up his arms in disgust. What the hell! How could he not see me? I’m as big as a barn and wearing a bright salmon colored jacket.

I start walking again, glancing right at the McDonald’s exit (some of these folks have come close to hitting me too. They’re digging in their McDonald’s bag for the hash browns and bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and don’t always remember to look both ways as they stop (or not) to avoid adding me to part of the Walking Dead outtakes). I stop at the corner, look both ways, cross, happy to have 3 more blocks before home. But I’m shaken up as I relay the story to Hubs.

Two days later I bump into the two walking dudes and both hold up a hand, indicating ‘stop woman.’ “Ah, after you went ahead of us on Monday, do you realize how close that car came to hitting you?” “No not really until after I got home. Looked pretty close from behind did it?” “Yeah, lucky he ran into the curb. Guess he didn’t see you until he was turning in.” (Oh my goodness. Thanks God).

After confirming the car nearly hit me, I couldn’t stop stewing about another close call on my seemingly safe, carefree walking path. There must be some way to eliminate all these hazardous crossings which seem determined to undermine my wellbeing from day to day. There is a second exit at the back of McDonald’s lot which I walk past everyday. I could just bypass the front entrance and exit. It would mean walking the perimeter of McDonald’s parking lot. Since COVID the parking lot is nearly empty because the dining room is not open. Some customers do go into the lobby and order, so there are a few cars in the lot but 90% use the drive through lane. I would be sharing the front entrance for a few feet to get back on the walking path, but it would be off to the side and head on from my view.

I hashed it over with Hubs and decided that’s what I’d try. Can’t imagine anyone from the store confronting me about walking in their lot for 2 minutes and no one has this week. A maintenance man was cleaning/sweeping the lot one morning and said good morning. Have gotten a couple strange looks from customers who run in for food, then eat in their car. Must feel like I’m intruding or invading their space. I try not to make eye contact because I’m concerned what lies ahead for my feet, but also keeping a watchful eye on cars that might be backing up. That would just be my luck, right?

I kept track, glancing at the sticker stuck on the inside of my windshield every once in a while. The date on the sticker read 6-09-20. Don’t know why I’m secretly pleased when I get past 6-09-20 and my time is not up yet, like it’s a contest. It’s not. Still it pleases me nonetheless.

Had it not been for COVID this winter/spring/summer/fall (geesh) the Jeep would not have made it to 6-09-20. Lucky to make it to 5-1-20 because we would have tacked on a couple thousand miles with a trip to northwest Iowa in mid-April. Hubs brother Jimmy was diagnosed with acute leukemia and given days to live. We certainly would have driven to see him before he passed away, plus attend the funeral and visit with the family. (It’s odd-what a difference it makes when you don’t participate in the visitation/funeral. You’re left hanging without closure. Even more odd, knowing this, I want no service for myself. Maybe denying others closure? Don’t know or understand that either).

There were federal mandates about attending funerals. Basically the whole country was shut down. Who knows how many restaurants, gas stations, motels remained open? Plus we’re at that ‘vulnerable age’ and told to stay home at all costs. So the days ticked by with the Jeep tucked in the garage and rarely driven. I went to the grocery store about once a week, which felt like part vacation, part-if I leave my house I’m gonna die.

Finally, by September, 3 months later than usual, the Jeep was due for a oil change. Made an appointment at my dealership which is about 15 miles away. I grabbed my book and headed to Chelsea.

Drove through a service door, turned the car off and waited for the tech (Matt) to get my information. “What ‘cha in for?” (5 to 10 which I didn’t voice out loud) “I made an appointment to have my oil changed and my tires rotated. One of my tires has an issue. The right rear has a slow leak and my husband adds air every couple weeks, especially if the Jeep sits for a few days.” (Pandemic) “Ok, that’s going take some time, maybe an extra hour. You gonna wait or are you leaving it?” “I brought my book, I’ll just wait.”

I wander through the door to the customer waiting room, watch 3 minutes of those twin brothers who remodel. Lost interest and turned to my real time filler, John Sanford. (Only because I’m done with my Jack Reacher series. I’m so homesick for Jack. I feel like he’s my best bud who just moved across the country-without me. More on Jack later). After 90 minutes, Matt says my car is done. I have a coupon for a discount 4 pack of oil changes I slap on the counter. “Well this is gonna cost you more because the Jeep uses a semi-synthetic oil, and 6 quarts instead of 5.” “Umm, I got the last packet of 4 without any additional cost. What’s up with that?” He didn’t even try to explain his reasoning. Just tallied up my charges for the day. Ka-ching.

Gave me a copy of the service sheet to sign and hands me my keys. I walk out to the Jeep which is still dripping water from their complimentary wash. Nice. Turn the key and the ‘low tire’ warning starts flashing. Shut the Jeep down, walk back into the service department where Matt is sitting in the back office but the door is open. “Hey, my low tire warning light is on again.” “Don’t worry about it. After you drive a few miles, it will reset. Nothing to be alarmed about.” “Ok but it wasn’t on when I drove in today.”

Walk back to the Jeep, start it and realize it’s after 2 o’clock and I haven’t eaten today. (No I’m not one of those crazy people who say, oh I just forgot to eat. Trust me, I never forget to eat, but the car dealership is on a very busy road. Either I walk to a Big Boy (without sidewalks on uneven surfaces which is like expecting/accepting I’m gonna fall) or play ‘frogger’ trying to get to McDonald’s or Coney Island across the road. So I didn’t eat while I waited and waited for the car.

I go through the drive through, order, pay, get my McDouble and park the car and eat. Call the Hubs and let him know I’ll be home shortly. Start the car and listen to the low tire warning again. Drive a half mile to the stoplight, take a right and ease on to 94 west. As I merge, doing about 60, two more warning lights pop on. My red battery light and a big gold A with a circle around it. (This is a default button which turns your engine off when you are stopped/idling at a light. I detest it and disengage it every time I start the car. I learned to drive during the time where cars stalled frequently from rough idling, popped clutch, you name it. This gas saving device just conjures up bad memories for me).

