If you’re familiar with my blog, you’re aware I’ve had some issues with the church. I’m trying to remember when it started. Suffice it to say it’s been over 10 years. Good grief, time flies when you’re troubled. No reason to rehash, if you want more details, read some of my older stories.

I haven’t gone to church for years and didn’t think I missed it (or really even needed it) except when I reflect back to my blog posts. Although I let the church building/congregation (well, we did move but I have not looked for the last 4 years either) simply fade from my life, I’ve written about it quite often and thought about it even more. I’ve come to the conclusion that cutting ties with the church bothers me. A lot. Some of my friends are incredible Christians without entering a church. They say it’s not necessary to ‘go’ to a building every week to be saved. I believe them. They’re sincere and full of faith.

But I am a weak sinner. I talk to God in prayer and conversation while I putz around the house. This however, is insufficient and does not leave me feeling fulfilled. I’m running on empty. I need more than what I have to offer.

A few friends are concerned about my fruitless search for a church home and a closer relationship with God. (They know I need all the help I can get. I truly appreciate their empathy and compassion plus their steadfast faith that I will get turned around before it’s too late). In the past couple weeks I’ve gotten articles on the popularity of big screens used in churches, (ugh) and the drastic decline of hymnals, organs and bibles used during services. The hymnals are no longer needed because of the big screen (really, do any of us need more screen time in our lives these days? (double ugh) What’s a gray haired great-grandma’s supposed to do with that kind of depressing information? Still I prefer staying informed and current so thanks for that Allan. And much of it was already known, just denied or ignored.

Even more recently I got an article from Alma, written by Lisa Appelo on 5 reasons I (this was meant for anyone in general, though God clearly intended it for me) need to go to church-every Sunday. One of the reasons struck a chord when it implied I might not actually LIKE the church because I’ve been hurt (why yes I have) by staff who should have known better (bingo) so I’ve decided to keep Jesus but not the church. Sounds a lot like me.

But I need church. A church. Being around Christians who believe in the Lord and belong. Communion, baptism, Lord’s Prayer, Apostle’s Creed, a sermon from a God fearing preacher. And once again, at the top of my needy list are good old fashioned hymns. Seems petty and downright unchristian but to this Calvinist, hymns are gonna be a deal breaker. There I said it. I own that statement. Old-fashioned-church-hymns-matter.

I finally came to the realization months ago that I needed to find a home church. But actually walking into an unfamiliar sanctuary is daunting. I don’t want to be ignored nor do I want inquisitive folks asking too many questions. My goal is to stay on the down low. My first visit was a bust, so I waited a couple weeks until my courage returned. Sunday morning, ten minutes before the service starts and my Jeep is one of 7 cars in the lot. Lord help me. Why I felt compelled to get out of the car and walk in, I haven’t quite figured out yet. I could have just as easily started the car and drove away-but did not.

The parking lot was icy, sidewalks not much better and I was still using a cane from a recent fall on my brand new knee, so it was slow going. Though general lack of bubbling enthusiasm may have accounted for much of my hesitation. I walked in, saw less than 10 folks in the narthex and asked someone for a bulletin. He said, “we’re running them off now.” A kid hands me one and I walked into the sanctuary. A 4 piece band was playing music I didn’t recognize, loudly. (Are you there God? It’s me, Neese. Help). But God was busy with more important matters than my discomfort, which He believes is good for my soul occasionally.

Thirty worshippers were seated throughout a couple of dozen pews listening. Minister walks in sporting a chartreuse golf shirt. I’m really ok with casual clothes at worship. God doesn’t care how I’m dressed. He wants me to be a better Christian. (But chartreuse?) I didn’t know one song. Not a one. I was cornered when the service was over. Where did I live? How long have I been in Jackson? Married? Was I interested in going out for breakfast? My urge to fight or flee was strong. I chose flee as carefully as I could without taking another spill. Ah, that wasn’t so bad. (Yes, it was).

After I started my car (and locked the doors eliminating the background check, firstborn giveaway and fingerprinting) I spotted another church as I drove out. Lots more cars, bigger building. I literally stopped in the street to read their sign. Join us for worship. Two services: TRADITIONAL-9:30, Contemporary 11. My interest was piqued. I’m in.

I do better when I’m dedicated to an idea. I laid out my clothes on Saturday night and knew what time I had to be showered and out the door on Sunday morning. The traditional service would probably not be large but was hoping for more than 50. I was greeted warmly by Dawn as I walked in the back door, who gave me directions to the sanctuary. I was greeted again at the entrance to the sanctuary and handed a bulletin, (ink was already dry) a prayer concern sheet and a page of sermon notes for the message today.

Cindy walked up on the stage, greeted us and asked us to stand for a hymn sing. This was early December so the songs were all Christmas carols. I knew every song without looking at the big screen. (Choose your battles wisely Neese, the screen isn’t one of them). She told a short story, had a prayer and sat down. A man I assumed was the pastor got up and read the scripture lesson, had a short prayer and sat down.

A guy in his mid-30’s walked up to the lectern wearing blue jeans, shirt and tie with one of those wraparound microphones. Joseph was the subject for the sermon. Happily engaged, looking forward to marriage when Mary tells him she’s pregnant, yet never had sex with anyone. Right. Joseph, being a standup guy and faithful to the Lord, does the right thing. He and Mary get hitched then travel for their family’s head count in Bethlehem.

This is where I had an ‘aha’ moment. (I didn’t know the preacher’s name but have since learned it’s Devin. I’ll just call him Rev/Dev). Rev/Dev pointed out how uncomfortable Joseph must have felt. His engagement to Mary was like a year long but they were essentially already married, though not living together or having sex. (I hope I remembered that right). There would have been serious consequences (stoning) had he not manned up. Then Rev/Dev said, “I just went through an uncomfortable moment.” He flashed a picture up on the big screen. A selfie with lots of background. Behind him tons of U of M fans, milling around concession stands at Crisler Arena. On the top of Rev/Dev’s head perched an Iowa Hawkeye hat! Oh. My. Word. It’s a sign I tell ya.

As I’m walking out, Dawn handed me a Cornerstone introduction packet and thanked me for coming. I told her I was from Iowa too. “Oh, don’t mention that to him. He talks about Iowa ALL THE TIME and thinks he’s the only fan here in Jackson.”

So I’ve been back to the Iowa Hawkeye church, listening to Rev/Dev a couple times. No one’s applied any pressure and I’m enjoying the sermons and hymns tremendously. We shall see. I’ll leave you with a verse, not from a hymn but a band I really enjoy on my playlist when I walk called Train.

Just in time, I’m so glad You have a one-track mind like me.

You gave my life direction, a game show love connection, we can’t deny.

Hey, soul sister….

I simply didn’t pay attention. All those years with Mom and Dad (who BOTH loved to reminisce although Dad said very little about his grandparents). You know how it happens. Visiting your parents with small children. The littles are occupied when your mom or dad says something about when they were young. Or a story about their parents as youngsters that was passed on decades ago. You listen, nod, maybe even ask a question or 2, but then a fight erupts and you scoot to make peace among the kids.

But what about all the years following the visits with small children? I drove or flew to Rock Valley for years by myself to stay and help Mom and Dad. And we talked a lot. Yet very few of those old family stories are written down or stuck in my memory bank. Something I’m very sorry about now-when it’s far too late to glean parts of my Dutch heritage from my folks.

I have much more material embedded from my mom’s paternal side which is odd. Don’t want to say Mom was exactly estranged from her father but for many years they weren’t close-at all. Mom’s dad, Gerrit (nicknamed Lakey) was 10 years older than his beautiful bride in 1924. Lakey was the big prize winner in that marriage at least in his eyes. Coba was gorgeous, educated and loved him. She became pregnant in the spring of ’26 and gave birth to my mom, Florence and her twin brother, Floyd in December. Coba died 2 weeks later, complications from their birth a couple days after Christmas. Lakey was devastated, heartsick and bitter. He wanted no part of his newborn twins, though both sets of grandparents raised their hands to volunteer in rearing the babies.

