The Quad Cities. Davenport and Bettendorf are located in southeastern Iowa, Moline & Rock Island right across the mighty Mississippi in northwestern Illinois. (sorry East Moline, you DON’T COUNT. Otherwise the long-time clever name of Quad Cities would have to be changed just for you. Quint Cities just doesn’t have the same ring) Davenport, the largest of the quad was our home for 6 short years during the 80’s. We chose to live on the southeastern side because we wanted our 3 kids to remain in Iowa schools. Duh.

We did not realize our house was famous once a year. (It was located in an older neighborhood with large, single dwelling homes). The whole metropolitan area of Davenport was about 100,000. The significance was all about the street (boulevard actually) on which our 2 story stucco house was built.

There was this health-conscious dude from Bettendorf who ran the Boston Marathon in 1974 (and liked it). After he came back to reality (Iowa) he decided running alone throughout the year wasn’t much fun. He wanted to encourage other runners and cap it off once a year with a special event. Now hang on a second. John Hudetz (marathon man) knew it would be easier to sell this idea/plan if it was incorporated with an already successful endeavor.

That’s where Leon Bismark (Bix) Beiderbecke came in, (now why isn’t my middle name something cool like Bismark? I like Bismarcks) although he had already been dead for 45 years. Bix was born in Davenport in 1903. He became a renowned jazz cornet/piano player during the 1920’s, teaching himself to play mostly by ear. But his uncanny ability with long improvs and jazz solos were a God given talent. Bix died of alcoholism at the age of 28 in 1931, but he left a mark on the music world forever. (We named our dog Bix after the musician). Davenport celebrates the life and music of Bix Beiderbecke with a week long music festival every summer. Marathon Man decided to use the festival’s success by adding a race, but not a marathon.

The year it began was 1975, the number of runners signed up totaled 84. The 7 mile race started in downtown Davenport at the base of the Brady Street hill, (a killer) heading north then turning east on Kirkwood. The Boulevard was perfect. Both sides of the boulevard were fairly wide, with gentle up and down slopes for the runners heading for the Village of East Davenport, then looping around while remaining on Kirkwood. The racers headed west back to Brady Street, then south down the steep hill. Guess who lived on Kirkwood?

By the time we moved to Kirkwood Boulevard in 1982 the runners applications for the Quad City Times Bix 7 had risen significantly. Why? The Olympics. What? Yup. When the US boycotted the 1980 Moscow summer games, the world’s top distance runner, Bill Rodgers decided he’d run in the Bix race. Frank Shorter, a Yale graduate and Olympic gold medal marathon winner in 1972 and silver medalist in ’76 chose to participate in the Bix too. Those guys brought notoriety to the race but also cemented the validity of The Bix being an actual race sought out by many of the world’s most elite runners every summer. When we were enjoying The Bix, the number of runners was about 8 thousand. (I believe the number of runners has doubled again since we moved away in 1987. The Bix is now the largest non marathon race in the Midwest. Wow) The race as well as the Bix Beiderbecke music festival has proven to be quite lucrative for Davenport. News outlets, including the 3 major networks, plus local television stations were a common sight (anyone near our house always stopped in for food. I don’t know if the reporters dipped into the Bloody Mary’s or beer but they often asked to use our bathroom-so probably.

The front lawns on either side of Kirkwood, the sidewalks, parking and curbs were swarming with thousands of spectators. Several small roaming bands played while they walked the route on the sidewalk, stopping in yards to play a couple songs (and eat).

Long garden hoses were hooked up to spray the runners with fine mist. The serious racers didn’t like getting their feet or shoes wet so our kids would aim the hose up towards their chests and heads. They also set up small tables with plastic cups filled with water (before the insanity of the bottled water craze) which were handed to the runners as they zipped past us on the first leg of Kirkwood. The runners often dumped the water over their heads or the back of their necks as they ran. The weather in Iowa at 8 a.m. on the last Saturday of July was eerily similar to the heat and humidity of hell.

We had huge parties for The Bix race every single year we lived on Kirkwood Boulevard. John worked at JI Case which employed hundreds (and I think the Hubs invited them all). John’s responsibility was the yard and everything alcoholic to drink, beer and Bloody Mary’s. My job was baking for a couple hundred people. Blueberry muffins, homemade bacon, egg, cheese biscuits and our own version of sub sandwiches plus fresh fruit, cookies, coffee and orange juice. You just never knew who was gonna show up. One year the Hubs and Ron, his good friend and coworker stopped at one of their favorite hangout bars called The Station on the night before the Bix Race. Ron always encouraged John to arm wrestling contests (because he always won). During the Bix party the next morning Mr. Universe (who they had met at The Station the night before) and some of his buddies knocked on our door because they had gotten an invitation from John and Ron.

The list of reasons to stay in the Quad Cities was as long as my arm for our whole family, but it was not to be. Farm equipment manufacturing was on a downward spiral and the layoffs were massive, meaning we had to move. We were heartbroken leaving Kirkwood Boulevard, the neighborhood, Case, the great schools, our friends and especially Iowa. We never thought we’d move out of our native state, yet here we are. Still in Michigan since 1987-and not one of the kids has left the mitten state, so here we stay…

The Hubs grew up as an avid hunter as did most boys from our small farming community. There were probably more pheasants than people in Iowa during the 60’s. Although he had 3 brothers, John often hunted alone. They were quite a bit older and didn’t appreciate the runt of the family tagging along.

When John wasn’t actively participating in football or wrestling, he’d often haul his hand-me down 20 gauge to school and keep it in his locker for the day so he could hunt after school. During the winter, Iowa starts getting dark by late afternoon. If he wasted 45 minutes walking home to get his gun there wasn’t enough time/light left for hunting. No one, absolutely no one-students/teachers or administrators gave the shotgun leaning in his locker a second thought during the day. It simply was not a big deal. Just a kid who hoped to shoot a couple of pheasants for the freezer at home. A different world we lived in.

After we got hitched, pheasant hunting remained as important as watching the Minnesota Vikings every Sunday afternoon. His older brother Jim got him a deal on a new 870 Remington (although the price was right-maybe 75 bucks, we honestly couldn’t afford it, but the old 20 gauge had been handed down again). John was so proud of his new gun, I think he cried when he got the first scratch on the stock. He still has his 870 almost five decades later.

John had gone hunting through the years with several men who had hunting dogs. One of his friends, a guy named Barry had a black lab and swore by the breed as the best hunting dog. Hubs had researched all breeds and was leaning towards a German Shorthair Pointer. The Sioux City Journal was full of a variety of hunting puppies. John drove to Cherokee and bought a darling male Shorthair he named Ben. John bought a book he memorized on how to train a good hunting dog. Bought a canvas dummy (about the size of a shock on your car) he’d throw so Ben would learn to have a ‘soft mouth’ when retrieving birds. But Ben was difficult. He was lovable and sweet but didn’t listen and never came when called. So Hubs took him to the vet. Ben seemed in good physical health so the vet suggested a test at home. Let the pup fall asleep and quietly set an windup alarm clock nearby ready to go off. Well Ben snored right through the loud clanking noise. He was totally deaf. Devastated, John returned the pup and was too bummed to think about hunting dogs for awhile.