About a mile ahead is an exit which goes right back to Chelsea and the dealership. So far I’ve driven about 4 miles since the oil change. I limp into town and about 2 blocks from the service door when I lose my power steering. (Another memory of some of the older cars from the 50’s I drove as a kid where turning the wheel took some effort). I wait for the automatic door to raise and smoke is pouring out beneath the hood. Stinks to high heaven. I turn it off and Matt-my dude lumbers up. I hand him the keys with, “when I arrived for a simple oil change and tire rotation my Jeep was running great with 26,000 miles. Now I have 3 warning lights, no power steering and it’s billowing smoke. Fix it.”

Forty five minutes later he brings me a small black circular (broken) wire thing and says, “this is an O-ring on the bottom of your new oil filter. It’s not supposed to be broken. Oil was leaking out all over your engine.” “I want a picture of that O-ring to send to my husband.” He obliges. He stands there for a couple minutes then says, “it’s gonna take awhile to check everything out and make sure there’s no damage. I’m gonna give you a Jeep Wrangler for the weekend while we work on the Cherokee. Call us on Monday. And I’m reimbursing your payment for the oil change. It’s free. So you still have 4 left on your plan.”

Whoopee.

Jeep Wrangler’s are not for great grandmas. They’re high, huge, no room inside and the door feels like it’s made from tin. Or maybe aluminum foil. I didn’t dare to park in the garage for fear it was too big with the truck beside it. We drove to get an ice cream cone, otherwise it sat in the driveway for the duration of the weekend until Monday when I got word my Jeep was ready.

Matt assured me the Jeep was fine and still had 3 quarts of oil in it when I brought it back. They washed the engine numerous times with degreaser and taken it out for several test drives over the weekend. Hands me the keys and says, “you’re good to go. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Umm, there’s no paperwork?” “Ah, no, you want something?” “Yes I do.” Brings out a service sheet that says customer brought in a car with steering issues and smoking. “No, this isn’t going to work. I need documentation stating a brand new oil filter failed and leaked 3 quarts of oil out, interrupting my power steering after I’d driven it 5 miles. Total.” “Well that’s gonna take me awhile.” “Fine, I’ll wait.”

What’s the big deal? Isn’t the broken O-ring protecting the dealer because it was a faulty part? (Actually Hubs thinks the oil change guy just tightened it too far). With a second service sheet explanation in my hand a half hour later I start the Jeep and drive away. Sounds good, doesn’t smell or smoke and I notice the dealership has tacked on about 50 miles since I dropped it off the second time. Doubt if anyone was carousing around but merely testing it after degreasing, driving, rinse and repeat on Saturday and Monday.

We went out for supper for our anniversary a day late and drove to Lansing and back (maybe 75 miles cause I needed a sports store for a pair of New Balance shoes). Jeep’s running great (so far) and I’m hoping no permanent damage was done. But feel at least I’ve got the documentation needed if things with the Jeep go haywire that’s it’s not my fault. Crazy but sometimes it’s the simplest things…

We’ve all seen them on our newsfeed. Someone moved into a new house and needs a local plumber or electrician. One friend started off with, “my hot flashes are killing me. Actually killing me.” I need recommendations for sheets that are literally forming ice. (Hahaha, I remember those days mostly because I’ve been cold my whole life except during menopause which lasted a long miserable decade).

But recommendations and opinions (except on my blog, love the comments. The comments are consistently better than what I write) are not something I’ve ever asked from a whole group of people/strangers before. I guess I could have just blipped out 2 sentences on Facebook and called it good, but that’s no fun.

First day of fall and already I’m dreading what comes next. It’s not like the changing seasons make a huge difference in my life. I’m a homebody. I love being home which is why the 6 month (so far) Covid lockdown in our state hasn’t impacted my life very much. Weather permitting I get outside every day to walk for an hour. That alone helps my mood, my outlook, my overall health and peace of mind. But the key words here are “weather permitting.” Another 60 days and my outside activities will be seriously curbed for months. Ugh. Just the thought causes my smile to droop the other way.

Never been a lover of winter. Freezing temps, wind and snow, it’s all so unappealing. Winter in Michigan lasts forever. One of the real downers is how many cloudy days we get. Sometimes days and days in a row. Not as bad as winter in northwest Iowa where I grew up but it lasts longer here. Iowa is colder with more wind, (but also gets much more sunshine though it may be 19 below) Michigan might win on the snowfall totals. Whatever. I truly detest it. Not kidding.

So Hubs and I are mulling over leaving before the worst weather Michigan has to offer hits for months without ceasing. Which is from November through April. Again not too much of a stretch. Really the most offensive months are January and February. But we don’t have a clue where to go. Money plays a role or we’d just go for the best weather in the world and hang my walking shoes in Hawaii for a couple months. We don’t need perfectly, warm, always sunny weather for the duration, nor a fancy condo facing the ocean or gulf.

Just decent accommodations (probably an over 55 RV Park rental) with milder weather than our northern states. I’m ok with temps in the 40’s at night, 60’s or 70’s during the day. Some flurries won’t kill me, but not snow that stays on the ground for 2 months straight and has the flexibility (and coloration) of hardened steel after a week.

We don’t want to fly or we’d have to rent a car for the duration. We spent time in Arizona 2 years in a row (though not for 2 months) which seems to be one of the more popular spots for folks in the Midwest. Hubs brother and his wife winter in Arizona, but we’re 800 miles further east than they are. Is Michigan even still considered the Midwest? Shouldn’t be, we’re in Eastern time zone. New Mexico, Arizona, California are just too far west for us. They’re has to be warmer, affordable places but not 2,200 miles away. We’re about 1300-1400 miles from Texas or Florida.