I told a story about the mild squabbling involved between both sets of grandparents before the dust settled and Lakey’s parents, Guert and Jantje ended up raising the twins. The grandparents lived a few blocks apart from each other so it wasn’t like either set wouldn’t be a big part of their young lives. But one home would have the babies the majority of the time. This home was bigger and there were no other children in it which they felt was an advantage. The other set of grandparents had raised more children and still had 3 at home which they felt was a bigger advantage for the twins.

The paternal’s (Wanningen’s) had raised their 2 children already and lost their only daughter Jenny and newborn grandson by the time babies Florence and Floyd moved in. Lakey stayed for a bit but the constant reminder that those squirming, squealing babies were the reason he no longer had his beautiful wife by his side proved too much and he moved out. He was 30 and ready for whatever came next in his life, but raising twins didn’t figure into the equation.

So this is what I know about Mom’s maternal side of the family. The Berghuis bunch. Pieter Berghuis was born in the Netherlands in 1862. When he was 19 he immigrated to the United States. He was sponsored before ever touching soil at Ellis Island. The way mom explained it, sponsoring an immigrant included a family vouching for him. Helped him find a place to live, assured the authorities that Pieter would have a job waiting in northwest Iowa when he arrived.

Aafje (Effie) Beukelman was born in 1877 in the Netherlands and immigrated with her parents when she was 7. The Beukelman’s were sponsored by another family in northwest Iowa, so much of the pressure/stress was missing by the time they got to Sioux Center. There was housing and employment waiting for them, the biggest barrier probably resulting in language. This part of northwest Iowa was (still is) predominantly Dutch so it wasn’t hard to communicate. And the children learned English when they attended school. (My Mom spoke Dutch before she learned how to speak English).

Now how 30 something Pieter met and married teenage Effie in the mid-1890’s remains a mystery. Maybe the marriage was arranged. I know they were devoted to each other throughout their marriage. Mom told me that Effie and Pieter teased each other and were very affectionate. (The Wanningen’s were more stoic with their words and showing affection, however Mom adored them and they felt the same way about her and Floyd). But it was during frequent visits to the Berghuis house where Florence & Floyd realized they weren’t sinning or bound for hell when they made a batch of Fudge or Penuche with Grandma Effie-on a Sunday afternoon. Oh. My. Word. That would never happen in the Wanningen home. The Berghuis family were no less religious or faithful to the Lord-just a little less rigid. (Both women peeled their Sunday dinner potatoes on Saturday! Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the 7th day is the Sabbath to the Lord your God, on which you must not do any work). Yet grandma Berghuis didn’t think it was wrong to make a batch of candy with the grandkids on a Sunday. God love her.

Into this Berghuis family 7 children were born, starting with Alida in 1897, followed by Abraham in ’98, William in 1901, Lena in ’03, my grandmother Jacoba (Coba) in 1906 and twins in 1910. Oddly enough, the boy/girl twins were named Floyd and Florence. The twins were sweet 16 when their 20 year old sister Coba gave birth to her own set of twins. She and Lakey promptly named them Florence and Floyd. Like there wasn’t another set of twin names that would fit them in the universe. My goodness.

After the death of their mother at the end of 1926, the twins lived with their paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but were also very close to the whole Berghuis family. Lena didn’t marry until she was almost 40 so she and my mother were very close. The oldest sister Alida married and moved a few miles outside of Sioux Center. Mom and Floyd and spent much of their time at Aunt Alida’s house. Alida’s children were just a bit older than than the twins. My mom learning to can/preserve several hundred jars of meats and vegetables every year with her cousins and aunt. Floyd helping in the fields and with the animals. Although Effie Berghuis was a decade younger than the other 3 grandparents jointly raising Mom and her brother, much of the twins practical life lessons/experiences came from the Berghuis’ six siblings, especially Alida and her kids. Mom said it was Aunt Alida who told her about the birds and the bees, and what to do when that first period arrived. By the time mom and Floyd were nearing their teen years, the grandparents raising them were closing in on their 80’s.

Not as detailed history on my great grandparents as I’d like but what I do have I hold dear. Actually have quite a few pictures of my greats over the years. Much of this I think is because having twins was a big deal, plus losing their young mom within a month garnered a lot of attention back in the mid-20’s. This Christmas I made a couple batches of fudge using great grandma Effie Berghuis’ simple (but not so easy) recipe. I have to make it exactly like she (and Mom) did. No candy thermometer, soft ball tested on my finger, no pan-always poured on a buttered plate. Carrying on with their tradition-sometimes even on Sunday…

Anyone reading my blog probably realizes over the years I’ve used my grudge app on occasion. I don’t really consider myself a spiteful person but the grudges I’ve accumulated over the years have been difficult for me to let go move on. As I age I’m more content with my life, thus more forgiving. My Christmas grudge only lasted 15 years which I view as a short term success story.

Some of this Christmas skepticism is the result of my upbringing. I’m not exactly a Scrooge type character, just wasn’t raised very Christmasy. Growing up I don’t remember Christmas being a big deal. Doesn’t mean there weren’t festive times, I just don’t remember them. I do remember the Christmas following the death of my brother Larry in October, 1958. That one I recall vividly because there was nothing to celebrate (sorry about your birthday Jesus). No tree, no presents. I was 8.

There are many things I’ve grown to love about Christmas over the years. My collection of stockings for each family member. You can easily see the changes in stocking patterns over the years. Our first 5 are smaller (except for Joshua’s which is way bigger than all the rest), patterns were simpler, not as sparkly with sequins or detailed (or as puffy, I started making the first one in 1984. When the pattern called for filling, I used dryer lint. I know-hopeless, so I convinced a bowling buddy, Mary Lou to finish the first 5). The last few are works of art. (Dread the day when they actually go to their rightful owners, but that too is part of life). But my tree is probably my favorite, or more specifically the ornaments on my tree (although actually putting the tree up is far more work than I remember when I was 40, 50, even 60). I caught the exotic Christmas tree ornament bug (there is no cure) from my sister-in-law Elly. She had the most beautiful, completely loaded tree with stunning, unique, gorgeous ornaments I’ve ever seen. Many from all over the world. After enjoying her tree every Christmas during our early years of marriage, I learned instead of buying a box of ornaments, I would purchase one of a kind ornaments. After decades of collecting, I don’t think I have any duplicates on my tree.

Hubs and I were raised totally different. My parents were more somber and strict, John’s family was loosey-goosey. Hubs was the last of their 5 kids. He was as unspoiled as I was a total brat. His folks didn’t worry where he was or if he didn’t show up for supper without calling first. He could whip up fried egg sandwiches topped with ketchup when he was 6. I attempted boiling water the day after we eloped. (Epic fail). And the Van Berkum’s went all out for Christmas. Being the last of 5 kids, his sibs were older and had kids of their own already. Their large, boisterous family would have presents stacked up to the ceiling when they all came home to celebrate on Christmas Eve. The Gerritson’s didn’t celebrate Christmas. New territory for me when we were dating, newlyweds and new parents.

I was befuddled how irked I was with someone who was fictitious! I’ve got some issues. I should have directed my resentment towards the Hubs. At least he was a living, breathing entity who could duck and find cover. This Christmas discord started in the mid ’70’s after a few years of marriage. We were now parents of 2, Shannon 7 and Joshua, 2. Hubs was an engineer at a toy company (don’t be mislead and think this was a hap-hap-happy place to work. It was run by 4 unruly brothers who tried to out crazy each other-and were highly successful in their endeavors) in eastern Iowa (350 miles from both sets of parents). He was working 60 hours a week for a pittance and I was home with 2 littles and no car. Good times. There just was not enough of anything to go around. Except bills.

Shannon and Josh had worn the pictures off the pages from the toy section of the Penney’s and Sears Christmas catalogs. They were normal kids and wanted it all. But we were seriously lacking the proper funding to make this happen year after year. Trying to make young children understand they couldn’t literally have every toy on multiple pages was impossible. But the Hubs was the worst offender! He’d come home from work and while I was making supper (yes I had learned to cook real meals) or cleaning up the kitchen and getting ready for the kids’ baths, Dad would eagerly help the kids peruse the Christmas catalogs.