But I wasn’t. I was flush with money. (Really can’t even type that with a straight face. We were in debt and broke our first few years. Easy to smile about it now, but it was anything but fun back then). I was working at Zenith Corporation on a production line with at least 100 people (90 of them women) happily slapping together the country’s best color TV’s. Starting out, I earned a bit more than the federal minimum wage plus a maximum of 30% incentive pay, I was making just over 2 bucks an hour.

I started my own hunting dog research without Hub’s knowledge. On the outskirts of Sioux City was a dude who had kennels like I’d never seen before on a huge acreage. He owned an insurance agency but was past the point of having to work regular hours. His name was Dean Kerl. He had imported some German Shorthair Pointers from Denmark and had won some pretty prestigious international awards with his hunting dogs. So Shannon and I drove our 1972 shit green Chevy Vega out to Kerl Acre Kennels, and promptly fell in love with a pup Dean was training and planning on keeping for himself. Luckily, Dean was just as smitten with our 2-1/2 year old Shannon (he couldn’t believe how long Shannon’s hair was for 2-1/2 or her vocabulary, which was already bigger than mine) as we were with the little female pup who was maybe 3 months old. She was already pointing and starting to stalk.

After a couple of, “oh she’s not really for sale,” (the pup, not the kid) we struck a deal. I would make weekly payments until she was paid for and John would have his hunting dog by pheasant season, although she (pup again, not kid) would not yet be fully trained (the kid was). But I went above and beyond for the Hubs on this special gift. Dean employed a professional trainer for all his Shorthair/show dogs and agreed to let John and the pup take weekly hunting lessons for nothing until she was fully trained. (I know, I rocked it back then)! Hubs still insists this was the nicest, sweetest, neatest thing I ever did for him. Yes, he can say that with a straight face after I birthed all 3 of his children, one of which was breech. Geez.

A few weeks later the 3 of us drove out to Kerl Acres and met the newest member of our little family. The pup was instantly taken with John and it took me all of 3 seconds to realize I’d been replaced in John’s life by 25 pounds of fur and 4 paws. Dean had some pretty strict rules about the dogs he sold. They were not like regular pets but hunters. No chains, no running loose, and we had to build a kennel for her. We loved her like a pet but she didn’t come in the house very often except when the weather was dangerous. For not being a house pet, she had better manners than most people when she was inside.

Hubs thought long and hard about her name. Pedigree means a lot so he wanted some of the sire’s name in her legal name. He named he Kerl Acres Anja Ib Dee. King Ib was her international award winning father, Dee was for me. But simply Anja (meaning Angel) was her name.

Anja was one remarkable dog. She’d notice John’s carrying his gun case and go absolutely CRAZY with excitement. She’d leap into the back of the truck, ready to go. By the time they’d get out of the city, she was hyperventilating. John would stop the truck, make her get out and he’d drive away slowly with Anja running behind the truck for a half mile. Getting rid of that nervous energy so she could focus once they started walking the field. I can’t tell you how many times John had her out hunting and she’d CATCH a pheasant. She was such a pro at stalking birds, she’d literally be on top of the bird and just scoop him in her mouth, bring it to John, unharmed. Well, no b-b’s in that one.

Anja had one AKC litter of 9 pups when she was about 5. Boy that was a trip. She was a huge part of our family for 13 years and hunted every one of those years. Hubs was so heartbroken when he noticed she had stopped eating and drinking, he couldn’t bring himself to take her to the vet, so I took her in. Only fitting I guess, since I fell for her first. She loved all of us but to Anja there was only one man in her life and that guy was John…

I could lament the fact that I spread the prep work tasks of making ONE meal over the course of 3 days. Dang after I wrote that I realize that’s pretty pitiful isn’t it? Three days-really? It could have been 2, then again, I used to do the whole enchilada in one afternoon. Let me explain.

I have loved chicken pot pies since I was 10 years old. Gravy, chunks of chicken, veggies and lots of crusts. What’s not to love? Mom’s discovery of this delicacy was secondary. She worked every other weekend and Dad and I were on our own for meals. TV dinners were relatively new and by golly we both liked them. When Mom was home she’d usually put a roast in the oven before we left for church on Sunday. But when it was just the 2 of us, we’d opt for Swanson’s (I was adamant, it had to be Swanson’s Brand) Salisbury Steak (Dad) and a turkey dinner for me. I’d carefully remove the tin foil cover off the cranberry compote compartment before sticking it in the oven and waiting the long half hour before it was scalding hot. Clean up was our silverware and glasses. Then Dad went somewhere for the afternoon to save souls and I headed over to Char’s house. The Schelhaas’ had their big Sunday meal at supper time and I was usually invited to join their family before heading for another round of church.

Anyway, not long after my new found fondness for TV dinners when Mom bought a couple of frozen pot pies at Koster’s Market. Not as filling as the TV dinner but I liked them. A lot. Beef, chicken and turkey. From then on, Mom kept a couple in the freezer for lunches or if she was doing some time consuming chore after she got home from work like going to the laundromat which took all evening. I wouldn’t say TV dinners or pot pies were a normal occurrence at the Gerritson home after that, but I ate them with some regularity and gusto through my teens.

Even after the Hubs and I eloped there was usually one or the other in our freezer for our first few years of marriage. The Hubs tolerated the fried chicken dinner. But heck, I eventually learned how to cook and by the anniversary of our tenth year we had blossomed into a family of 5 and the TV dinners and pot pies had been replaced with cheap frozen pizzas for after school snacks. Swanson’s brand turkey dinners and chicken pot pies disappeared from my life.

It didn’t take me long to appreciate the fine art of bulk cooking. If you’re gonna have a mess in the kitchen, might as well have something to show for it. After I learned how to make spaghetti sauce (thanks Wilma Duits) I don’t think I ever made just one meal’s worth. I’d make a triple batch and freeze 2 for nights when I was busy, didn’t feel like cooking or everyone was home at a different time to eat. Same with meatloaf, meatballs and soups.

You’d think my tactics would have changed once we were empty nesters but it hasn’t. I still cook in bulk-just not AS bulky. Whereas I used to cook 50 pounds of split chicken breasts at a time, (they have to have skin and bones to get flavor for the broth) deboning, dicing, vacuum sealing, freezing in quart bags to be used in soups, casseroles, quesadillas or creamed chicken. Then I would strain, freeze the broth for soups. Now I do about 10 pounds at a time. Which brings me to my comfort food. Comfort foods are different than my favorite foods.

Favorite meals: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, cranberry sauce or spaghetti with garlic bread.

Favorite foods: popcorn, pies, pizza, pretzels (soft like Auntie Anne’s), Penuche & Pepsi (diet). It’s all about the P’s.

Comfort foods: beef stew, vegetable beef soup, bean soup, chicken & dumplings, hot beef sandwiches and chicken pot pie.