So we’re looking for a decent rental for 2 adults for 2 or 3 months. Since we stay in a lot I’d need a functioning kitchen. Could be southeast or southwest but within 1500 miles of lower mid Michigan. The important part is south which means warmer. We’d rather be in a smaller city or on the outskirts. Pool, community room, laundry facilities, somewhere to walk would be advantageous. I think John would like to go deep sea fishing if there’s a big body of water within a few hours.

So friends gimme some suggestions. Anyone know of an area in the south with mild winter temperatures with a decent ‘over 55’ rental unit in a large park? We’re semi-civilized, can speak in 3 or 4 word sentences and completely housebroke…

The word longevity popped into my head recently and hasn’t left the premises yet, but I’m ok with it. I was thinking about how long ago Hubs and I got hitched. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance of 3 months consisting of 90% lust and 10% love. We dated (and broke up more than once) for a long spell, but it wasn’t getting any easier mostly due to my overbearing parents. So we opted to tell no one and simply eloped in a neighboring state where our marriage license would not get published in the Sioux City Journal. The reason? Most of our home town read the Journal daily. Mom and Dad would discover our diabolical plan early enough to intervene (again) or would get a phone call after the first newspaper hit the front porch of almost anyone in town.

I don’t think we spent 50 bucks on blood tests, gas, marriage license, fee to the Elk Point, South Dakota judge who met us at the courthouse at 6:54 pm on a Monday night, September 22, 1969. We were walking back out of the joint by 7:03, legally bound by the institution of holy matrimony. (My lavender dress was one in my closet and had been worn several times, nothing special so it didn’t set us back anything. Hubs had to dress decent for work at Channel 4, so he wore something already in his closet with a sports jacket). You can chalk up another $50 for the fancy supper after our elaborate ceremony with our 2 witnesses (mum’s the word) before heading to Sioux Falls for a 2 day honeymoon, which was spent trying to garner enough courage to make that dreaded phone call to mom and dad. One night we went to the Macamba Club, listening to Stan Kenton (yes we sprung for a terrific band. Really, no one besides our witness and friend Dale knew where we were, and we had every intention of heading to the Black Hills, but lacked money and time. I don’t remember why they let me in the door of the Macamba Club, I was just shy of 19. This was a regular bar and you had to be 21).

Using your keen math skills tells you in a few days Hubs and I will notch anniversary number 51. (I know, I can’t believe it either. I’m way too young right)? Most of the years have flown by in a blur-but that’s looking at them in the rear view mirror. At the time some of those years slogged along painfully slow, held down by insufficient funds, too many bills and dead end jobs. But we persevered. Always.

But when ‘longevity’ niggled in my brain it really wasn’t OUR marriage I was reminiscing about. I was thinking about our little one-stoplight-town in northwest Iowa, where we both grew up. While I was one of the firsts my age to get married, soon after we celebrated our 50th, the line behind us was crowded with classmates, acquaintances, friends, relatives, waiting in the wings to hold their own milestone anniversary party.

I know we’ve made huge strides in the last half century to lengthen our life expectancy but when I was a kid it was highly unusual for couples to celebrate 50 years of marriage. (My parents made it to 62 years, John’s parents celebrated 58 years together). Those who made it had a real cause for celebration. That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I think we ought to give credit where credit is due, don’t you? I’m just gonna state the obvious. It was the water in Rock Valley. Duh.

I haven’t checked any state by state comparison statistics on marriage and divorce but I gotta believe northwest Iowa is (or was) below average in the divorce column, at least when a marriage was initiated in the 50’s, 60’s & 70’s. Marriage longevity could also be pinned by our fondness of Taverns, but I’m gonna stick with our drinking water. We all consumed the water and they’re might have been a few folks who didn’t eat taverns growing up. What? (We might want to check the divorce rate among those couples). I know of no one who didn’t love Taverns as a kid. I think I’m on to something here.

I’m not trying to prove any kind of bizarre points on the sanctity of marriage. I firmly believe not every marriage is made in heaven and have nothing against seeking a divorce if it’s not working and is never gonna work. My biggest beef/bitch/gripe about marriage oddly enough, is the actual wedding (not the exchange of vows). The engaged couple spend months searching for the perfect venue, purchasing a big enough diamond to bump the bride’s weight up a size (to her dismay), fine tuning a delectable menu, trying on dress after dress for the most exquisite gown, flowers, 3 story high cake, tuxedos, reception, honeymoon. And then many go their separate ways after a couple/few years or even months. If couples put in as much effort in the first 5 years of real marriage as they do on the one outrageously expensive day to ‘get’ married, the divorce rate would plummet. But I digress.

It’s been heartwarming to see some of kids we grew up with as they start celebrating milestones of their own, some with golden anniversaries and many with 40 or more years. Celebrating with the same spouse they started out with all those decades ago. Did any have misgivings/cold feet/doubts before the wedding? Can’t say I did. I just assumed everything was gonna work out ok. However I’d be the first to say, I wouldn’t give you a plug nickel for the first 5 years. They were tough. And we knew each other well. Probably should have waited a couple years to get better established and a couple more to have our first kid. But we can’t do that. No way, because in that one moment and only that moment Shannon became a person. Then Joshua, then Adam. No, there’s no way I’d ever consider changing those events in my life. Who would want to?

I think congratulations/well wishes are in order for all of us mired (maybe not the best word choice, but hey it fits) in the institution of wedded bliss for decade upon decade. Much like getting older, marriage is not for sissies. Keep reminding ourselves, it’s a journey not a sprint. You don’t want stop before the finish line. Keep moving forward. Most of it good, some of it not, but in it for the long haul. With God’s help…

We’ve been in our house 5 years after spending 21 in North Muskegon, 160 miles northwest. We encountered many changes once the dust settled. We moved in October, compelling us to ‘take care of the imminent business at hand’ on our new crib’s insides before fretting about the outside. New paint, flooring, appliances, window coverings, storm doors, enlarged a bedroom and took the bathroom down to the studs. That’s how we spent our first winter.

