I wrote a story in January, 2015 called Plaid Pants. Filled with disdain, (not the pants, but the feelings which were well deserved) about pretty much anything to do with U of M. How I acquired these feelings of disgust and scorn though started much earlier in 1987. The year we moved to Michigan and pritnear lived in the shadow of the Big House.

When we moved to Michigan I was filled with hope. Yes, it was a jaunt from our Iowa home turf but the climate was similar, we were still in Big 10 country and now living about 30 miles south of Michigan State and 35 miles west of the University of Michigan. When I was growing up, I concocted these fantasy images about Ann Arbor. Not only a neat name but sounded like the perfect college town. These fantasies were about to receive a brutal reality check. Live and learn.

Rest assured, I’ll not repeat the Plaid Pants story (it is pretty cute though). Suffice it to say I feel like I’ve known Jim Harbaugh all of his life although I’ve never been with 500 feet of the man (damn Restraining Order-I’m kidding-lighten up). Jim grew up in Ann Arbor and went to Pioneer High School until his family moved to California. He then got a football scholarship and was starting quarterback for University of Michigan in the mid-80’s. I watched my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes beat Jim and his cohorts 12-10 in one of the best college football games ever played at Kinnick Stadium in 1985, never realizing in less than 2 years we’d be living 30 miles from the Big House instead of 50 miles from Iowa City. Life is messy. Things change.

Our first year in Michigan we got tickets to watch the Hawks play the Wolverines at the Big House. I was so excited to visit another football stadium. What a disaster! We lost big time, the fans were nasty and some old dudes in maize and blue plaid pants accosted us verbally during the long walk back to our car. I vowed that day never to step foot on that football stadium again. Any feelings I had for U of M, the city of Ann Arbor-poof-vanished that day-never to return. It’s now been 30 years with very little change in my attitude for anything Wolverine-ish. Really I should get some kind of reward for grudge holding. I’m damn near perfect at it. (You can message me for my winning tips).

I did have mild interest when U of M hired Harbaugh in 2015. Jim’s appearance back in the state was hard to ignore with the influx of articles and interviews as a daily reminder how important Michigan football is to their rabid fans (at least in their own minds). He’s done well too, now in his 5th season as head coach. Brought in a ton of money for the University with everything from clothing to season ticket sales (which I think hovers around 90,000) this year. Unbelievable. Ninety thousand season ticket holders. Wow. Don’t kid yourself though, Jim goes through the bucks too, recruiting, taking his team to Italy one year, South Africa another year. He’s is the second highest paid coach in the country-Nick Sabin rules). He’s very popular. Whatever.

My son-in-law Tracey is principal at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor, which happens to be right across the street from the Big House (just shoot me now. What are the odds)? Pioneer’s massive parking lot morphs into a second city on U of M home game weekends. Parking in Pioneer’s lot costs a freaking fortune and is literally filled with hundreds of recreational vehicles who arrive to tailgate for the weekend. Before school started Hubs asked Tracey to look for tickets for the Iowa-Michigan game. I assumed Josh, Adam or Graham would be going with him. It wasn’t gong to be me.

I’ve never understood the reasoning behind “going” to the game as opposed to “watching” the game at home. Everything about the game is better on TV than in person. You don’t have to worry about the weather, parking, the humongous expense of tickets. You can watch all the replays, don’t have to stand in line for 10 minutes to pee. (One thing I noticed in the 30 year gap between attending games. The ‘official’s time out’ are more frequent and very, very long. It’s quite possible to forget what sporting event you’re attending). My snacks are better and I don’t have to pay 5 dollars for bottled water. It’s gotta be the atmosphere and camaraderie, but just how appealing is being scrunched in with 110,000 strangers, most of whom stand through most of the game? Nil. Absolutely zero appeal for me.

A month ago Shannon, Tracey and Peyton took us out for supper for our anniversary. A place we’d not tried before called The Black Rock. Unique joint, your steak comes to the table partially cooked on a 750 degree black rock (thus the catchy name). Your server tells you approximately how much longer to cook that puppy (steak really, there were no puppies on the menu) once you flip the meat for how rare you prefer). We got a fancy dessert afterwards and had a really nice time.