Instead of gently putting the brakes on their outrageous requests, Daddy would simply say, “why don’t you ask Santa for that?” (Are you out of your ever loving mind)? They both asked for twice as many gifts than what we could afford. After scrimping and saving, penny pinching, utilizing lay-away, giving up a couple dollars from the grocery money each week and using my birthday money so we could buy what they had their little hearts set on, we (I) never got one iota of credit or satisfaction for buying them any of the cool gifts. Every present that was a hot ticket item of the season, each new fangled toy on the market that was circled because they couldn’t live without it–was from Santa. The novelty, cheesey, mundane dollar toys/stocking stuffers were from us. Yay. The too expensive, hard to find toys were from Santa. Every. Time. Every. Single. Time.

So I’m being brutally honest in admitting from 1972 until 1987 (Adam was finally 8) I resented the ‘whole enchilada’ concerning Santa with his uncanny ability to bring my kids all the best presents. (Hubs didn’t do himself any favors by siding with Santa either. I think he still believes). Hubs would go so far as buy special gift wrap each year and kept it hidden from the kids (because Santa would never use the same wrapping paper as us mere mortal parents. Duh). Sounds petty as I’m writing about something so trivial but truthfully the whole Santa thing bothered me a lot. Guess I was selfish to want the credit for what I considered blood, sweat and tears shopping for Christmas because I doted on my kids when along comes the fat guy in red and steals all my thunder.

I see some similarities between how I responded to the silliness of being one-upped by Santa for a spell and Christianity, which is sort of odd. Instead of freely giving with a full heart of happiness to the glory of God, the grinch in Neese was not ready to give freely. It didn’t matter to Shannon, Josh or Adam where the presents came from. They received great gifts and for a few years believed in something magical (which caused me angst because I wanted the kids to appreciate the high cost of those gifts. Which was selfish and childish). Lesson learned. Maybe it’s time to tackle the rest of my grudge demons and see how exhilarating that might feel…

A lot has changed since I stopped working. I still get up fairly early (though not at 4 anymore) but no longer hop out of bed and head to the shower. While I like being up early, I now enjoy lounging around for awhile before my shower. (I do not miss showering before I’ve had a quiet cup of coffee).

As dawn finally made an appearance the day was proving to be the kind where you’re just grateful you don’t have to go out. It was cold, snowing and blowing. But we had to go out. Ugh. It had been a week since Hubs’ cataract surgery and he had an early post op appointment. We head to the ophthalmologist office just after 8. His vision has improved so much they popped out the left lens of his glasses, then scheduled surgery for his right eye and soon we were back out in the snow and wind.

It was still early and I wasn’t ready to go home for what awaits me. My day of Christmas decorating. Yay. While I love seeing my tree up, I wasn’t as excited about literally hauling everything up from the basement. Until I remembered crawling around on my hands and knees (which I haven’t even attempted since knee replacement) in our 40 inch high basement for 20 years in North Muskegon, looking for all the tubs of decorations. Yup, this is much easier. Grateful for a full, deep basement again.

We decided to eat breakfast out first. A place we used to go to often had just changed hands. They served the best waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. Probably should have ordered that but I was hungry for eggs. The eggs were done right but that’s the last good thing I can say for the place. Toast was like eating a dry rusk bun, and the sausage links and home fries were cooked in the French fryer! The sausage lacked nice brown grill marks and I was sorely tempted to ask for ketchup for the steak fries. At 9 am. Umm, no and another big no.

After that little fiasco I convinced John we should stop and buy a couple Christmas gifts. I know, he was shocked too. (We usually just give cash but this year have actually had a couple brilliant gift ideas). An hour later I couldn’t think of any more excuses to avoid going home.

I went through our Christmas tubs first to determine what had to come up. (I swear this is the year I’m gonna get rid of everything Christmasy I no longer use-but after Christmas). I probably have 200 more ornaments and I do want to keep some of them. Several are sorely missed on my tree. I need 50 of the what’s down there. And my mission is to go through absolutely everything before I condense my tubs and donate copious amounts of Lenox and Precious Moments to some place or someone.

Truth be told, I’ve had this talk with myself for the last several years-get rid of what I never put up anymore. But when I’m decorating the tree I just want to be done so I can enjoy it. After Christmas I’m twitchy to get my house back in order and can’t wait until everything’s put away until the first of December next year. And to a certain extent I have given away and donated a lot of the bigger miscellaneous decorations I had. But I struggle with the ornaments. I. LOVE. ORNAMENTS. At one time I had 150 Precious Moments ornaments. So many that I bought an extra tree and set one up specifically with only Precious Moments in the family room, then our big tree in the living room. Plus a huge hanging spiral. Goodness. Maybe this is the year I declutter and condense. I’m hopeful-and way off topic. Focus Neese.

Hubs checked the lights and stuck our angel on top (that’s the extent of his help besides hauling everything upstairs). I’m the fluffer of branches and decorator. But when I get to this point I’m having fun and get all nostalgic. Very few of my ornaments are new and the older they are, the more they mean to me. The ornaments that aren’t in separate boxes are wrapped in tissue paper, paper towels or bubble wrap. It’s almost like opening gift after gift. And I know where most of them belong on the tree, year after year. My own little tradition.

Besides missing the nifty 50 that clearly deserve to be hung, I’m enjoying my tree up and done once again. Hubs is reading and listening to the 25 mile an hour winds howl when he pipes up with, “sure would like a mug of hot chocolate. Any idea where you might have hid it?” “Umm, cleaned out that cupboard this summer and noticed your canister was out of date by a couple years, so I pitched it. Sorry.” But it got me thinking.

Mom (who kept her pots and pans in the oven) finding a small saucepan, filling it two thirds full with whole milk, turning the gas burner on low. Measuring Hershey’s Cocoa and sugar in a tiny bowl and waiting for the milk to get very hot, but not boil. (She never forgot to scoop off the preacher’s coat. Ha-ha-ha. I can still see her standing by the stove removing the preacher’s coat). Grabbing a soup spoon, dipping some of the hot milk out to make a syrup of the sugar/cocoa mixture, then slowly adding the syrup to the milk. What was the ratio? Hmmm. Mom wasn’t fond of real dark homemade fudge or hot chocolate (but did like dark chocolate candy-odd). I think it was 1 to 3. One teaspoon of cocoa to one tablespoon of sugar for a good sized cup of hot chocolate.

I think that might work. Heat up the milk (2% in this house), measured out the sugar, cocoa, mixed in some hot milk and dumped about half back in the milk because I was afraid it might get too chocolatey. It was barely beige, so poured the rest in and waited until I saw tiny bubbles near the edge. (I searched high and low for my preacher’s coat but have come to the conclusion there’s not enough fat content in my 2% milk or my eyes are really bad). Poured the works in mugs and topped with a healthy (I lie) portion of miniature marshmallows and brought a cup to Hubs. You’d thought I’d discovered the the fountain of youth instead of a cup of hot chocolate.

It’s hard to describe how delicious that cup of hot chocolate tasted (never called it cocoa in our house). How much better it tasted than the prepackaged pouches of hydrated/artificial this and that on the grocery stores shelves these days. And why after a week I’m still thinking about Mom’s 3 ingredient hot chocolate. In a saucepan-on the stove-covered with a thick covering of preacher’s coat. Some things, no-many things were just so much better when I was a kid. Thanks Mom…

Whenever I watch a courtroom drama on TV the first rule for the lawyer is don’t ask the question if you’re not sure of what the answer will be. I’ve tried to maintain that philosophy since I started blogging in 2014. Write about what I know (which isn’t much). This is my story to tell from my perspective. The exception here is I don’t know ‘everything’ concerning this shining star of my story. But I’ll do my best.