During the frigid days when the ground wasn’t covered with Michigan’s disgusting, white stuff, John stared at the front and backyard with equal parts of horror and dismay. (He hates weeds and is very particular about his grass-which was seriously lacking) The backyard had an evergreen privacy fence on the east side, a long row of burning bushes reaching heights of 15 feet lined the north side. There was no grass to speak of. It resembled a downtrodden cow pasture-sans cows.

The front yard was worse. The original attached one stall garage had been converted to a family room years ago, but the 50 year old faded, cracked, pot holed, wide black top driveway remained, which accounted for about a third of our front yard. Unruly scraggly bushes, as tall as the roof line ran along the east side of the house. Nothing in the front yard besides a tired 50 year old maple which was hollow and threatening to fall over if someone sneezed. The storm door had blown open months before we bought the place and was hanging on by one screw in one hinge. It had hit the house so hard there was broken glass everywhere. But having the storm door open gave a much better view of the front door-which was painted purple. Adding to the curb appeal were dull blue shutters accenting dingy windows. Exactly why this house appealed to us remains a mystery.

The front porch was a slab of cement with 2 weird sized steps, one of which wobbled. (At least 200 of our pre-school trick or treaters tripped while trying to manage the second step because it was a couple inches higher than the going rate). The yard was full of ruts, pot holes, bare spots and weeds. We just turned a blind eye to the mess and concentrated on turning the house into a home for the first 6 months.

We had our yard ‘to do list’ ready as soon as the filthy, stinking snow started melting. First Hubs got quotes for the black top removal, replacing it with a new concrete drive, adding fill dirt so he could start growing grass. He got quotes for the sidewalk, steps and railings. We wanted to start fresh with a new porch but it’s literally attached to the house so it had to stay. We just replaced everything connected to it. Then hired a friend of ours to take down the old maple in front and trim the one in back.

By mid March the tree was down, the stump was ground out, new topsoil smoothed out awaiting grass seed. In late March we had our new driveway, sidewalk and steps. Hubs then started getting quotes for an in-ground sprinkler system.

Luckily one of the neighbors wandered over and asked about all the lawn services showing up at the house. John said, “I need a sprinkling system installed if I want grass this summer.” “Umm, you can’t have in-ground sprinklers in this neighborhood,” Pat said. After Hubs picked his jaw off our grass-less, weed infested yard, he asked how that was possible? Or legal? “Oh the township promised they would charge everyone the same flat rate for water/sewer. But the stipulation is that no one has an in-ground sprinkling system.” Odd right?

Good to know before we signed the dotted line spending a couple grand on an illegal watering system. No matter how bad it was gonna look, first up was getting rid of the weeds, (leaving the yard looking depressingly barren), tossing on some crabgrass preventer and grub killer. (He really hates moles, and they love grubs).

Next we yanked out every ugly shrub from the side yard, ordered tons (6?) of river rock and edged from the driveway east to the back fence. The never ending wheel barrel of rocks were moved into place with 2 shovels and four arms. Took a week of back-breaking work but boy did it look nice. Bought some unusual dwarf shrubs, a paper bark river birch, a weeping larch, an Alaskan pine and we were in business. As soon as the Hubs figured out how to keep the lawn and all the new additions alive-by watering everything by hand. Something he’s not done in 25 years. But he was retired and had the time.

I would venture he’s on sprinkler number 20 in five years and finally thinks he has a winner. He’s fussy. This sprinkler is made by the company he used with our in-ground sprinkling system when he had to buy new heads constantly. He uses a soaker sprinkler in my pachysandra bed and a different kind of sprinkler in the backyard. I can remember our first decade of marriage when he’d stop at K-Mart every spring and buy a new hose for 99 cents. By the end of the first month it would have sprung a leak from a crack. I swear it was made from ceramic. But here’s the thing. The hose was guaranteed for a year. He’d bring it back and get a replacement. This was like a garden hose courtship ritual every year. He’d buy the crummy hose, get it replaced 3 or 4 times before fall. All for 99 cents and 4 trips to K-Mart.

I’ve gotten quite familiar with the neighborhood sprinklers (people who water faithfully) not the actual gadgets. There seems to be 3 different types of sprinklers. One guy thoughtfully looks over his front yard. Meanders slowly to pick up the sprinkler which is off but already attached to a hose. Lugs it over to the perfect spot, walks ever so slowly back to the faucet (he’s a lot younger than me), turns it on and peers over his masterpiece for a couple minutes, nodding. Job well done and heads back in the house.

The second type is ‘the anal sprinkler’ (her yard is pristine. Hubs hates her though they’ve never met, and is insanely jealous) who wakes up and has her sprinkler going by 6 am. She does the bendy thingy with the hose. Refuses to walk over and shut off the water while she moves her sprinkler for the umpteenth time. She just muscles that sucker like she’s wrestling the devil himself and sets it exactly where it needs to be to give every blade a good drink.

Then there’s the Hubs. He sneaks up on the sprinkler from behind, plucks it from where it’s been nestled for a couple hours while it’s spraying every which way, covers a few feet of landscape in a certain direction, sets it down to judge his location choice. In four years of sprinkling (in his defense last summer was almost perfect. Almost every time the grass needed a drink, God provided) he’s never walked in the house after moving a sprinkler-where he’s not drenched. (Reminds me of our boys when they were toddlers decades ago. Summer was so alluring they had the hardest time coming into the house in time before they peed their pants. The proof of waiting too long was always visible). Hubs is wet from his ankles to his chest. I don’t know if he doesn’t notice it’s spraying him instead of the grass. Maybe it feels good (it has been really hot) or he’s totally immune to cold water. But in our yard everything gets a periodic soaking from the hose-except me…

About 7 years ago we decided trekking across Michigan every week to visit one of the kids, attend our grandkid’s sporting/school/dance events or babysitting was just too much driving. We hadn’t outgrown our neat lake home but it had outgrown us. The rest of the family were clustered in an area about 175 miles east while we were stuck on the western shoreline by ourselves. Traipsing up and down stairs, no longer utilizing or enjoying the dock or lake. So we listed the house-and waited. And waited. Won’t go into the long drawn out saga trying to rid ourselves of said nice lake home. Suffice it to say we finally moved 5 years ago.