I’ve reverted back to my childhood. Just without Swanson’s. Chicken pot pie has been a staple on the menu again-much to Hubs chagrin. I could easily eat my chicken pot pie a couple times a month-him a couple times a year. Same with spaghetti or turkey and all the fixings. He prefers hamburgers on the grill at least once a week. Sigh. Who is this guy?

I have found some clever ways to combat our differences in food choices. Take pot pies for instance. My recipe is big. (Of course it is). Many of the foods which I consider a pain in the butt to make are of the larger size so I’m not making it all the time. (You all know I’m lazy right?) The pot pie recipe makes 3-9″ pies, so we’d eat one and I’d freeze 2. I’m very fond of leftovers, the Hubs is not. But I’m not crazy about leftover pot pie. If you zap it in the microwave, the crust isn’t flaky and the oven tends to dry it out and there’s not enough gravy. Much like my childhood I now make pot pies-one serving at a time. Bought some 5″ pans which has solved a lot of problems. If I’ve got a hankerin for pot pie and John is craving Beef Stroganoff (not my fave), we each eat our own choice. Doesn’t happen very often, he’s amiable about most dishes I fix for supper, but on those rare occasions when my craving gets the best of me, I just take out one little pot pie for me.

Now about this one stinking meal which took me 3 days. Started by cooking 10 pounds of chicken breasts and dicing the meat up on Thursday. I used 3 quarts of the broth and made chicken soup in a half hour for supper. Took some of the diced chicken, mixed it with some seasonings, divided and froze 4 small packages for quesadillas. The rest of the chicken was for pot pies (I do this once a year). Froze the remainder of broth, leaving out a quart for my recipe.

I asked Ari and Jovi if they were available to come over for pot pie? We settled on Sunday noon. Friday I did nothing and we went out for a fish fry at Our Lady of Fatima. (Pretty cute story about Our Lady of Fatima called, Friday night fish fry’s, 3-17-18). But I didn’t want to leave the rest of my prep work for the meal until Sunday morning because I’m slow-and lazy, so I diced the onion, celery & carrots and measured the flour, salt, Crisco for the crusts. I took out a cup each of frozen peas and corn to thaw in the fridge and measured the flour, salt, pepper and sage together for the gravy part. Set up my counter to roll out the crusts and called it a day. That was day 2.

Sunday morning I threw an angel food cake in the oven, mixed up my crust dough and started to sauté the onion and celery. Divided up the dough for one 9″ pot pie and 6 individuals. Finished my pan of pot pie fixings, filling the pie tins. Took out the cake to cool. Plopped on the 9″ top crust, threw it in the oven, rolled out 6 tiny top crusts and slid each of them into quart freezer bags. Cleaned and sweetened my strawberries, started a sink of soapy water. Looked at the flour spills on the floor, turned around, left the kitchen and jumped in the shower.

Swept the floor, damp mopped the worst, set the table and welcomed 2 of my favorite people in the world. Enjoyed pot pie and angel food cake together, then read some new books to Jovi. Cleaned up the kitchen, read the Sunday paper and have not lifted a finger since. Although I’m not thrilled many of the things I do these days are now done in segments, I’m grateful I can still do them and enjoy it. So no negativity about my 3 day journey to make a simple chicken pot pie…

I remember a time before a McDonald’s sat on every corner. No Arby’s, Burger King, Wendy’s or Subway. There were restaurants in my hometown, but no chains and none were open on Sunday. We went out to eat every Saturday night, usually within a 30 mile radius of Rock Valley. Mom cooked all week after she got home from work and she was bushed, but I rarely heard her complain about making supper every night.

My first experience with something I’d never tried before was in 1964. I was 13 and old enough to run around town. I now spent much of my free time at Rock Valley’s 6 lane bowling alley, and I don’t ever remember bowling there. That’s odd, right? The front section of the bowling alley was huge. A long counter took up one wall plus multiple tables, pinball machines, and a great juke box. There was no reason to go back by the actual bowling lanes unless you needed to use the restroom. A nice lady named Fran managed the kitchen, made the food, served the food and ran the register. I don’t know how she remained sane or coherent after football or basketball games. The place was packed with nearly everyone from school. (Our high school probably totaled 225 back then, which included 4 grades). There was barely enough room to move. Pinball machines dinging, jukebox rocking out The Beatles, Beach Boys, Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Turtles, Neil Diamond, The Dave Clark Five and the rest of the greatest music ever written, played or sung. And everybody wanted food. Poor Fran. A lot of nights after games my boyfriend (now Hubs for half a century) would hop behind the counter and make malts, shakes and sandwiches to help her out.

Well there was this edible creation Fran made that I’d not tried before. It was flat and about the size of salad plate. Gooey, stringy melted white cheese, capable of producing a blister on the roof of your mouth or on your chin. On top of the cheese was browned crumbled (seasoned?) hamburger. Fran browned all the hamburger earlier in the day and I remember John telling me she rinsed the hamburger with hot water after it was browned to get out as much fat as possible. (That woman was making healthy choices for us way back when). Awwww. There were some spices visible and I distinctly remember tiny oblong seeds that were a bit spicy, giving it just enough zip. Pizza. The cost of this delicacy was 60 cents. Another dime bought me an RC Cola.

In all truthfulness, I think our school’s hot lunch program offered a menu item every few weeks called pizza. Being savvy teens, we were not so easily fooled. It was not a ‘Fran’ pizza. It was browned hamburger mixed with tomato sauce/ketchup plopped on a thick bread-like crust with a slice of America cheese on top. It didn’t begin to resemble real pizza. And I had not yet ever had pizza from an authentic pizza parlor yet. Be still my heart. Soon young one, soon.

As my world began to expand, most of our ‘big date night’ destination was Sioux Falls, South Dakota, about 40 miles west. Compared to Rock Valley’s population of 2,000, Sioux Falls was humongous with about 60,000 people. K-Mart, Lewis Drug, a brand new chain called McDonald’s, with downtown shopping to die for, including Woolworth’s, Penney’s and Shriver’s (Mom’s favorite store). Huge, fancy movie theaters. It was just such a hip city.

Depending on our financial situation for the night was the engine determining what kind of fare would sustain us. We could each get a shake, cheeseburger and fries and get change back from two dollars at McDonald’s if money was tight. Or opt to walk around K-Mart for an hour, stop at their own little deli and buy a couple of their foot long sandwiches (the precursor to Subway). Piled high with cheap bologna, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato and yellow mustard. I don’t remember the price but it wasn’t much, maybe 39 or 49 cents. (Of course we did dates on five bucks most nights which included food, movie, snacks and gas). But if our budget was an iota more for the night we’d always-always spring for pizza. Sioux Falls had 2 or 3 restaurants JUST for pizza. The one we really liked was downtown Sioux Falls and it was called The Pizza Palace. While Franny’s pizza was awesome, The Pizza Palace offered a variety of ingredients like pepperoni, Italian sausage, mushrooms and better cheese. (In Fran’s defense, I’m sure The Pizza Palace did not rinse their browned hamburger to keep the fat content down for us).