Terry, one of my former classmates, started sharing posts from a young mom and dad who were friends with Terry’s son Justin (Justin passed away about 4 years ago). Aaron & Chrystal, their 2 children, Gavin and Alexia had moved from Iowa to Montana and Chrystal was pregnant with their third child. I’ve never met Aaron, Chrystal or their kids, and probably never will. Yet I feel like I’m a member of their extended family. Perhaps Evy’s odd, eccentric great aunt.

Although I only know a fraction of the story, nothing has piqued my interest or captured my heart with more empathy than reading the daily journey on little Evy (Evelynn). She was born in June, 2019. From what I’ve read, Chrystal’s pregnancy and Evy’s birth appeared routine. That changed one week later for this little peanut.

Medical personnel couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with Evy, so she was airlifted to Spokane, Washington with an unknown infection. After thorough testing, a genetic defect was found caused by a mutation of the gene MYH7. Meaning where an A should be, Evy has a G. One of only 3 known cases in the world.

What this meant for little Evy’s heart in medical terms: non compact left ventricular dilated cardiomyopathy. Laymen’s term was just as chilling. Evy needed a new heart and was added to the transplant list. By mid-July accommodations were found for the family at the Ronald McDonald House because it was gonna be a long haul before Evy would be going back home to Montana. Evy was moved to a Seattle hospital awaiting a heart.

When I started following Chrystal’s story I was amazed how much knowledge mom expressed about all aspects/complications/medications on Evy’s condition. I didn’t know how to pronounce half the terms Chrystal was using as easy as everyday language. She was like Superwoman. Although she is remarkable, Chrystal’s also an RN with a bundle of degrees. Some of her heartfelt posts were upbeat accounting for small victories, others a bit discouraging (and rightly so). One day she’s advocating for a different size IV line, or pleading for a few more hours to see if Evy’s body will rectify something on her own before more pokes, prods and jabs. While none of these days have been easy, Chrystal has remained full of faith, knowing God’s got her back. That does not however negate her normal mom frustrations, anger, helpless, and hopeless feelings at times.

Mom’s posts usually include pictures of Evy or family members enjoying snuggle time with their dimpled, blued eyed doll. On particularly low days posts, she explained, “what I’ve chosen not to share is Evy, her skinny legs rigid, back arched, writhing in agonizing pain,” while I sob beside her because I can’t fix this. “I’m emotionally, physically, spiritually tired, and my soul is weary. But God is good. I will finish my ice cream, my popcorn and laundry because the hospital staff frown on nudity.” (What a great attitude Chrystal. Just when she felt empty and spent, God gave her a refill).

In September a heart became available and Evelynn underwent the transplant. There aren’t many posts where Chrystal doesn’t acknowledge and pray for Evy’s heart angel and her family. This holiday season is going to be especially hard on them.

By the end of September, Evy was on anticoagulant, anti-rejection and immunosuppressant meds (some of which will continue for the rest of her life). A few weeks later her surgical scar is barely noticeable. As time passes, I notice more of Evy’s personality starting to shine through. She’s got ‘this thing’ for maneuvering her nap blankie over her face (maybe trying to suppress the urge of those who are snapping pictures). She’s been pritnear naked (but for a diaper) most of her short life, and isn’t fond of wearing clothes, plus with all the lines and tubes virtually impossible to dress.

Evy’s worn newborn mittens to curb the yanking/pulling/ripping out everything foreign stuck on her face. She has become quite adept at removing the tiny oxygen tubes from her button nose. “I want my face naked just like everyone else!”

There’s been some highs and lows since Evy underwent surgery. She had to be intubated again for a spell because she’d become so distressed and inconsolable, she’d hold her breath until she turned blue/purple and pass out (which was terrifying for mom and dad). A cooling pad underneath her has helped a great deal. She also has severe acid reflux. Poor baby. Chrystal noticed one of Evy’s legs was swollen and the staff discovered an infection. Trying to wean her off some meds, plus adding others can be tricky and traumatic for everyone. Sometimes it’s one baby step forward, 2 bigger steps backwards, however Evy is making progress by leaps and bounds.

I don’t know all the technical terms but Evy is finally showing off her beautiful face, now completely unadorned of medical paraphernalia. No more yanking out her oxygen. They have transitioned from the intensive care unit to a regular floor. Mom and dad are working with Evy’s team to learn how to give her medications. And there’s a ton of them.

As soon as Evy is discharged, (and it’s getting closer) the family will not be able to go home. Sigh. They will live at Ronald McDonald House for several weeks, staying in close contact with Evy’s medical team as they tweak medications, and continue with her physical and occupational therapy. But there is light at the end of the tunnel as Evy adjusts to life with her new heart.

God equips people with special gifts when they become parents. I remember fretting about my kids when they were small. Chicken pox, measles, fevers, teething, childhood accidents. He gives us more coping skills and abilities when they become teenagers (because that’s when we really need them). But how do parents prepare/adjust when life and death issues spring up right after the happy occasion of welcoming your newborn? What kind of strength/faith does that require? I just can’t even imagine.

I look forward to reading more (maybe writing Chapter 2) daily posts on Evy’s story as she grows. My prayer is in the near future Gavin, Alexia, Mom and Dad will be playing in the backyard watching (tiny spice) Evy run around, squealing with delight. About the wonder of dandelions gone to seed, ladybugs, birds and mud puddles. May God continue to bless and hold this family ever close…

It happened in a New York minute. Honest. One night I walked into Ann Arbor’s Pioneer gym, sat in the wrong section on the wrong side and watched Rex, the coach of my 15 year old grandson Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) put him in his first varsity game during the first quarter as a high school freshman. Not a terribly exciting game but Landon played about half of each of the 4 quarters. When the final buzzer sounded, he had 7 points, Pioneer had it’s first victory of the season and Landon had just started his prolific high school basketball career of scoring well over 1,000 points as their point guard. I swear it was last night.

The realization of just how good and how much potential Landon had came a few weeks later when Pioneer was playing their inner city rival, Skyline at home. Landon was still playing about the same amount of minutes, 18-20 per game, but was really starting to make an impact and getting noticed. He swished a long 3-pointer in front of the student section and the kids went nuts, screaming over and over, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman.” That’s when I knew. And wanted to make it last as long as I could. But no. His basketball career simply shifted to warp speed and this slow grandma was left with a dumbfounded look on my face thinking, what just happened? It can’t possibly be over. He just started high school. But it was.

This is the same kid, who as a 3 year old gave me a friendly swat on the butt and some encouraging words (Landon was included in this strange sports phenomenon during high school basketball practice where his dad was coach. He actually assumed he was on the team when he was 3). After I finally sunk a shot while getting my ass kicked by him in a game of H.O.R.S.E. this little boy (in my eyes) was suddenly choosing which full ride college basketball scholarship to accept. How in the world did it go that fast?

Landon chose Holy Cross college in Worcester, Massachusetts. (Pronounced “Wooster” which makes no sense, but hey, tell that to Brett Favre, pronounced Farv when it looks like it should be Favor). His first few months as a committed freshman hasn’t been without some drama. The head coach who recruited him retired without warning this summer, plunging the team in dire straights and coach less for a bit. A couple of the upper class players chose to transfer elsewhere (their option when a head coach leaves) so there were relationships, goals, unity, camaraderie that needed to be started all over. (It wasn’t all bad. The dude who wore # 3 left giving Landon the chance to keep the number he’s used during a decade of basketball).

The first non conference game for Holy Cross happened to be against a Big 10 team, Maryland, who’s ranked 7th in the nation. Oh boy. I wondered how Landon would play initially. Would he be hesitant about shooting or go full throttle? He’s always played with and against older, more experienced players and has never been intimidated. Not to worry, he was the same experienced, aggressive player I had grown accustomed to watching. Confident, assured, calm with that unique ability to see the whole floor unlike a lot of players. Holy Cross lost but Landon played fantastic, scoring 24 points. Second game Landon put up 14 points in their second loss and was named Rookie of the week for the Patriot League. First week as a freshman in collegiate ball and he nailed it. Dude. Really. Dude.