We were not set where we’d hang our hats next, just somewhere much closer to the bulk of the family. We stored our belongings, moved in with Shannon and her family (I felt sorry for them during our stay-we were a huge nuisance) and started house hunting. We wanted something smaller, on one level and didn’t think we were very fussy with our list of needs.

We were familiar with Jackson where our eldest lived. When we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jackson was our home for 7 years before we moved to North Muskegon for 21 years, so that’s where we started looking. But not the same side of town. Our 2 boys were still 45 to 70 miles farther east, so we concentrated on the east side of Jackson, towards them a bit, in an area we were not very familiar with.

We found a large, quiet subdivision with modest sized homes about 12 miles east of the rambling ranch we bought the first time around. Needed some work (actually a lot more than some) but fulfilled our needs. Our offer was accepted, we closed but moving in would require some work first. New floors, paint, appliances, (can’t even talk about the bathroom yet) some elbow grease and we were ready to have our things delivered six weeks later.

Hubs and I worked on the joint everyday during those 6 weeks. Learning where the big box stores/lumberyards were on the other side of Jackson. In our previous 7 years in Jackson, I’d only frequented the east side a few times, mostly for Sunday breakfasts with friends. Basically there are a couple main drags through town and one of them comes within a few blocks of our new abode so I wasn’t worried about getting lost. Besides we were now within an easy access to I 94, but it was like moving to a city I’d never been to before.

We tried new ways of getting from here to there when running errands and buying gadgets for the house. I had in my head if I stayed on 94, I would be able to see the exit for the east side Meijer, but I’d always ended up at the exit for our new neighborhood which was 3 miles too far. Yet had not caught a glimpse of my favorite shopping Mecca. Finally had to break down and ask the Hubs (he worked on the east side for a couple years). Turned out I had to get off 94 one exit before our house and my beloved Meijer was within spitting distance.

Wasn’t long before we noticed Consumers Power was working on Ann Arbor Road, which runs along a stones throw of I 94. They were adding huge street lights at regular intervals on either side for a stretch of 4 or 5 miles. Once in a while something would niggle my brain as for the purpose of these lights but most of me was consumed with whipping the house into shape before winter. A large section of Ann Arbor Road runs alongside I 94, so many working folks simply stay on AA Road until they merge on 94. Speed limit is 50 which is slower than 94 but there’s less accidents, less semi’s, less construction woes.

I believe all the street lights on Ann Arbor Road were for a new walking path constructed 4 years ago. Runs along the south side of Ann Arbor Road, sometimes within just a few feet of the road. A narrow shoulder puts me precariously close to traffic at times as I walk. I watch semi drivers and worry about their retreads, thinking one flying through the air at 50 mph could be a death sentence, but it’s the texters who concern most.

During my walks in North Muskegon there was only one main drag, so it was used by everyone in the mornings. Gals applying makeup, a guy eating a humongous bowl of cereal propped right beneath his chin, book/work/newspaper readers while the rest diddled with their phone. On the plus side the speed limit was 25 and pretty much enforced. Ann Arbor Road’s speed is twice that with 10 times as many semi’s as North Muskegon.

I get it. Ann Arbor Road is basically a highway with several fast food stops, and a lot of people feel no remorse for tossing garbage out the window. So I’m not surprised when I see half filled, melted slurpee cups, limp cheeseburger/French fry wrappers, plastic water containers and masks of every size, shape, color and material. A worn out tire here, a dead couch there, a broken basketball hoop propped against a stop sign.

For a couple months this spring a section of my walking path added another harrowing feature. An obstacle course, as if walking a straight line isn’t hard enough for this off kilter/balance deficient grandma. Remember those adorable 4 baby Canadian geese, along with their monogamous parents had claimed ownership of my walking path in front of the pond as their permanent summer residence. As long as I was quick with the compliments about their brood, all was well. But when I started complaining to mom and dad that they needed to train their kids not to poop all over the path 463 times a day, I became enemy number one. Snotty enablers chased and tried to goose me every morning. I used my walking stick for protection daily. Yikes.

One of the geese tweens got hit in July. (I’d been harping to them the pond across the road was safer, less hectic, but they covered where their ears should be and screamed, “la la la la.”) The family mourned for a couple days, then disappeared. Poof. Just like that. About a week later I drove to the pond, parked my Jeep and spent an hour sweeping up a ton of poop, broken glass, stones thrown in my direct path from the shoulder.

Since I’ve only utilized the path since the end of 2019, the first time I spotted something beyond ‘strange’ in my walking path I was perplexed. However, this same issue crops up every couple weeks since so I can no longer think of it as an unusual occurrence. What, pray tell-you ask?

Tis vomit. Multiple splotches of vomit. Every couple weeks. Usually I see a small splotch first. Just a teaser. Several yards away there’s another clump, with a final curtain call within a quarter mile. I just don’t understand. If you’re on the path and feeling sick, why wouldn’t you just stop, lean over in the grass/weeds/wild flowers and upchuck? There are several lovely resting spots along the path. Two expensive benches sit primly on a large section of cement. Next to the benches are black wrought iron trash receptacles with a garbage liner. At least a half dozen times this year someone’s sat on the bench, within 15 inches of the trash barrel and vomited all over the sidewalk in front of the bench. So sick they can’t turn their head? Honestly I have no sympathy for them.