As I remember The Pizza Palace was not a super huge place but was always busy. One memorable night, after finding a parking place we walked into a packed house and finally spotted a small table. (Most trips to Sioux Falls usually ended up with us double dating with another couple but on this occasion it was just Johnny Wayne & Neese). We ordered our pizza and pop, talked about what movie we should see while we gazed into each other’s eyes, drooling because the place smelled incredible. We devoured our pizza pie like malnourished inmates, both my arms tightly protecting my turf, just in case he thought I wouldn’t finish what was on my plate and he could snag leftovers. As if. I had my eyes on every slice he ate in case he left that one inch edge of crust (my favorite). But no, we each scarfed every crumb that was offered and then sat there, sated, fat and lazy. Carb coma, my favorite. While John paid the bill, I used the restroom. Towards the back, in the middle were 2 swinging doors. After going through, one direction was the lady’s restroom, the other way was the men’s.

I left the restroom and headed to the saloon doors and discovered John leaving the men’s room at exactly the same time. With just our heads barely poking over the swinging doors we each pushed one open and were greeted with loud gasps, guffaws and snickers. Everyone in the restaurant was staring at us with a mixture of amusement, shock and nervous laughter. I could feel myself blushing but I didn’t know exactly why. Hubs seemed fine.

It must have looked like we were doing something illicit in one restroom (together, duh) instead of going our separate ways. All because of our inopportune timing. By the time realization hit how questionable it looked, I honestly didn’t think I could make my feet move towards the front door. Think of it. I was 15. Mortified. Humiliated. And there was absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Ho man, it would be several weeks before I let John talk me into a return visit to our own little house of ill repute. Statistically, it was highly unlikely the same customers/workers were going to be there again-patiently waiting for the sex-crazed teen couple to start swinging-just out of sight-behind the saloon doors…

Ever have something so bizarre happen that 30 years later you’re still thinking, “what the heck?” Trying to remember the year, think it was 1992. We’d been living in Michigan about 5 years. Our house was on the outskirts of Jackson in a housing addition consisting of one huge oval with about 60 homes. Most of the homes were built during the mid-50’s when lot size still mattered. Every house was situated on an acre. While a few of the homes were two story, the majority were rambling ranch style like ours.

This neighborhood was changing. Originally thought out and built for mid-level execs employed by Consumers Power Company which was one (still is I think) of Jackson’s largest employers. The folks who bought these homes while raising their families had since retired and were now selling to move closer to their adult children and grands, giving families like ours some growing room. There was a nice mixture of retirees and younger families with scads of kids but spread so far apart it was very quiet. And safe.

Our house had four doors leading to the outside, although 2 were seldom used. There had been a breezeway between the garage and house which had been enclosed before we bought it. Kind of an odd room we used as a dining room because we had an extra table. (the main function of this gorgeous antique oak table was to collect school bags, coats, hats, miscellaneous gloves, candy wrappers, half eaten food, mail, toys or wet towels recently used in our hot tub). The room had 3 doors (one going into the garage), plus a double doorway to the living room and a single to the eating area off the kitchen. There was one wall for a large Amish cupboard plus the round oak table plopped right in the middle of the room. Everything else was doors or windows. But this little room got used frequently for either going to the backyard, out the front side to the driveway (bikes-skateboards) or into the garage if we were coming or going. No wonder it was always such a mess.

Shannon and Ariana (1 at the time) were living in Lansing because Shannon was about to graduate with her first degree from MSU. (First of three, she excels with the whole school atmosphere) Joshua was in high school and Adam was in junior high.

For several years after we moved to Michigan the only vacations we ever took were to Iowa. About 750 miles west of Jackson to the little town of Rock Valley, our old stomping grounds. John’s dad had passed away in ’87 but his mom, my folks and most of our siblings/nieces/nephews lived within an hour of each other. We went at least twice a year, usually spring break and late summer. My parents were still driving to visit us a couple times a year too.

We were just coming back from a week in Iowa during the boy’s spring break because it wasn’t hot outside. We drove straight through which took about 14 hours with the addition of a couple of stops and losing an hour for the miserable Eastern time zone. The boys were excited to get home, spend their remaining free time with friends before heading back to school. Our dog Chico stayed with our neighbor Mildred (2 acres away) while we were gone. They were besties but it wasn’t the same love Chico had for the boys. And the boys felt the same way so they were anxious to bring him back home before Mildred went to bed.

We were all exhausted, but the car was still loaded to the gills with crap that had to be hauled inside, unpacked, thrown in the laundry or put away. (Usually included was a huge cooler filled with Iowa beef already frozen). We’ve all got jobs to do before we can call it a day, so we start unpacking the car. First thing I do is hit some lights and turn up the furnace. (It maybe called spring break but the weather is seldom very springlike, it’s still quite cold). Everyone’s doing their own thing when I hear The Hubs and Josh talking to someone-and it’s not Adam or me. I walk from the kitchen into the hallway where John has a hold of a woman’s arm (which is still connected to the rest of her). What’s going on?

She’s petite, maybe in her 50’s with gray/blonde hair and glasses. She’s incoherent, mumbling, agitated, nervous. (First thoughts-Where did she come from? How did she get in our house? We never thought to call 911 at this point. We thought she was hurt or needed help). John leads her into the living room and sets her down in a chair to put her at ease and get some answers.

We’re nearly as befuddled as she is. She seems incapable of putting sentences together and her discomfort is palpable. She’s getting hysterical and it’s giving me the willies. We’re all looking at each other, then back at her, wondering what we should do. (Hold onto her, call the cops seems prudent).

All of a sudden she “springs” out of the chair and makes a mad dash to the breezeway door leading out to the driveway. A pickup screeches (we live on a corner with a stop sign) to a halt just before the stop sign, opens the passenger door and she literally throws herself up and in the truck. The truck squeals away at a high speed and we’re left standing there with our jaws dropped. John got within a yard of grabbing her feet as she flew through the air but was a couple seconds late. We stood there, looking like saps and shaking our heads.

What just happened? Now we call the cops. Duh, 10 minutes too late. We start going through the house trying to determine if anything’s missing. Was she casing the joint? Looking for drugs? Homeless and trying to stay warm? How long had she been there? And how did she manage to get in our house? John had replaced all 4 entrances with new storm doors and none had signs of a forced entry. We only used the door going into the garage since we pulled in, but the way she flew out of the side door appeared as though it was already unlocked before we got home.

It takes awhile for the cops to arrive. We explained what transpired in the hour since we parked in the garage but we’re really at a loss. Hubs gives a good description of the truck (he knows his makes and models) but we didn’t get the license plate number or a description of the 2 guys in the truck. The police are not very optimistic about finding out who broke in and what they were after but at least a police report was filed.