The season isn’t getting any easier for the Crusaders. Two more games, both resulting in losses. Holy Cross is essentially starting their basketball program from scratch. New coach with basically a new team of very young players. It’s gonna take some time to mesh. (However, my favorite player is chugging along like a well oiled machine).

The Hubs and I were chomping at the bit to see a game in person. (He’s about 750 miles away-sob-sob). We can get most of his games on our iPads-and a few on TV, but seriously it’s not the same. I’m trying to keep stats while watching on my mini and it kinda sucks. Still better than not watching at all, but during the last several years I’ve only missed a handful of his games and believe with all my heart, he does better when I’m there. I know I do.

We thought the week before Thanksgiving would be great because Landon doesn’t get to come home for the holiday. The Crusaders are playing in a tournament in Florida. A least the weather should be awesome. (And I’ve promised him his favorite meal of turkey and all the fixings when he’s home for 3 days at Christmas time).

We flew in (direct flight from Detroit Metro to Worcester-only about 2 hours) on Thursday, issuing an invitation to take him out for supper after he was through with practice. Man it was good to see him again. He’s acquired some muscle mass in the weight room since we saw him in August and is in fine form. John and Landon wanted seafood so we went to Sole Proprietor and had lobster (I’ve never ordered lobster in a restaurant before because I’m such a mess when we eat it at home. I can barely see out of my glasses when I’m finished). Well neatness be damned, we all ordered different size lobsters, and it was very good!

Probably the highlight of the weekend was the added bonus of Shannon, Ari and Jovi flying in Friday morning for the game. Jovi loves her uncle Drewy, (they Skype each other) and they belong to a mutual admiration society. We met them (not Landon, he was already with the team) at the Hogan Center, which is home to a huge store filled with memorabilia, gifts, clothing and souvenirs. Everyone found some Holy Cross duds we couldn’t live without (Ari and Jovi got matching purple stocking hats).

After we were done shopping, John and I each got a pop (soda-they’re so weird. Soda is what we use in baking) and sat down for a bit. On our table was the Holy Cross school newspaper (which looks a lot like a shopper or the old Doon Press). I’m perusing collegiate life when I spot the sports section (The State of Hoops on the Hill) written by staff writer, class of 2020, Jack Milko. Here is his take on the young season thus far.

The Men’s Basketball Team

At the 11:11 mark of the first half, Holy Cross held a 22 to 21 lead over the No. 7 Maryland Terrapins. From that point on, however, Maryland outscored Holy Cross 74-49, ultimately winning by a score of 95-71. Although the Crusaders lost its season opener by 24 points, there are some positives to take away from it. Holy Cross managed to hang tough with a national title contender for the first ten minutes of the game. The freshman tandem of guard Drew Lowder and forward Joe Pridgen were certainly thrown into the fire, playing in front of a hostile crowd of 13,633. Nonetheless, they exceeded expectations by combining for 36 points on 16-28 shooting from the floor. 

Four days later, the Crusaders played in a high-scoring affair at New Hampshire, a game in which UNH won 87-83. Lowder and Pridgen combined for 27 points, but the star of the game was freshman guard Ryan Wade, who came off the bench to score a team-high 24. Then, last week, in a tough overtime loss against Fairfield, four Crusaders managed to score nine or more. Lowder again played well as he had 16 points, which included four huge three-pointers in the second half. Pridgen also had a solid game with nine. Junior forwards Austin Butler and Connor Niego also provided some offense, combining for 26 points. Ultimately, the Crusaders will have to continue to lean on their youth movement as they are now the only team in the Patriot League without a victory so far this season. If they keep to their up-tempo style, and continue to play hard, then their first victory will come soon.

We arrive at the gym about 45 minutes before game time. We find the table with our tickets that Landon has reserved for us and start walking around their incredible new facility called the Hart Center. A few feet away I spot a table with assorted paraphernalia about tonight’s basketball and hockey games. Oh Lord have mercy, Landon’s on the front cover of the program. I. Kid. You. Not. I ran (ha-ha) gimped my way over, gushing to the young men sitting at the table. “That’s my grandson Landon on the front cover!” (I’m sure they thought I was a complete wack job since I didn’t even use the name he uses and everyone else knows him by, but they smiled and said, “that’s cool.” Damn straight).

Jovi is fascinated with everything during the game. A baton twirler in her glittery costume was practicing her routine near where we were sitting. Jovi could not pull her eyes away from her and finally convinced mommy to ask to have their picture taken together. As if that weren’t enough, they’re was a dance troupe routine and some holy Cheerleaders. By the end of the game, Jovi ran out to center court, did some pirouettes, holding up her hand to stop mommy from getting too close. The Holy Cross cheerleaders saw the cutie, ran out to her, gave her some Pom Poms, a big white bow like they had in their hair, which then piqued the interest of the team photographer who snapped some shots, asking permission to use them on the website. (And then Jovi told them about her favorite Uncle Drewy).

The Harvard game was a tough one to lose. We kept the lead well into the second half. That’s 2 games the Crusaders should have gotten the W. It sucks for the team and coaches (yet it’s hard for me to feel awfully bad because Landon’s doing great. Much like I felt years ago when I was an avid bowler. If we lost but I bowled at or above my average, I just didn’t feel too bad for the night. Wasn’t my fault and I did my best).

Just read on Holy Cross’ website: For the second week out of 3 during the early basketball season, Landon (Drew Lowder) # 3 was named Rookie of the week for the Patriot League. What a great start for this fabulous young man. “He’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” Indeed. Go Landon, go…

Obsession. Such a strong word with some negative appeal. I don’t think I’m obsessive. Well maybe a little. I prefer to think of it as liking something very much and sticking with it until I die. Is that the definition of obsessive? These are products I’ve become attached to. Once I find something I really like, my mind (and nose) can rarely be changed. I just can’t imagine my life without said product. Although they’re not essential to my life, they are needed to make my life better. Just call it my relentless product loyalty.

First thing I remember becoming (alarmingly) attached to was in Davenport, 35 years ago. I loved to sunbathe (I know, my bad) and my lips were always as dry as a popcorn fart. I stopped at our neighborhood Perry Drug store and bought a small tube of Mentholatum Natural Ice lip balm. A strange feeling accosted my lips when I smeared some on. There was a slight tingling/burning sensation. Oooh-that’s the way-ah-huh, ah-huh-I like it. Since that fateful purchase, I can’t remember a solitary day in my life hence where a tube of Mentholatum has not been in my possession. Choosing my favorite (and only) cologne for the past 25 years would not be my top priority if I were stranded on a desert island but rest assured tubes of Mentholatum, my toothbrush and toothpaste definitely would be.

I panicked a few years ago when all my local haunts stopped carrying Mentholatum in Michigan. Damn Burt’s Bee’s and Chap Stick and their 50 freakin varieties take up half the store shelves. I finally found Mentholatum online and ordered 20 tubes at a time (since I cannot face the possibility of ever running out). A few years ago I discovered several stores in Iowa still carry Mentholatum so we’d stop at every Hy-Vee store from Davenport to Sioux Falls. (Often when we made this trip it was hotter than Hades in the Midwest). There I was traipsing across 4 states lugging little bags of Mentholatum with me to eat or antique because I feared they would melt in the hot car until we finally settled in a cool hotel or back home.

My next loyalty award arrived by accident 15 years ago. A span in my life which consisted of driving from mid-Michigan to northwest Iowa every couple months. Sometimes I flew but usually drove the 750 miles. Mom was slipping and it was harder for Dad to care for her. He was out of his element in the caregiving department. But they both made due for as long as they could, until they couldn’t.

On the way to Iowa I usually made several stops. None were out of my way but an excellent excuse to get out of the car and stretch for a bit. Two stops were Outlet Malls, one in Michigan City, Indiana, the second in Williamsburg, Iowa. The other 2 were huge antique malls, one close to the Michigan City Outlet, the other near Peru, Illinois.