I opened our cards at the table and out slips 2 football tickets for Iowa-Michigan on October 5th. Oh. Well it has been 32 years. However, it didn’t feel like there had been sufficient time to let my grudge go. I’m still in the rookie phase. But the thoughtful gesture was unmistakable. Shannon had attended an event for a former high school classmate who had recently passed away. Her class was establishing a scholarship fund in his name. The U of M tickets were part of the silent auction that night (meaning probably one of the 90,000 season ticket holders donated their tickets for this event). Nice. Shannon kept bidding until they were hers. I mean ours.

The game was 2 weeks away, giving me only 14 days to stew about it. (Got the tickets on the same day I fell on my replacement knee so you can see why I had some misgivings). How was I gonna use a cane with thousands of people milling about? Our seats were section 2, right behind the Hawkeyes bench in row 51. Could not imagine walking up or down 40 steps with the masses. How crowded are the seats, how close is the row in front of me? Would I ever be able to stretch out my leg instead of leaving it bent for 3 hours?

The forecast called for cloudy skies, high around 60. Game time was noon, we left about 9:30. Tracey gave us his parking pass, saving us 50 bucks. (Thanks T). We turned into Pioneer’s lot and the first Michigan tailgater yells, “welcome to Michigan, Iowa fans!” (Who are these people? Hubs was wearing an Iowa hat which was easy to spot). We know this parking lot well, our grandson Landon just graduated from Pioneer and Peyton’s a sophomore. But many of the rows are cordoned off, giving the RV tailgating people more like small neighborhood squares. I ended backing up because several rows didn’t go through. Finally found a decent spot, got out and start lumbering towards the Big House. Most people are careful when they notice my cane. We have to cross one street with literally hundreds of fans, but no one is careless or going lickety-split. We walk around (the place is MASSIVE) quite a ways until we see gate 2. I buy some kettle corn and use the restroom, hoping I won’t have to leave again during the game. We walk through the tunnel and notice we’re farther up than I realized. I’m dreading how far away row 51 is when one of the ushers looks at my ticket and says, “This is your row, down one step, left and in about 6 spaces.” Our row had a cement back. Couldn’t have asked for better seats.

We did see a couple thousand Hawkeye fans, several right behind us. The game was not the best. I think it was much more important to the Wolverines than it was for the Hawks. Harbaugh and his team were soundly spanked at Wisconsin (good times) the week before and Jim’s job longevity might have been a bit shakey. (Even though Harbaugh’s averaging 9 or 10 wins a year, he’s kinda struggling because he can’t seem to win the games that mean the most to the Michigan masses, namely MSU, Big 10 Conference winner, the final 4 of the National Championship and the biggest doozy of them all, beating Ohio State). So he really needed to win the Iowa game. And our offense forgot to show up so there’s that. All my worrying was for naught. The weather was great, the seats were good, no one swore or threw anything at us, which was a nice change. I might go back in another 30 years.

The road in front of Pioneer runs north for 2 lanes and south for 2 lanes, with a turn lane in the middle. At the end of the game the police make everyone leaving the parking lot turn south. To make this more efficient, they make all 5 lanes head south. Which is the direction that leads us back to 94, so we’re good. It takes us about a half hour to get out of the lot. Most tailgaters have no intention of leaving just yet. They simply fire up the grill, grab a beer, pull out some chairs and keep right on partying.

As my Jeep nears an opening leading to the road, I spot a blue porta-potty in the parking lot. (Somebody actually brought this along to the game? Be serious! Yes, they did). Since I’m only moving about a foot a minute, I snag my phone to snap a shot of this hilarious scene. That’s it right there in a nutshell. A small sign screwed into the side of the porta-potty which reads-Private shitter-keep out. Can you stand it? Giving a whole new meaning (and totally appropriate) to U of M’s catch phrase, GO BLUE…

I’ve made some adjustments during the past year, most were forced. Guess it’s to be expected as I age. I remember feeling kind of resentful at times when this happened with my parents. Seemed like it was one thing after another. I’d adjust to their new ‘norm’ then something else would cuff me up side the head that required another adjustment. Now some of those same annoying inconveniences are happening to me and I resent it. I’m not ready to make those changes in my life. Enough already!