Some 30 years later we still wonder about the crazy lady in our house when we got home. John thinks she was searching for drugs. Although I don’t know what she was looking for, my opinion on her behavior (after we literally had her by the arm) was she got the drop on us. She acted scared and agitated so we’d let our guard down until she found the right moment to sprint out of the house. Had the truck tooted their horn to let her know they were outside? I don’t remember hearing anything. Did she spot headlights coming to a stop through our big bay window? Possible, but guess we’ll never know. But I still think we were played…

When we moved in 2015 we wanted to be closer to our adult children and grands. I thought downsizing our belongings and the square footage of our residence were going to be the only changes in my life. As if. There’s been a lot of little things adding up since I turned 65.

I had knee replacement 10 months ago. Did well until I fell in September which took a toll. My balance was way off and I ended up using a cane for 3 months, plus I lost much of my knee range of motion. (I’m back for more physical therapy). But it was when I started feeling better that I recognized other differences. Number one was my morning walks, which have been sporadic since we moved. First I hurt my left knee which took physical therapy and a year to feel somewhat better, then I fell and hurt my right leg necessitating replacement. I desperately wanted to start walking everyday “with purpose” like I did for 15 years.

I’ve come to the conclusion there have been many changes in my life since I was a young whippersnapper in 1998. I was then 75 pounds heavier and had finally found the willpower to diet. Along with limiting my food intake and dropping unhealthy pounds, I discovered a walking addiction. At my peak I was walking about 5 miles a day in 70 minutes. Now I use a walking stick and have just bumped my walk from 1-1/2 miles to 2 miles everyday our streets/walking path are dry and clear. Two miles takes about 38 minutes. And that’s me working hard. I have managed to shave 7 minutes off my total since December, but it’s still pathetic.

I stopped at my favorite shopping Mecca (Meijer) for groceries a few days ago. Meandering through fruits and vegetables I spotted fresh blackberries, a 6 ounce carton for 50 cents. Wow! Blackberries normally run about 3 bucks. Sweet berries about half the size of my pinkie. Just a few years ago I would have instantly cased the joint for marauding thieves trying to move in on my territory, while wrapping my arms around the entire display with a heady, “my precious.” Then walked out the door with a hundred boxes and a big smile on my face. I’m not exaggerating, I’ve done this numerous times during the last 25 years of my canning obsession. Not anymore.

Now in my defense, a few years ago I was still giving my canned goods away at an alarming (but good) rate. As Parish Visitor for an aging congregation those I visited on a regular basis who remained in their own home or independent living always got jars of my home canned jams, pickles and beets. Plus I donated dozens of jars to the United Methodist Women who sold them after church services (a sin on Sunday according to my Dad) for their mission fund. But after retiring I no longer have a reason to can 1,200 jars a year.

So instead of berry pouncing, I decided to pick up the items I came for and decide if and how many cartons of blackberries to buy (which goes directly against my first instinct to empty the shelves). Several months ago blackberries were on sale for a buck a box and I ended up canning about 30 half pints of seedless blackberry jelly (my second favorite next to apricot jam). The second reason I hesitated is the thought of standing by my stove for any length of time. Haven’t been able to do that since surgery. But really folks 50 cents a box is crazy! And I have a lot of trouble passing up crazy.

Not even a decade ago I routinely canned 80-100 jars of jam in a day. A day! Now I realize there’s no way I can stand in one spot in my kitchen for more than a couple hours in a stretch. I walked back to the fruit and grabbed 2 cases (24 boxes). Enough for 3 batches of jam totaling 30 half pints. I did lament to myself about how wimpy that was but it is what it is.

No more trying to do it all in one day like Super Woman. On day one I washed and smashed the berries, dividing them up in 5 cup increments and stashing them in the fridge. The next day I brought up the jars, lids, rings, sugar, pectin and water bath canner from the basement and washed everything. A day later I canned 30 half pints of jam which took a little over 2 hours. Felt odd/different and got me thinking how much my life has changed during the last decade.

And suddenly decided I’m looking at my life from the wrong direction.

Instead of pissing and moaning about the things I can’t do, the once simple project which now takes me longer, or the copious amounts I used to do, I gotta start being grateful for the THINGS I STILL CAN DO.

1. I’m older and slower. It’s about time I own that statement. My legs aren’t ever gonna feel the way they did when I started walking 22 years ago. I’m fairly certain I won’t ever jog again.

2. Does it really matter that my 2 mile walk now takes me 40 minutes instead of 28? The walk’s definitely still good for me. I continue to derive enormous satisfaction from lumbering along. (Those wacko endorphins feel fantastic). Listening to funky music while singing off tune with my own version of lyrics because I don’t understand the words still gives me pleasure (and strange looks from passers by and cars-I do not care) Deaf walker in the house! Who cares? Not me.

3. A big issue for me has been work. Haven’t worked in 14 months and I still miss it way too much. It gave me purpose. I miss little baby breaths on my neck while rocking one of them to sleep. I miss their unique smell, soft hair, toothless smiles and coos. It’s gotten so bad I miss spit-up and poopy diapers. I haven’t come to terms with this just yet. Kinda feel like there should be a part time job out there somewhere that would benefit from a sarcastic but empathetic grandma so maybe it’s time I start looking. This I care deeply about. I need more meaning in my life.

4. Giving thanks for what I’ve got in my life. Great family, warm house, easy access to doctors. Fridge, freezer and pantry filled in case of a zombie apocalypse.

5. In all seriousness though I’m truly blessed and grateful for another day on earth. Here’s to less complaining, less negativity and taking my life for granted. Start focusing on all the good in my life. Thanks God…

Mom and Dad started going to Calvin Christian Reformed Church in 1952 because all 3 of us (Mona, Larry and me-the straggler) were baptized in 1953. But Dad would be the first to tell you he didn’t give his life to Christ until late 1958, a few weeks after Larry died. That’s when his life was dramatically changed. Dad was quite vocal about the changes in his life after Jesus saved him. And soon the seeds God planted started to sprout. I believe Dad’s first fledgling good work’s ministry were his tracks in the early 60’s. Dad built little wooden shelf racks (track racks) which held an assortment of palm sized inspirational snippets of scripture on 10 tiny pages or less. Mom bought a rubber ink stamp pad with his name and address. He’d stamp every little booklet in case the recipient of one of these booklets wanted to talk to him and learn more about the Lord. He displayed the shelves in hospitals, nursing homes and both gospel missions in Sioux Falls and Sioux City. Every time he visited, he’d refill his track rack.

About the same time Dad felt obligated to share his compelling story with others, so he wrote his testimony. A short booklet on his life. How he found the Lord after losing Larry. By then Mom and Dad had transferred their membership to the First Reformed Church (At my insistence. I was 11). The transition was smooth for 2 of us. Mom, not so much. She really did better in a small church environment. First Reformed was at least 3 times as big. Dad dove right in, teaching Sunday school, getting elected to the consistory as an elder, visiting folks in hospitals and local nursing homes. He was busy and making a difference. And his lay ministries were morphing. Dad was insistent and precise when talking about his conversion. His good works should never be misinterpreted as a means into heaven. “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not of your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

It started small. Dad joined a group from church who made mission trips. Most were to gospel missions or prisons within a hundred mile radius of Rock Valley. Someone would play piano, a couple of people with great voices would sing, others had a prayer or read scripture. Then ‘Brother Rich’ would preach. Dad was a New Testament guy so his messages were about the life and times of Jesus. How to get your life in order so you could have eternal life, with a splash of fire and brimstone mixed in to hold your attention.