One day a few weeks ago, it was pouring down rain when I got up, so I didn’t walk. I used to love walking in the rain, but now I lose my grip on my walking stick and the rubber base slides on the wet blacktop. Finally cleared up around supper time, so I went for a short walk to get some steps in before dark. Not my best walk, it was humid, no breeze and the sun was in the wrong place since I always walk in the morning. Monday morning dawned perfect and I went for my usual walk around 7. A mile from home turns up several new ‘splotches’ since the night before. I wonder if they were high, got bad fast food or just drunk? You know how many times it has to rain (hard) to wash that crap away? And the stains stay linger for months. It’s just so disgusting.

Years ago there was a gal in North Muskegon who was the most dedicated jogger I’ve ever seen. A no nonsense runner. Many days when the weather was inclement, ice and snow covered sidewalks with accompanying 30 mph hour winds, she’d be jogging along Ruddiman. Alone. She was painfully thin and well over 6 feet tall. She never waved or acknowledged my existence. Not even when we ran into each other in Meijer as she was buying her weekly ration of one celery stalk. There were several times over the years I’d see her stop suddenly, run into the grass/bushes and get sick. But I never saw her or anyone else vomit all over the sidewalk that we all used and shared. I don’t know what exactly this says about my fabulous new walking path but it troubles me for some reason…

My parents, Rich & Florence were married for 62 years. Mom died when I was almost 54 so my knowledge/observations/opinions were based on approximately 50 years of my life. Now I’m pushing 70 (wow, that’s even hard to write) and have witnessed various marriage/relationships observing other couples, friends and family during my life. But my parents long marriage remains in the top spot for one of the most unique.

How their marriage fared during the first 15 years from what I saw was kinda happy/normal. The radical change came after they lost their middle kid Larry in a freak accident in 1958. My sister got married in 1960 so I was basically an only child after that. Mom and Dad slowly drifted apart, he flourished, she became an introvert.

Mom gave divorce some serious consideration after losing Larry. She actually talked about it to me several times before I hit my teens, but Dad never considered it. The loss of Larry ended up saving Dad. He became an enthusiastic believer/born again Christian. He made a radical change. Mom however suffered with some depression. They still took vacations, ate out regularly, went to church together twice on Sunday’s, but a lot of it was for outward appearances.

After the first 15 years of my marriage, we moved to eastern Iowa. Five years later we moved another 350 miles east which added a new wrinkle to their unusual lifestyle. They developed a quirky competition with each other. I almost typed “over us” but it really was a competition about our kids.

Seems like the farther away we lived, the more there was at stake. When we moved to Michigan, Shannon was 16, Joshua was 12 and Adam was 8. It wasn’t as if the kids forgot their grandparents when they didn’t see them for a few months like when they were babies. Mom and Dad somehow got into this odd competition over the kid’s attention and affections.

When we lived closer to them I can understand their visiting us at different times. Mom might have a day off during the week and wanted to see us. But after we moved twice as far away and they had both since retired, they continued this odd way of visiting us. Bragging rights after returning home. Embellishing the stories of their adorable grandchildren. Don’t know why.

Dad always had an ulterior motive. Don’t get me wrong, he loved my kids and tolerated their parents, but driving to Michigan meant one thing-a speaking engagement (preaching) at the prison. Utmost in his mind, he planned and timed his visits accordingly. Still, he always had a great time attending whatever sport the kids were participating in while he was staying with us.

Deb, one of my friends from Rock Valley remarked recently on a blog post she was surprised my Mom (in her 60’s at the time) drove back and forth to Mayo Clinic by herself. I thought heck that’s not half as bad/dangerous as driving to Michigan, which I think she did at least a dozen times.

Mom just wanted to be with us. She wanted to fill Dad’s head with wonderful stories, conversations she had with the kids, repeated verbatim. Where we went shopping or out to eat. Her trips were scheduled more by seasons. She didn’t want to travel 750 miles (by herself) when the weather was dicey.

Just off hand I can come up with 3 instances during their solitary trips back and forth to Michigan where something very serious could have happened. Two instances involved Mom and her 4 cylinder Fords, driving back to Iowa. She had stopped for a meal, gotten back on the interstate when she realized she had not put on her seatbelt. She pulled off on the shoulder, stopped and belts herself in. The semi’s are whizzing at 70 mph plus, practically blowing her little Escort over. Mom, being courteous simply puts on her left blinker and pulls out on the interstate. Goodness she could have been killed. There’s never a long break in traffic to squeeze back in, but she should have shifted that little 4-banger a couple of times while driving on the shoulder and getting up a little speed before trying to ease back into the sea of cars and semi’s. Her little Ford was totaled when she was rear ended by an 18 wheeler. Mom was unscathed.

These trips back and forth from Iowa to Michigan were before cellphones, Mapquest, Siri, and GPS. She might have had a paper map in the car, but that was it. There weren’t many ways to actually get lost though once she made it from our small home town in northwest Iowa to a major interstate. Unfortunately Mom was born without any directional map app. When she made it to I 80 East, she stayed on that until she got to 94 E, which brought her right to Jackson.

Driving back through Chicago was hectic, yet not all that bad if you just made sure you were still on 94 W and didn’t miss the 80 West signs. Which she did. Completely. She hooked a right before she came to the 80 west exit (also a right turn) in the middle of Chicago traffic, which happened to take her to Wisconsin. Well she had never been to Milwaukie before so there’s that. She lost a couple hours both ways before getting back to 80 West.

Dad had a much better sense of direction when he traveled. We had moved to North Muskegon so Dad’s dangerous trip was after I 80 turned into 94 east. He didn’t continue on it as long but veered north along the east side of Lake Michigan. On this fateful trip he was about 25 miles south of us when he stopped. His feeling was he might have accidentally passed the North Muskegon exit and gone too far already. So he stopped at a “party store.” A mini-market of sorts, with gobs of junk food, beer, pop and usually gas if you need it. (Or get gas after all the junk food). He wanted to stretch his legs anyway and ask someone how far off he was from his final destination. So he casually saunters up to a couple guys holding an animated conversation in a pickup truck in the parking lot. Dad taps his knuckles on the passenger window. Both guys are talking and studying the lap of the passenger. Naturally Dad looks down too. Passenger is holding a huge handgun. And Dad just startled the living shit out of both of them.