I fell 2 weeks ago. Just great. Shannon invited me to go along to a flea market at the Chelsea Fairgrounds. She went last year and stressed the grounds were very uneven. “That’s ok, I’ll use my cane.” Actually I’ve been doing great-5 months post surgery with knee replacement. For 2 weeks I’d been walking 30 minutes every day, amounting to a good half mile, not burning up the pavement or setting any land speed records yet, but it’s a start, and I felt good. Listening to my tunes, feeling back to normal. Almost.

I was doing great at the flea market. Watching the ground, inclines, declines, cement cracks/potholes (deep enough to lose a foot/small child), kids, strollers, pets, yakkers not paying attention. Most of the vendors offered shabby chic items for the home, some had clothing, others foodstuffs. One dude was giving out free samples of his canned goods. A large picture of him and his granny, circa 1950 was prominently displayed. He made a point of telling me many of his products were made using granny’s recipes. I’m game and ask for a taste of Bread & Butter Pickles. He grabs a plastic fork, plunges it into the newly opened pint jar and snags an 8 inch shoestring thick rope of pickles. I daintily shove the half jar in my mouth and struggle to chew and swallow. Nothing sweet about these puppies, they taste like dead cucumbers. I compliment him on granny’s great recipe and quickly move away lest I’m tempted to try something else he’s concocted. Um, no thanks. My big purchase for the day was a bag of kettle corn, just what I don’t need but I love the stuff.

Shannon bought some wall art for her office at home. Hubs and I had a big breakfast but Shannon hadn’t eaten so I sit-guard our purchases on a picnic table while she peruses carnival fare. She’s thoughtful and hands me an ice cold Diet Pepsi because it’s really hot. We’re done and heading back to the parking lot. The path/driveway is part grass, part gravel. Honest we aren’t 200 feet from the car when my left ankle encounters a rock on the side of my foot and I go down. Hard. I land on my left hand and replacement knee and instantly roll to my back. The sky is spinning and I think I’m gonna be sick. Can’t leave my head flat on the ground so I lace my fingers together and pull my head up. The spinning slows and finally stops. My knee burns like it’s on fire. Shannon asks how I am? Knee hurts, hand hurts (from the colorful bruise on my hand, I think the curved part of my cane was under my hand when I hit the ground). I can move all my parts but just laid there for a couple minutes. I know I can’t roll over, get on my knees and stand up and I need more than one eager person (Shannon) to help with that. I spot a women’s foursome heading our way and ask if they can help stand me up? (I hate this. Really. Hate. This). I’m finally up, full of dust and heartsick about the setback.

Good thing I was wearing capris. There’s a couple of scratches/dings on my hands and knee but not bad. I limp to a nearby fence, Shannon jogs to the car to swing by and pick me up. I need ice and Motrin. I have much to be grateful for. I didn’t break anything and I think my new knee is pretty much indestructible. Actually most of the pain is in the back of my leg. Feels like I maybe hyperextended it. Two weeks later and there’s still 2 lumps/bumps on my knee. Hope they eventually disappear.

For the following week I do the bare minimum in the housework/cooking/stairs departments (not a big stretch for this lazy slug) around the house. I called Dr. Carpenter’s office for reassurance there’s not much chance I really hurt my new joint, right? I can walk but going up and down stairs like a normal person is impossible (again) and bending my leg is still very limited. But I am moving. A tad better.

There are 3 issues I must address/accept about my leg (s).

1. I am sorely lacking strength and stamina in both legs.

2. I am fairly certain my balance problems have hindered my progress. This issue is not new. I was diagnosed with Meniere’s 15 years ago, but it sure seems much more pronounced since my bad fall last summer. This scares and worries me a lot.

3. This might seem like a prideful matter, but I view it as more of a crutch/dependency issue. (Weird choice of words). If I simply look back since surgery I can only think of one instance where I thought, damn, wish I would have left my cane in the car. (More on this bizarre shopping trip in a minute). Every other single time I’ve been running errands, walking on uneven pavement or very tired from getting in and out of the car numerous times I’ve thought, why didn’t I bring my cane? I would feel better if I had my cane.