I had been watching (longing/coveting) a Waterford lamp in Michigan City for a couple of years. It was a bit out of my price range and I kept hoping when I stopped that the price had either dropped or someone had finally put me out of my misery and bought the dang thing and it would be gone. No such luck. There it sat, lit like a lifesaving beacon during a storm. Taunting, exquisite and dusty. Shoot, it wouldn’t get dusty at my house. Oh alright, I lie, dusting is right up there with root canals-but still, the lamp would look far better lighting up my cozy little nest. Same stinking price, dealer wouldn’t come down a nickel. Well then rot on the shelf. (I have since snagged 2 Waterford lamps).

Before heading west again on 94 west and weaving my way around Chicago I was ready for some lunch. I’m almost done eating when I picture my makeup bag on top of the dining room table at home. Don’t know why that image popped in my head but it did. Are you kidding? No makeup, shampoo, conditioner, brush, nothing. Did I actually forget to pack it in the car? Trot out to the car, pop the trunk and go through everything. Nada. Well there’s money I don’t want to spend. Shoot.

I’m trying to get by as cheap as I can. Stop at Walgreens, pick up a small deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shower gel. Can’t get chintzy with moisturizer for my dry skin but buy the smallest jar, adding the bare essentials for makeup, eyebrow pencil, powder, concealer. Now I just need hair stuff.

I don’t want full size bottles, they take up too much room. On a shelf I spot a package introducing a line of new products. Tiny 2 oz. bottles of hair care products, shampoo, conditioner, gel and hair spray by a company named John Frieda. On sale for $4.99. Enough to get me through a week. Sold.

This particular trip I’m spending one night in my old stomping grounds, Davenport for a rousing night of double deck Euchre with my former bowling buddies. We have a great time catching up, eating, playing cards. I spend the night at Jeanne’s. I still have a good 6-7 hours to drive so no dawdling in the morning. Fine except for one problem. I can’t get out of the shower. Nothing physical, it’s that new shampoo. The smell is incredible. Damn I smell good. Really good. I’m hooked. Where can I buy this stuff by the gallon?

It’s a win-win I stumbled upon these hair products. They’re actually for color treated hair. I’m cruising through year 20, using L’Oréal every freakin month (another loyal awards user, hadn’t received “the sign” to stop yet. That would take this slow poke another 15 years-sigh). This was just the best accidental find in my life. Until it was snatched from me 10 years later. I’ve always been a quantities buyer. A sucker when something I use regularly is on sale. So I always had 3 or 4 bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the linen closet. But it had been a few months since I bought any. I was checking the shelves and prices at Meijer. The usual spot was sporting some other dead bed-head crap. I looked in clearance, zip there too. Drive over to Rite Aid and find one bottle of hairspray. Grab it and have an awful feeling that Neese is not going to smelling nearly as awesome very soon.

I’m (still) not an online shopper. When I need something I go to the most likely stores which should carry what I’m looking for. (I’m hopelessly outdated). But for this delicious, deliriously smelling shampoo and conditioner, I am the ultimate online shopper with a goal. And it wasn’t hard to find. I ordered a dozen bottles of each and guarded my stash in a hermetically sealed safe at an undisclosed location. (Which only accepted my iris to unlock).

That was in 2014. After repeated trips to the underground, 12 inch thick, reinforced concrete facility, my world changing shampoo was disappearing at an alarmingly fast rate. Went back online to all the surplus outlets which carry discontinued (hurts my heart to even write it) products. After an hour long search I found 3 bottles of shampoo. Three bottles for 99 bucks. That’s right folks, 99 dollars. And I gave it careful consideration. Tried to convince myself that 30 bucks for an 8 ounce bottle of shampoo was worth every penny. Who am I trying to kid? Could not do it. The conditioner however was readily available much cheaper as was the hairspray. So I bought a dozen bottles of each (Such a creature of habit-it’s disgusting).

Now I’m down to days using my favorite smelling shampoo. Mere days. I’m adjusting to the change in my life without my signature smell. (Actually with enough conditioner and hairspray that’s gonna last way past my expiration date, I will still probably have the same scent wafting off my countenance). But it’s the shampoo I attribute the smell with. But it’s not all bad news. I woke up one morning a year ago and made the simple decision to stop dyeing my hair. (Only took me 35 years). And my John Frieda ‘root awakening’ shampoo is for color treated hair-which I no longer have! Got off that miserable train wreck. Yay me. Just another sign that this well adjusted grandma (ha-ha no one is ever gonna buy into this old dinosaur is adaptable) can easily change too…

I wasn’t always like this. From the time I was quite young, the magnitude of my beliefs were well rooted and firm. What the heck happened? When I think how I’ve changed I just shake my head. How did I get to this hopeless point? Was there a pivotal turning point somewhere that I’ve not yet realized or recovered?

I’m not content. I wanna be but there’s this restlessness inside. I’m searching for something. Every few days when I weigh the pros and cons and end up no closer to an answer or relief, I simply put the whole matter on the back burner and coast. I’m a good coaster. And very good at ignoring issues I’m uncomfortable dealing with. I’ve never been good with confrontation-even when I’m confronting-me. It’s painful, distracting, frustrating and causes negative feelings to surface which puts me in a funk. I don’t do well in funky town.

From junior high until I was about 40, God had a steady presence in my life. It’s not like I stopped believing after that, I just stopped going to church for several years. Just as suddenly I started attending again, but not the Reformed Church of America where I had been raised (aha, maybe that’s my problem).

This last span of time, I went to church faithfully for about 15 years, but those years were filled with conflict and angst. (Here I am, trying to be churched, contented and filled with the Holy Spirit. Why am I then so conflicted)? Well I can spot one huge issue. I got too involved-my fault. Volunteered too much, heard too much and witnessed too much, including the uglier side of organized religion-politics. Politics within the church from the movers and the shakers. During this time I worked for 4 pastors while I was Parish Visitor. Four. All had some good qualities, either with the youth, could preach a sermon which helped and made you think, had a real soft spot for the elderly or community outreach.

Both churches stated frequently, “the church is the people.” To which I say hogwash. Of course the congregation is vitally important, but unless you have a dynamic speaker who can lead a flock (and encourage new folks/families into the sanctuary on Sunday), give a meaningful message to help get people through another tough week of life, your flock is going to seek guidance elsewhere or just stop going through the motions.

Which is what happened to me. I was hurt, angry, resentful, unfulfilled and felt organized religion was out of touch. Maybe even vindictive. Overall attendance was in a tailspin. I simply stopped going. It’s awful to say but I didn’t want to miss the things that are included with a Sunday morning worship service. But I miss those very things so much. I miss saying the Lord’s Prayer in unison. Long to be among those reciting the Apostles Creed even more. I miss hymn singing (I only lip sync the songs since losing most of my hearing-can’t carry a tune to save my soul). This old-fashioned doxology fills my heart with hurt and happiness.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise Him above ye heavenly host

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.

Since 2013 I have been in a few churches-but very few. Several funerals before I left North Muskegon. A couple years ago, Angie, a devout Christian and a coworker invited me to her church for their annual Christmas program because her 2 adorable kids were part of their large children’s group participating. I didn’t tell her I was coming (that way it was easier to chicken out and stay home). I thought I could snag a back row seat, be in and out without anyone noticing me. As it happened Angie was walking through the narthex as I waltzed in the door. (Thanks for that God). So I was included with the whole family, taking up 2 entire pews. But I didn’t go back. Knew God was nudging me but I can be very dense when it comes to subtle hints. It’s called denial. See I didn’t realize there’s a problem with me-it’s everybody else involved with church who has a problem.