Luckily none of the three panicked and cooler heads prevailed. Gunslinger slowly rolls down his window. Dad, not looking in the dude’s lap anymore says, “ah-hi. I might be lost. I’m going to my daughter’s in North Muskegon and think I might have passed her exit already. Do you know how far away I am?” Helpful gun owner (or at least the one in possession of the gun) replied, “No sir, you haven’t gone too far. You’re still about 20 miles south of the North Muskegon exit, and it will be on your left off 31 North. Have a good day.” Dad said, “thank you for your help. God bless you both!” (Holy shit that could have turned out badly. Thanks a lot for that one God).

When I think about some of these scary events, I’m in awe of God’s grace, watching over my folks as they tooled along, all alone on some of America’s busiest roads. And these are just the stories they bothered repeating. Heaven knows, there might have been other instances they didn’t dare talk about, for fear I would not let them drive out of Iowa again. If I’m being practical I suspect there might be a conversation between one or all of our kids concerning our traipsing around through the states. But not yet. Nooooo. I’m way too young and a far better driver than 75% of the yahoos on the roads these days. Truth. Of course it’s not my driving I’m concerned about, but those unpredictable yahoos, right?

I’ve been on Facebook since 2013, practically still a rookie. Every few days when I check Facebook first thing, something in my ‘memories’ that pops up. Which means at one time from 1 to 7 years ago I posted that before it became a memory. Boring food stuff usually, something I’ve canned, baked or a goofy craft project I did with my grandson Graham, who was very young.

I posted fairly often, mostly on “if you grew up in Rock Valley” or shared my blog posts which I had recently started writing. But never memes from other sites. I read what others posted and usually laughed. Who are these crazy people who think that stuff up? I’m in awe of their cleverness and creativity, but seldom tempted to post and share the memes on my own newsfeed.

But as the years ticked by so did some of my infatuation with Facebook. Not gonna lie, the campaign before the 2016 election almost did me in. Naive Iowa gal foolishly thought once the election was over, no matter what the outcome, Facebook would right itself and become fun again. Au contraire. Worse than ever. So I checked it less often, commented less, posted less. If not for my grandson Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) prolific high school basketball career, food or my blog, there just wasn’t much I wanted to share with others.

I still looked at what others posted. Laughed when it was funny, nodded when I agreed and shook my head at some of the spiteful posts on my newsfeed. Realized that’s how folks felt, one way or the other and arguing wasn’t going to change their mind or mine. But they still were my friends, most of them from when I was a kid growing up in Rock Valley.

Rock Valley was a small, predominantly Dutch town. My parents were Dutch. Mom was raised by her Dutch immigrated paternal grandparents, who continued to wear wooden shoes their whole lives. One would think I would have grown up speaking Dutch fluently, yet I did not. Mom and Dad both spoke Dutch with ease, yet it was rarely spoken in daily conversations. When they preferred their youngest, nosey child not understand what (or more likely who) they were talking about, they spoke Dutch exclusively. I asked Mom to teach me Dutch and she did to some extent one summer, but I sure regret not learning a lot more of their Dutch language, history and customs.

They did use a fair share of Dutch slang on a regular basis. Many of these terms, phrases and quirky words have stuck with me throughout my life and I still use them on a daily basis. If I were in the Netherlands I doubt many natives would recognize any of my oft used slang words. They have probably been so Americanized they’re no longer close to what was originally taught to Mom and Dad almost a century ago.

I posted a blog story on my family’s use of Dutch slang 6 years ago called, Hut-fa-Duttie. (Are you kidding me? Six years! I thought I’d be done writing after 3 months). I know what you’re thinking-she is done writing but she can’t help herself and just keeps blathering on. Just not quite ready to put down ‘the mighty pen.’ There are serious considerations here-namely my 2 loyal readers. Can’t just leave them in the lurch now can I? Don’t answer. Please. Don’t.

There’s a word my Dad favored when he felt I was being inappropriate about the sacredness of God and religion. The word is ‘spuut.’ Hard to explain how it’s pronounced. I’m not sure of it’s spelling either. (Obviously you’re not here for a learning experience of odd Dutch slang words because I’m clueless). It’s not ‘spot,’ but rather close to the first syllable in ‘sputter,’ but with a titch more ‘o.’ But if I write it out like spout, that’s not right either. So I decided to add double ‘u’s because almost every word in the Dutch language has double letters in it at least once somewhere so it looks legit to me.

My friend Angie (a devout Christian-full of faith and hope) posted these memes on Facebook a few days ago. I felt a little guilty laughing, then laughed harder after reading the captions. The harder I laughed the more guilt I felt, which told me I probably shouldn’t have been laughing in the first place. But I laughed, giggled, gasped until I couldn’t breathe. Not as much when I pictured my Dad’s stern look decades ago. Shaking his head at how disrespectful I was.

Gonna ask for some forgiveness here.

Dear Heavenly Father,

I am grateful for your patience Lord. I am a sinner and still You love me. Please continue to watch over and bless this great nation. Fill my heart with kindness and forgiveness. I ask You to bless those who are sick, hurting and mentally weary. In Jesus name, amen…

P.S. Lord, 2020 has been challenging and a bit of a downer. Might I make 2 small, insignificant requests which have nothing to do with our (elephant in the room) 2 bothersome P’s, namely politics and pandemics, but would result in minor happiness for our mundane lives, at least momentarily?

1. Could you might make the tiniest change from the season finale of The Good Doctor. Every woman on the planet sincerely hopes Dr. Neil Melendez is still alive. Maybe make it a dream sequence (just trying to help).