Maybe it was Dad’s tiny biblical tracks relaying the message that inspired him to construct billboard sized signs to reach a bigger audience. He asked local farmers for permission to erect a sign in their fields all over Sioux County. Dad spent countless nights out in the garage, hand painting a verse or thought provoking one liner to get people thinking while driving on highway 18 or 75.

Dad was drawn to those who didn’t have the freedoms the rest of us take for granted. That morphed into South Dakota’s M2 program. A one-on-one ministry with an inmate from the Sioux Falls penitentiary, which became the focal point of his good work’s ministry for decades. Weekly one hour visits, learning about the life of Jesus, plus listening to their concerns. Dad worked with an incredible number of guys over the course of 25 years, and many of those men stayed in contact with Dad long after they were released from prison with phone calls and letters.

Soon Dad started a weekly Bible study class at Sioux Falls prison. That’s when he realized the significance of each man having a Bible of their own. It wasn’t enough to study scripture with a dozen guys for an hour a week. If lives were going to be changed it was important for each man have a their own Bible. Giving them access to God’s word whenever they wanted. Which then launched his Bible outreach ministry.

Dad tithed but that wasn’t enough. Every single side job, (painting houses, tearing down buildings, shingling, small home repairs, usually for the widows around Rock Valley) the majority of the money was used for one of his missions. (He’d always treat Mom to a restaurant in Sioux Falls once he got paid from a job). With his once a year bonus from IPERS (the state retirement fund he paid into for decades) he’d use 10% to buy something he needed. And 90% of the time he used the money to buy Bibles. King James, NIV, New Testaments, The Psalms. He even found a company who offered a special Bible for the incarcerated. (Although during my life I literally saw this version of the Bible stacked up at Dad’s place hundreds of times, I never looked inside to compare how they differ).

When Mom passed away in 2004, Dad sold the house and moved to Michigan at age 88. I had spoken to the chaplain at Muskegon’s prison and given him multiple references for Dad, allowing him easy access as soon as he was settled. He preached once a month and taught a Bible study every week. It wasn’t long before I was proofreading his sermons and ordering Bibles for the masses. Those 3 years of teaching and preaching were probably the most meaningful years Dad ever had. He had purpose and was needed to fulfill God’s promise of eternal life for all who believed.

After Dad moved to Michigan, I ordered the Rock Valley Bee so we could keep up on what was happening in our not so little town anymore. The place he had called home for 88 years. In March it will be 12 years since Dad passed away and I’m still getting the Bee. When the paper arrived this week, one of the stories held a special meaning for me. I was crying by the second paragraph. It was just SO DAD! A chaplain working at a Recovery Center, asked a friend who’s a teacher at a Christian High School if they had any spare Bibles. Would they consider donating some to his facility? The teacher, in turn asked her 20 Church History Class students what could they do to help out the chaplain (but really help those who needed a copy of their own Good Book).

Endeavors like this either fizzle or snowball. This one blossomed big time. The class decided their goal was 125 Bibles, with each student promising to donate 2 Bibles. Then they asked their respective pastors if their congregation could help. An anonymous donor promised if the 125 Bibles from the school came to fruition, he would match that adding another 125. Last count was 565 Bibles, with more arriving every day. THIS would have been one of my Dad’s pet project 20 years ago. Achievable goals, looking at a successful outcome for the people receiving the Bibles.

Although we were never real close, when I read stories like this I really miss Dad. It warms my heart when others (and teens-which gives me so much hope) slide easily into replacing some of my Dad’s favorite ministries. I think he’s looking down, satisfied and very proud…

I never thought I’d be a collector, at least not of antique furniture. What little we could afford during our first years of marriage went specifically for necessities. By our first anniversary we were expecting Shannon and trying to set up her nursery on one thin dime. (though we didn’t know it was a her. The only baby whose sex we knew ahead of time was Adam and that was a couple hours before he was born) Hubs happened upon an old dresser at a garage sale on his way to Channel 4. Stripped, without drawer handles but the price was right for our tight budget, five dollars. We refinished it, set it in her room along with a 5 dollar used, brightly painted yellow crib. From that day on, I was hooked on antiques.

After that bargain buy, we actively sought out old furniture instead of new, though for a decade (minimum) the only pieces we could afford were the ones haphazardly placed in the back of the antique store. Most pieces were used for parts because they were in such bad shape. Lopsided, missing a leg, door, glass was broke (like us) or with 20 coats of paint were the ones we could afford to bring home. Might take us a couple months to make the piece suitable but we got pretty good at stripping, repairing and refinishing. We were both hung up on oak and it was rare if we bought another type of wood. At the time (mid 70’s through the 80’s) walnut was the premiere wood choice for antique furniture. We never got on walnut’s bandwagon though, always preferring the grain and color of oak.

By the mid-80’s we had a houseful of antique oak and all but a couple of pieces were refinished by the Hubs and yours truly. We loved working on them and every piece was not necessarily in the junk department of the store anymore. In 30 years of actively collecting, I’d have to say the majority of our antique explosion was while we were living in Davenport during the mid 80’s. And not very many came from antique stores, but garage sales with my bestie, Mary Ellen. She knew that metropolis like the back of her hand. Which streets had alleys, where to park, who had the best sales every year. We never went to Bettendorf or across the Mississippi to Illinois, just hit the garage sales in Davenport. She’d have her list written in her neat, tiny script. What time each sale opened and the route we’d take, eliminating backtracking. Damn she was good.

While I was always on the hunt for neat oak pieces, sometimes the oddest items caught my fancy and would soon be loaded up ready to go to their new home. Like the blue/gray pedal car called Kiddilac which weighed as much as I did. The boys were already too big to ride it but I had a real soft spot for old toys, especially if they were metal. Or the large box of old comic books all priced a nickel each. (I was trying to instill the love of reading Shannon was born with to our 2 boys who’d much rather play outside. But hey the comics did the trick-Hubs was right. That was in 1986. When the Hubs was right I mean). Cubs paraphernalia, kitchen gadgets, wooden boxes with advertising. I liked looking at everything, but nothing made my heart thump harder than when I spotted a gorgeous piece of oak, begging to be repurposed and find a home with me.

One day I spotted a small school desk with the lift up wood flap where you could store paper, pencils and crayons. Not oak, maybe birch. The desk part connected to a swivel chair made with enough iron to dent a floor. It was adorable. It was just the right size for Adam who was about 4. The price was right, only a couple of bucks but really needed work. The hinge which allowed the desktop to flip up was broke so John put on a new one. We stripped it and gave it several coats of polyethylene because well, he was a rough and tumble kid. John painted the ton of iron with a couple coats of black paint.