More recently I saw a Facebook post from my friend Sabrina. She posted two of her four daughters were being baptized a few weeks ago. Don’t know why that post hit me so hard but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Never uttered a word to Sabrina, just looked up the address of the church and showed up for worship. This time I made it through the door unnoticed and was slinking towards an out of the way ‘Russian seat.’ (‘Rushing’ to be first out of the door afterwards). Well Sabrina rushed me like an all American linebacker before I was even seated! I sat near the family group congregating for this momentous occasion when someone plops Sabrina’s new grandson, Greyson on my lap. Darling little guy was full of smiles for this virtual stranger. Kortni and Ali’s baptism was sacred, touching and heartwarming. (Don’t know the girl’s exact ages, maybe 14 and 11). But again I didn’t go back. The minister was young and had a good message but the service was very contemporary. Just not what this old dinosaur is longing for.

So that’s been the extent of my worship participation in 6 years. Not a very good record or anything to be proud is it? If I’m searching so hard for ‘something,’ it can’t be found if I’m not even willing to look. What’s prohibiting me? My regrets, sins, old grudges which are still simmering near the surface? Probably all of the above. I don’t want to be part of the world’s Christianity decline, yet here I am-living the nightmare.

I’m what’s wrong with Christianity. I long for/expect the perfect church, the perfect preacher and a united congregation that loves/respects each other. Well none of that is feasible in the real world is it? Life is messy. We’re all sinners and preachers are just as human as the rest of us. So how can I break away from these high expectations I seem to cast the church and its inhabitants on? How (and where) can I find peace? Yes, I’m conflicted. Big time.

I need to recognize the church for what it really is. A mish-mash of assorted sinners coming together to worship God. Period. People with differing opinions, beliefs, goals and gifts. A church whose needs often are monetary. I’ve got to stop giving up on God because the pastor does not meet my stringent specifications. Period. God has hope for me and has stuck with me-warts and all. How come it’s so hard for me to do likewise with my fellow man?

Although it sounds lame, shallow and insincere, I’m church shopping. Sigh. Trying to find my own niche with God by my side rather than leaving Him at my back door. I feel like I’m just going through the motions without a home church. I’m lost and alone. I need a closer connection. So I’ve been jotting down some church addresses and times of worship. Last week was my first attempt. Not impressed, but the list of churches in Jackson is significant and I’m going to keep trying until I find what I need. It’s not been a hymn recently looping through my head but a twist on Del Shannon’s song, Keep searchin’.

I gotta keep searchin’, searchin’, find a place to stay

Searchin’, searchin’ every night and day

If I gotta keep on the run, I’ll follow the Son-wee-ooh,

Follow the Son-wee-ooh…

I assumed everyone ate like my family when I was a kid. (I don’t mean manners, scripture, prayers and table setting. This is about actual food). I didn’t think a favorite, familiar dish of mom’s was unusual. Or odd even. I grew up in a small town in northwest Iowa (predominantly Dutch) and thought every woman in town used the same brands, bought the same meats and cooked exactly like my mom.

My first inkling that not all foods were served (or even offered) the same in Rock Valley was discovered when I was in junior high. One of my close friends came from a much larger family. Her mom was a good cook (mine was too) but Char’s mom definitely cooked different than mine. Their clan was basically a 2 family home. Char’s mom and dad had several kids, waited a decade, then had another 4 girls, bam-bam-bam-bam. The second bam of the second batch was my bestie Char. Her house/family life was the complete opposite of mine.

By then, we had lost Larry, Mona was married, thus making me like an only child. Char’s household (the older kids were long gone with families of their own) had one in high school, Char in junior high and 2 younger sisters in elementary. A couple of the first group moved away but one older sister lived within a few miles. She and her family (she had a couple kids by then) came over to her parents every Sunday night for supper. Nearly every week I weaseled my way in for a supper invite too. Really how much work is it to feed one extra kid? There was so much activity at their house, they barely noticed me. My house was very quiet in comparison.

We were all headed for the evening church/youth group services so everyone was expected to pitch in to get the table cleared and kitchen cleaned up (even me, who did absolutely nothing to help in the kitchen at my own house). Char’s mom always cooked great meals on Sunday nights. Most times there were 11 or 12 of us. One of her best meals was roast beef and mashed potatoes. I know there was a vegetable and always dessert but it was the mashed potatoes I remember. She mashed potatoes in her mixer! What? With milk and butter (duh, a given) but those spuds were as smooth as pudding. My mom would never get her stand mixer out and mess it up for mashed potatoes. Ever. Our mashed potatoes were thicker and had a few lumps, (but they were good). It’s the way I’ve eaten them my whole life. But I will never forget watching Char’s mom dump a huge, hot pot of potatoes into her mixer and whip those suckers smooth as a baby’s butt. (Maybe not the best way to describe her mashed potatoes). She also made twice baked potatoes to die for, using the same method. Dug out the potato insides, keeping the potato peel intact and whipping the spuds in her mixer. Then plopping a good sized dollop back in the peel and baked ’em a second time. Dang she was a good cook. I’m eternally grateful for joining their family as often as they let me.

This old memory popped up from a comment on my last story about my poor Mom who got lost frequently because she wasn’t good with directions (try hopeless). The comments were about us shopping at a fabulous department store in Sioux City. First Ray asked if Mom and I ever ate at the restaurant in Younkers? About 99% of the time we went to a fabulous place called Bishop’s Cafeteria. I remember Younkers candy counter but the actual restaurant in the store, no. Then Glenda commented she’s been trying to duplicate Younkers Mac & Cheese recipe for 50 years, without much success.

That’s when it hit me. We never had Mac & cheese when I was a kid. Ever. It was not on Mom’s food repertoire. Seems like it should have been. Some kind of melted cheeses over elbow macaroni because Mom loved all kinds of casseroles. America cheese was the only kind in our fridge though. Served on Hillbilly Bread with butter or as a grilled cheese sandwich, just flipped the buttered side on the outside.

Dagwood Bumstead would have starved at our house. There were no messy, mayo, lettuce, mustard, pickles, ham, pastrami, provolone sandwiches served in our kitchen (or eaten over the sink). We really didn’t do sandwiches, maybe a BLT or Reuben occasionally. The Gerritson idea of a sandwich was an opened can of Red Sockeye salmon with all those nasty bones and slithery silver skin removed. On buttered bread and a nice leaf of iceberg lettuce. Ta-da! (First time I served it for supper as a newlywed, Hubs gaped at me like I had grown a third eye, and refused to eat it. What’s even worse, he eats the same exact salmon, plus the bones and slimy skin parts on soda crackers. Now really, who’s the freak here)?

The Gerritson refrigerator never held:

“my bologna has a first name, it’s Oscar,

my bologna has a second name, it’s Mayer.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, I love to eat it everyday,

if you ask me why I’ll say–

cause Oscar Mayer has a way with–B O L O G N A.”

(Sorry couldn’t help myself. Loved the commercial, the kid and song)

So I’m at a loss when once a week I see a picture of curled up fried bologna on Facebook with someone asking, who ate their bologna like this? Not this girl.

The Gerritson (or Van Berkum) cupboards have never held a can of Spam. I’ve never tasted it. Ditto for Campbell’s Tomato Soup. I did eat Campbell’s Vegetable Beef, Chicken Noodle and Bean with Bacon. And if Mom was making a casserole which called for a cream soup, 75% of the time she used Cream of Celery, the rest of the time Cream of Chicken. Never Cream of Mushroom, she said it was too strong. (I don’t have to tell you I lean the same way as Mom, right? On occasion when I use Cream of Mushroom, stroganoff comes to mind. But when I make stroganoff for Hubs I rarely eat it. I’ve managed 68 years without consuming Brussel sprouts, zucchini, squash, egg plant or the one I get razzed about most often, biscuits and gravy, none of which hold any appeal.

I was at least 30 before I tried Chinese food. It was offered on vacation once when I was a kid, as was Mom, but since she turned her nose up and would only drink the tea, well there you have my initial reaction. I was older than 30 before I ever tried broccoli, cauliflower or get this-SHRIMP. No, I’m not kidding. Pretty much, the only sea food we ate came from cans, Starkist Tuna (Sorry Charlie) and Deming’s Red Sockeye Salmon.