2. Please, please don’t let anything bad happen in the Rip/Beth storyline on Yellowstone this year. Especially Rip. There’s only 2 more episodes, not that big of a task. Remember, my main concern is Rip. Humbly yours, Neese

I really don’t mean to belittle God or make light of the gospel. I have been blessed in my life far more than I deserve. Not trying to offend anyone, just trying to add a little humor to my life because there hasn’t been much in it lately.

PP.SS. Last ‘ask’ I swear (not literally). Been a fan of Will Yun Lee since Witchblade. If you could keep his character, Dr. Alex Park safe and give him a bigger storyline I’d be grateful. Too much? Sorry God…

Ironic. Nearly a decade after the Hubs (my boyfriend then) accidentally broke my nose showing me one of his signature wrestling moves, Mom tripped over the vacuum cleaner cord upstairs-in the dark-smacked her face on the edge of the footboard of Dad’s twin bed-and broke her nose. A decade before she had researched where to have repair work done on my schnoz and chose Mayo Clinic, so it was a no brainer she’d have her beak tweaked at Mayo too. Awww. Mother/daughter share rhinoplasty stories.

It was several years later as we were getting ready to move from Davenport (350 miles from Mom and Dad) to Jackson, Michigan (750 miles away) when Mom started experiencing a few disturbing symptoms. Itchy patches on her arms, bottom, stomach and legs. Small painful cracks on her hands and feet. She went to her primary care guy who sent her to a skin specialist in Sioux Falls. He and Mom talked it over and decided Mayo Clinic would likely come up with the right diagnosis and treatment plan for whatever this was.

Mom drove to Rochester after being referred to a dermatologist at Mayo. After running some tests, the results came back with a diagnosis of Mycosis Fungoides (my-koe-sis fun-goy-deez). A T-cell lymphoma caused when white blood cells grow out of control and move from the blood to the skin. Mom would need to stay while they came up with a treatment plan.

About the same time we were gearing up for the Michigan move, we had a friend with a serious health issue. He lived on the Illinois side of the Mississippi and did business with JI Case selling coolant. His name was Creigh and he was a little older than us. He was an ardent Los Angeles Dodger fan and gave me boatloads of static about my Cubbies. When the Cubs were on a road trip on the west Coast, the games started about 10 pm Iowa time. If (when) the Dodgers went ahead, he’d call me to brag, harass and gloat. We were like the only 2 people still awake at 1 am, watching baseball. When Creigh was about 45, he was suddenly diagnosed with acute leukemia. He would spend many weeks at Mayo Clinic researching any options to slow down his cancer.

I really dropped the ball here, no excuse. Mom was going through something traumatic and I just wasn’t around enough. Hubs had a new job, we had just moved to a new house, in a new town and state. Three kids, 16, 12 and 8, I was busy and overwhelmed. But I should have paid more attention to what was going on with Mom.

Over the span several months, there would be more trips to Mayo for Mom, and her Mycosis Fungoides, most of them by herself which was a couple hundred miles away. At the most serious, there were black tar treatments which is exactly like it sounds. They used copious amounts, slavering all the bumpy patches and cracks with stinky stuff that smelled like pitch and was as black as onyx. Mom was bedridden at times. The tiny cracks had morphed into huge fissures on her feet which were so painful she crawled around the house until they healed. Just awful.

One of the trips I made to Mayo with Mom was while Creigh was hospitalized there too. I wanted to visit and maybe watch part of a baseball game with him. (Mom was a Mets fan. What’s with these folks from the Midwest who like teams on either coast? How about supporting the Cubs, Twins, Cardinals (ick) or the Royals? Dad was even worse. He was a Yankee fan) But Creigh was experiencing terrible side effects from the chemo and wasn’t allowed visitors besides immediate family. Creigh’s leukemia journey lasted only a matter of weeks before he passed away. Never got another phone call rubbing it in how well his Dodgers were doing compared to Chicago. I missed my avid baseball buddy, even if he rooted for the wrong team.

After more than a year of misery, the tar treatments had eradicated the worst of the Mycosis Fungoides (MF, appropriate enough don’t ‘cha think?) and no longer needed. Now Mom was able to be treated in Sioux Falls with checkups every few months at Mayo. The new treatments were similar to standing in a tanning bed for 3 minutes. She went a couple times a weeks for several months. But it was definitely radiation and took a toll on her skin (burned) which was ironic. She was trying to heal her skin.

So they prescribed this skin cream called Vanicream. I’ll never forget this side story of Mom’s illness. Mom was so impressed with the doctor’s pitch for the use of Vanicream. It had been developed by 2 pharmacists-working at Mayo Clinic in the mid 70’s! They were searching for a better lotion than what was available. (It looked like Crisco and had no smell-weird). Since Vanicream was more than regular old Jergens Lotion it was a prescription. Mom got it in small tubs. I tell you it was a cure-all. I can remember a dozen times when she’d scoop up a dollop of Vanicream and put it in an old pill bottle for me and my ultra dry face or itchy patches. (Imagine my shock a few years ago as I was wandering around a Walgreens and spotted a tub of Vanicream! No longer a prescription and now had several products in their line. I’ve been using Vanicream as my face moisturizer ever since).

Mom continued to get regular checkups at Mayo Clinic after her bout with Mycosis Fungoides through the 90’s. In fact she’d been given a clear bill of health a few months before she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in the late 90’s. A fast growing cancer in her chest that responded well to chemotherapy. After a few treatments though she suffered a stroke. Not totally debilitating but she would never walk alone again. The lumps on her arms and head subsided and for a couple years she did pretty well, then the lumps returned. A couple more treatments held them at bay for a bit. When the massive lumps reappeared with a vengeance for a third time, she said, “no more chemo,” and lasted less than a year. I’ve often wondered if Mom’s Mycosis Fungoides was a precursor for the non-Hodgkins she suffered a decade later…