Adam loved that desk. Coloring, Matchbox storage, racetrack, watching TV and eating. Every breakfast/dinner/supper/snack he could eat at his little desk was a win for him. He did everything at that desk but sleep. After he was too big for the desk we put it by my old toy collection for a couple years, then stuck it in storage because I couldn’t get rid of something that was such a big part of his life.

Fast forward 20 years when Adam became a father to our 4th grandchild. We lugged the desk over for Graham to play with when he was about a year. Their house was quite small but I don’t think removing Adam’s/Graham’s desk has ever been an issue. G uses the desk even more than his daddy did, although the writing is on the wall. Graham’s legs no longer fit ‘under’ the desk but are splayed on each side. (Every time we leave their much bigger house, Hubs says, “I gotta adjust the chair and desk for Graham.” Because we’d like him to use it until he graduates ha-ha). We hope one day Graham’s son or daughter gets to play with our 3 generation desk.

It wasn’t long after my school desk find when I came across another small desk at an estate sale. It was on the landing of the staircase and I stopped dead in my tracks. This piece had my heart hammering like I was nearing the end of a marathon. A child’s size oak S-curve roll top desk (the S-curve is very rare, more common is the C-curve). With a matching chair. I was a goner. Had to have it.

It was more than I wanted to spend but if I ever wanted my pulse back to normal it had to come home with me. This was a piece the kids would not play with. It was too fragile and if the kids put the roll top up and down countless times it wouldn’t last. Adam already had a desk and Joshua and Shannon were too old to give 2 hoots about another antique I’d drug home while wearing a huge grin, bursting with pride.

One of the side boards of the desk was cracked all the way across and had been repaired, but otherwise it was in great shape. It had such dark patina you could barely see the oak grain. (Sorry folks, you’re not gonna win me over to “don’t touch the patina” mantra of antique die hards. Not the way I want my furniture to look. On the bright side, we refinished the desk about 35 years ago so it has some new-old patina forming).

I was thrilled to death with this little piece as the Hubs and I started to strip the old varnish off. John was unsure how to do the actual roll top and decided it had be taken apart so we could lay it flat and strip in between the slats. The chair and the body of the desk were stripped when Hubs made a fantastic discovery. When the roll top is all the way up, it’s hidden behind the pigeon hole compartments and the back of the desk. After Hubs got it apart, he found five recipe size cards and a pen in the seldom used hidey-hole.

Oh. My. Stars. My little desk had been used in school during the late 1920’s. The recipe cards were actually Davenport Public School enrollment cards. Can you just imagine a school room with 20 little roll top desks filled with 3rd graders sitting on the chairs, listening to their teacher and studying? Wouldn’t I love to have a picture of one of those class rooms?

The enrollees, Aubrey, Elmer and Roland (Roland had 2 enrollment cards going from 3rd to 4th, then on to fifth grade the following year) were all born in 1919. Over one hundred years ago. Amazing. Helen Mae was born in 1920. All list their birthday, address and whether or not they had been vaccinated. (None had any shots). Plus their father’s name and occupation. One farmer, one gardener, a city fire fighter and an employee of the Linograph Company (they manufactured typesetting machines. The building is now listed as a Davenport historic property.

The pen we found is a dip pen. It has no reservoir to hold ink so you had to keep dipping it in an ink well to keep writing. (A big thank you to all the kiddos who used drippy ink but never spilled a drop on my pristine desk). The pen was made by the Eagle Pencil Company, established in 1856. (I had to get out the magnifying glass) We noticed the end of the pen (wooden) has some teeth marks. Nice to know kids haven’t changed their habits of gnawing on pencils during school through the years.

One last gem about my little desk. Under the pigeon hole compartments is a handwritten price and number for the desk. # 40 $6.75. Guess Davenport School’s procurer ordered a minimum of at least 40 desks. With some wheeling and dealing managed to get them for the rock bottom price of $6.75 each. I’d say worth every penny…

I don’t know what it is about the women in our family. We’re just kinda bunched together. A few days before my Mom’s 24th birthday, I was born. Two days after I turned 20 Shannon was born. Three days after my granddaughter Ariana’s 26th birthday, her daughter Jovi was born. So Ari celebrated her own birthday spending the day getting ready for Jovi’s party.

I think a person’s birthday is really special. I’ve always felt we should do less gifty stuff on Christmas, instead going all out on their birthday. It’s the one day a year that’s truly theirs. A big deal. This hasn’t always been the case though after I became a mom. Much of my early birthday party qualms/fears when my kids were small revolved around money-or the lack of it. Parties were expensive. Cake, invitations, decorations, food, party favors, plus all the presents. And I wasn’t much of an event planner (it’s been rumored I might have bribed my own kids a time or 2 with cold hard cash-NOT have a party on their big day. Just a rumor, no need for a mutiny).

I can only remember having one birthday party when I was a kid. Don’t know if that had anything to do with my party reluctance after I had kids. Mom was an introvert and wasn’t comfortable with a bunch of noisy girls invading her space. Another reason was probably celebrating anything in our house after Larry’s death seemed disloyal and phony.

Family parties for your kids were different though. There weren’t games to plan or prizes needed. Both sets of grandparents showed up, plus a couple aunts and uncle’s and their kids, so a meal was in order. Something easy like cream chicken buns or Taverns with potato salad and a homemade cake. The kids played together, the adults visited until it was time to open presents. The presents were fawned over, thanks given and everyone left for home. Easy. Enjoyable and not too much work.

A kid’s party with peers was much more work. There had to be a theme, and face it, the kids either wanted tacos or pizza. Homemade food didn’t impress any of them. You were actually part referee/guard/chaperone and had to be involved every minute, defusing spats, judging games for potential prize winners and making sure no one got hurt. While parties were a lot of work, when you looked around at all your little guest’s faces you knew when their special day rolled around, all the responsibility was on their parent’s shoulders. And you’d breathe a big sigh of relief.

When I was a young mom my week, geez my whole month was MADE when one of our kids was invited to someone ELSE’S party. Celebrate good times-come on!! Because when they attended a party there was this feeling-something akin to euphoria. Fleeting but felt pretty awesome. You bought a present, drove to the party kid’s house, (always coming to a complete stop). If you weren’t pressed for time you might even walk them to the door. (These small allotments of freedom were scarce, but hey-safety first).

Several years ago kid’s birthday parties morphed into more than “just family” oriented. It seemed you no longer invited 10 of your six year olds best friends. Now the family from each invited kid comes along. Crazy right? I can tell you right now, 40 years ago when one of our elementary kids went to a birthday party there was no way John would contemplate attending that party for one solitary second. Hubs standing around watching a bunch of 7 year olds run around the house while he sipped a glass of wine. No. Way. Not even for a beer.

With 3 kids ranging 9 years apart, when one was invited somewhere, the remaining 4 of us celebrated just as hard as the kid going to the party. Once again there was an equal adult/kid ratio. It’s all about balance. You fit in a regular booth without adding a chair at the end. It’s not that we didn’t want 3 kids (and mattered even less which one of the kids was gone). In our parental minds there were several, solid, valid reasons to celebrate when our family shrunk for 3 mere hours. I know it sounds crazy, but lame or not, much of our entertainment system was based on when one of the rugrats was elsewhere. They were safe, having a good time and the magnitude of your parental responsibilities was a bit less.