We never had Kool-aid or Tang in the house when I was a kid, although I was always allowed to have pop with my lunch everyday (RC Cola, 7-Up or Pepsi). I didn’t realize how fond of broccoli, or cauliflower I was until I’d been married for years. (My kids however grew up on Kool-aid and Kraft Macaroni & cheese, not as a meal but an after school snack).

So what did we consume at the Gerritson abode? Tuna salad, fresh tomatoes on bread topped with sugar all summer long. Any leftovers from supper the night before. I’d warm up a dish of casserole in the oven. And soups. Soups (always homemade) were a mainstay at our house. Chicken and rice, Navy Bean and Ham, whole Pea with pork hocks or ham, Chile and Vegetable beef.

If I was craving something sweet and Mom had not baked anything lately, a slice of buttered Hillbilly bread covered with a half inch of light brown sugar did the trick. I still eat one every once in a while. My kids grew up eating them as a treat. I know when I actually write it, I find it kinda weird too. Excuse me while I run to the kitchen for a minute. Sorry ’bout the drool…

I sometimes forget how smart Mom was. She had an unbelievable thirst for knowledge. A voracious reader, she always preferred non-fiction. She loved biographies, exact opposite of my reading preferences. I’ve always felt I have enough reality in my life. I read novels to escape.

Mom bought the finest, most expensive set of World Book Encyclopedias when I was in junior high to help with my homework assignments. As if. But her interest (and constant use) far outweighed the times I was forced to look something up for school in one of our many green and cream leather volumes. Every year thereafter she’d send for the new yearbook. World Book’s way of updating us on everything important from the previous year. She just couldn’t get enough of what those pages had to offer. She wanted to know everything.

She was a great bookkeeper. Mom kept track how of much interest each CD was paying, how Dad’s IPERS account (Iowa Public Employee Retirement System) was doing from year to year. She was frugal in many ways, yet extravagant with her money in others. They never financed a car that I know of but wanted nothing more on a car besides tires and a steering wheel. (Neither of them ever drove an automatic). Yet she thought nothing of buying Shannon a wool plaid winter coat which she would only wear to church when she was 3 years old and wouldn’t fit her the following winter. I bought Mom a new paring knife after the one she’d used for 40 years had lost its edge. She just couldn’t part with the $2.99 for something she deemed unnecessary.

Mom kept a small tattered box in the cupboard above her spotless refrigerator. That box was filled with several standard sized plain white envelopes. Each envelope was marked, IPS, Bell telephone, First Reformed Church (tithing), spending money for both of them, groceries, De Boer’s (fuel oil for the furnace and gas for Mom’s car, Ver Berg Gas Station for Dad’s gas and maintenance on his car). Never did figure out why they used separate businesses (2 blocks apart) for each of their cars, she simply preferred one, Dad the other. They were funny that way. When it was payday, Mom (don’t think direct deposit was an option back then) would trudge to the bank (after forging dad’s name) to cash the check-literally. She’d leave a small portion in their checking account but for most things both of them used cash (thus all the envelopes).

When she got home from the bank, she’d reach up and snag the envelope box. Take them all out and divvy up the amount that each envelope required. Patiently wait for each bill to arrive, grab the money from the appropriate envelope, head downtown to pay the bill. She did have a credit card for Sears and Penney’s but paid each in full every month there was a charge on the card. Not to minimize her savings ability, next to tithing, savings held a high priority for both of them.

I don’t think Mom was ever stumped with a knitting or crocheting pattern. She would tackle the most complicated projects. I was amazed at her talent and ability. She tried to teach me but I could only add stitches, tackle collars, armholes, sleeves, necklines, or anything harder than the stockinette stitch (the easiest of them all) if I was sitting by her side. So I never really learned how to read patterns like she did. She’d just show me how to do something and it would magically get done, but I didn’t retain what I’d learned.

So this woman kept her house spotless, saved money even when it was in short supply, read an entire set of encyclopedias, who frequently wrote politicians scathing letters during the 70’s & 80’s on what irked her on world matters in her beautiful cursive prose. When shopping (she was a clothes horse) Mom could (and did) easily rattle off 20%, 25% or one third off to other customers frowning nearby when trying to figure out how much the jacket cost because it was on sale. (She’d mumble to me later, “how can these people not know that 25% off of 30 dollars is $7.50? Then they have trouble subtracting $7.50 from 30 bucks.” This really frustrated her). She worked hard, cooked every night but Saturday and could turn the toughest knitting patterns into works of art.

Mom did have a couple weaknesses. When forced, she could replace a button on one of Dad’s dress shirts. But had to be coerced to do it and hated every minute. (I inherited her sewing gene). And the poor woman didn’t know which way was west. Or north. Or south. Nope, not east either. She had the worst sense of direction known to womankind.

This was not much of an issue when I was a kid. She knew how to get to our shopping spots in Sheldon, Le Mars, Sioux Falls and Sioux City whenever we left the safe confines of Rock Valley. There were specific locations she was very familiar with. She knew how to get to downtown Younkers in Sioux City, Shrivers in Sioux Falls, but we never veered far off the beaten path either. Her lack of knowing where she was headed flew out the window once I got married. Things would have been so different for Mom if she’d had a cell phone with Siri to help her navigate those confusing directions.

We were living in Sioux City, 1973. Our precocious toddler, Shannon was 3. She and Mom (Mimi) were headed (by themselves-oh Lort) to Bellas Hess in Morningside. Right on highway 75 at Glenn Ave, probably 5 miles from our house on 23rd Street. Once Mimi managed to find Highway 75, (a half mile from our house), it was a straight shot. No turns. Absolutely. No. Turns. Just follow Highway 75 due south.

The good news, they found Bellas Hess. I’m sure Shannon zhanicked (begged and whined in Dutch slang) until Mimi bought her something outrageously expensive. Leaving Bellas Hess proved to be more difficult for Mom though. Out of the parking lot onto Glenn Ave., to the stop light at Highway 75, Mom however turned south instead of north. And drove. Then drove some more. Shannon finally said, “this isn’t the right way Mimi. Our house isn’t this way.” Indeed little one. Mimi and Shannon were close to Omaha-about 80 miles from Sioux City. They finally stopped at a truck stop seeking help/advice and got turned around. They were gone almost the whole day. And we had no clue what had happened to them.

As long as we lived in Iowa Mom did fairly well. Eastern Iowa got a little hairy the first time, we lived in several nearby towns around Dubuque. The second time, we moved to Davenport, we lived a couple miles off of I-80. She knew if she crossed the mighty Mississippi, she had gone too far. But Michigan was another matter. Part of the problem was Mom and Dad refused to come visit us together. Another strange quirk of theirs. They treated each visit like a competition between them. Each one would trot back to Iowa and brag how cute/darling the kids had been. Actually making each other jealous.

One of them would come for several days, a couple months later the other, so I got to worry about their long travel time (750 miles) alone twice as often. Mom had 2 close calls. A couple of years after moving to Jackson she was on her way to our house. Chicago’s not the easiest city to get around, but it’s I-80 east until you reach I-94. Mom didn’t wait to hit 94, she turned north on 294 and drove to Milwaukee. Oh my word. Since her little jog cost several hours both ways, Mom ended up spending a night in a hotel as soon as she crossed the state line into Michigan. (At least she was in the right state now).

The last disaster could have been just that-disastrous. Mom was on her way back to Iowa from our house when she realized, after several hours of driving, she didn’t have her seat belt on. She stopped on the shoulder of I-80 west, snapped herself in, signaled with her blinker (yay Mom), engaged the clutch, and shifted to first gear in her 4 cylinder Ford. Instead of getting some speed on the shoulder, she felt her blinker was sufficient and pulled into the lane of traffic, all of whom were clipping along at 70 mph or better. She got rear ended by a semi and THOUGHT IT WAS HIS FAULT. She was not hurt thankfully, and she was furious when she got a ticket. Oh Mom. She didn’t drive to Michigan often after that which was fine with me. I just went to their house more often. How I wish I could go back and visit them one more time. I should have been more attentive and written things down. I still have so many questions…