(Does anyone else think it’s odd when guys are invited to a baby or bride to be shower? I know they’re a huge part of the equation in both celebrations-but. This is another recent addition in our ever changing society I just don’t understand. Part of the party allure for me was bringing the gifts, silly stories, embarrassing gaffes home and sharing them with Hubs-to-be/daddy-to-be. The last baby shower I attended included a game with the focus on a newborn pampers with “fake poop” inside and you had to figure out what the fake baby ate before dispensing fake poop. It wouldn’t have mattered what was inside, had that been passed around to John, he would have gagged and made a real mess for someone to clean up). Now where was I?

To (birthday) party or not. The way we celebrate one’s birthday is different for each of us. Some parents would feel remiss if their child’s birthday wasn’t celebrated as a lavish affair with all the trimmings, bouncy house, pony rides, splash park. Others grew up with having relatives only come over their birthday and want to continue that tradition with their own children.

Lately my birthday has been a big deal (internally/emotionally). As I grow older and reflect on those no longer here on earth. Just think of all the friends and family who will never celebrate another birthday. That alone is reason to pause, give thanks and be grateful. I love birthdays and hope to celebrate many more. I’m just not real big on the party part. Whether birthday parties are a huge deal in your life or you’re inclined to indulge in a fancy dessert and call it good. The important thing is to celebrate life. Even when it’s not your birthday…

We were young, financially strapped parents of a precocious toddler. We never wanted to deny her anything but we simply didn’t have very much money. During those first years I’d like to say we lacked nothing though at times we were barely squeaking by. We always had food (tuna, tuna, and more tuna) but I can’t remember a time we couldn’t go away because we were out of gas. We did however suffer a couple winters where we had no heat in the house for a week at a time. Shannon and I would go to Rock Valley for the week and stay with my parents. When Hubs got paid, he order a tank of fuel oil and come and get us. Good times. Most of us went through similar times in the beginning.

While it seems we were in dire straights, we actually were lacking very little. We were broke (bills and collectors of aforementioned was the biggest stressor in our young marriage) but we were happy and healthy. We had some great friends and lived within an hour of most of our relatives. My mom bought most of Shannon’s cute, ‘sometimes unnecessary clothes.’ I was responsible for, let’s hear it, white high tops (one of my favorite stories, High tops & Onesies, May, 2017) undershirts and play clothes, (Health-Tex) from Bellas Hess or K-Mart. Mom bought Shannon’s outfits (Carter’s or better) from Younkers and Shriver’s.

My parents weren’t big toy gifters. For all three of our kid’s first birthday, each got an oak rocking chair (the kind you buy at a furniture store). We bought the latest Fisher-Price toys we could afford. The little dome shaped push toy with small wooden balls inside that ‘popped’ when you walked it. Or the little telephone with the googily eyes she pulled along behind her. Her first little FP record player which included some original vinyl (as in hard, colorful plastic) which played nursery rhymes tunes. Most of the toys were geared towards keeping those toddlers moving.

We bought a more expensive/long lasting gift for Shannon’s birthday and Christmas. The first biggie was the rocking horse from hell. She LOVED it. Scared the snot out of me but neither she, her brothers or our grandchildren ever fell off or flew into another room while riding that wild stallion. The second biggie we bought was a small round, brown wooden table with 2 chairs. I can’t remember how much we paid, (30 bucks is rattling around my head which was exorbitant considering how little we had). Just assume it was more than we could afford at the time. For awhile it was in our dining room, then the living room or bedroom if her room was big enough. She’d play house, color, paint, serve tea and be a mommy to her dolls using the table and chairs. I’ll bet that table and chairs set has been moved to 20 different houses over the years.

Kerrie, Kelli and Shannon, Christmas 1971…

We bought Shannon’s table set right before we moved from Hinton back to Sioux City, Iowa in early 1973. It was where Shannon would have her first best friend, a little sweetie named Katie. Katie lived a couple houses west of us. At first I was insanely jealous of Katie’s mom, Randi. A stunning gal about my age who seemed to have it all. Soon after we moved in, Randi got a job at a western wear place near the Stockyards and asked me if I’d be interested in watching Katie while she worked? (That woman had at least a dozen pair of fancy cowboy boots, each paired with a different outfit. Probably the reason she never had money to pay Katie’s sitter-namely me). The girls played together everyday anyway and it was an easy way for me to earn a few dollars. Katie was absolutely no trouble and the girls spent hours playing house/kitchen/mommy with the new table set. Soon there were serious signs all was not ok at Randi’s house or her marriage and we had Katie at our house more than she was home. John and I both felt every hour Katie was with us was less stress for everyone (but I never got paid).

Josh played with the table and chairs a lot too. He’d zoom his Matchbox cars, plastic trucks, Star Wars action figures, racing them across the top, watching them fly through the air like Evel Knievel. With Adam a few years later it was castle Grayskull sitting on top of the now scratched, dented, nicked up table while his hero He-Man battled evil Skeletor.

As the kids got older and eventually quit using the table and chairs, it continued to make all the moves with us. I’m not sure why. So did the wild rocking horse and most of the big metal earth movers and farm equipment from Ertl toys. What is about certain possessions from our youth or our children’s childhood that are virtually impossible to get rid of? I tossed so many of their toys and never gave it much thought, but it was the first ‘big’ toys that cost us an arm and a leg which are the ones I’ve never been able to dispose of. Seems like we sacrificed so much to get those special toys for the kids it would hurt me to pitch them. Crazy.

Well the years flew by and it’s now 1992. Shannon is mom to our first granddaughter, one year old Ariana. Out comes the dilapidated table and chairs set. John clamps and glues some loose spindles and slaps on some Old English Scratch Cover on the table tops worst boo-boos. It’s a mainstay in Ari’s room for several years, only to be shoved in storage again. Shannon had just as much trouble throwing it out as we have all these years.

Three years ago our great granddaughter Jovi was born. What that perfect little girl needed was a beat up old table and chairs set her Gigi got 45 years ago when she was 2. Goodness. We now have toys that are tipping the scales in the direction of antiques or at very least, vintage. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought the wooden table set would be passed down through 3 generations of Van Berkum/Gerritson Dutch girls. How freaking neat is that?

Jovi had her 3rd birthday party this weekend. Of course sitting in the middle of the living room looking like it’s been rode hard and put away wet is the old table and chairs set. Yet somehow it looks just perfect and belongs right there. Where did Jovi’s little besties sit while they all were eating their birthday donuts? The sturdy little table and chairs set that refuses to be thrown out.

What seemed like an extravagant, over priced, unnecessary purchase 45 years ago has now touched the life of every kid in our family since 1972. Not a family heirloom by any means but Shannon’s little table and chairs set’s worth just seems to climb with every passing year. Positively the best 30 bucks the Hubs and I ever spent…