So a week ago Monday I had an appointment. Decided to make one extra stop while I was out because I had done absolutely nothing the previous week. The Sunday paper ad for Aldi had humongous bags of Halloween candy on sale. (We get between 450 and 600 trick or treaters at our house). I used my cane when I got out of the car, then realized I had no change to retrieve one of their shopping carts. No matter, I’m only gonna buy a couple bags of candy. I walked right to the candy aisle (yes I’m familiar where the sweets are-don’t judge) and was searching for the bags of 250 pieces for $19.47 when I spot a seriously jacked up bag-400 pieces (about the size of a twin mattress, only harder to handle) for $23.97. See the problem is both Hubs and I are incapable of throwing one itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny candy bar the size of my thumbnail into a trick or treater’s pillowcase (which is usually larger than the kid). It just seems cheap and pitifully tight-assy. So we toss in 2, sometimes 3.

Still, if we stick to 2 bars each, this supplies 400 kids for 50 bucks, not bad. Might have to buy a couple extra bags just in case. (We’ve run out every year and had to turn our light off early, but 2 years ago we made a terribly embarrassing mistake). We were running low on candy and I remembered a good dozen plus full-size Hershey’s candy bars (for s’mores. Yeah that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). I run to the cupboard, rip open the packages and start handing out big candy bars. Word gets out-spreads like the plague. Soon the line to our front steps is 50 deep with kids and parents and we’re out of everything except Idaho potatoes, 3 stalks of celery and a half dozen eggs. I yell an apology to the masses, close the door, lock it in case they try to storm the joint and turn off the light. (We were pleasantly surprised the next morning that our house remained egg and toilet paper free).

Back to my woeful tale at Aldi’s. So I’ve got my cane, my purse, no cart and 2 bags of candy that are measured by the metric ton. I hobble to the checkout with my cane under my arm (it does a lot of good there doesn’t it), the 2 round hay bale size bags ripping out my fingernails with every uneven/unsteady step. Ahead of me in line is a very pregnant mom with 2 small girls who are both gaping at the size of my load. Mom says, “you only got those 2 big things? Go ahead of me.” “God love ‘ya woman, thanks!”

I pay, then awkwardly move my two Hummer size bags to the extra counter where everyone bags their own stuff. I slide/push/pull/yank them along until I’m at the exit. I feel like a total fraud (because I can’t use my cane unless I get rid of one of the smart car sized candy bags). I feel like everyone is watching/recording/ me. My cane is under my arm, one 55 gallon drum bag of candy held like a baby in my left arm. My purse is hung over my head, hitting me in the gut with every wobbly step. My right hand is clinging (minus 3 fingernails, hey who needs that extra weight anyway?) to the other bag which is now skimming the ground. Hefty, hefty, hefty (me and my 2 bags). This should be titled, The Longest Walk. My Jeep looks like a tiny dot on the horizon. Actually it was the third car (no I don’t have a handicap sticker) in the row just to the left of where I was standing. (And cursing my decision to make that one extra stop or try and buy those damn kids any stinking candy).

Please God let me make it to my car, please God let me make it to my car (sung to the tune of, Shall we gather at the river)? I can’t remember ever being so happy to heave my heavy burden in the Jeep. If you see a YouTube video gone viral (just my luck) of a good sized granny with enough candy to feed a third world country for a week, limping along without her cane, which is going un-used but not un-noticed, please show some empathy and compassion. She’s trying valiantly but not getting very far…

Almost 10 years ago already. That went fast. Our fourth grandchild was born. Graham Lucas, a beautiful little towhead, swept into our lives and stole our hearts. It had been 5-1/2 years since Peyton was born so a new baby in the family was welcomed and loved.

When G was a few months old, Sarah went back to work while waiting to get into RN nurse’s training. Adam was head chef and worked every weekend as did Sarah. So Sarah’s mom watched Graham 2 Saturday nights a month and Hubs and I gladly took the other 2. The problem with this was our location. Karen lived a few minutes from the kids, we were 175 miles away. But we were thrilled to see all of them (especially Graham) often so he wouldn’t forget who we were. As if. The kid was amazing.

When Graham was about 18-20 months old and talking very well for his age, we encountered a small problem. When it was our turn to stay with G, I brought him a treat. It wasn’t a big deal except Sarah was rather adamant that Graham not eat very much junk food. He loved fresh veggies, pasta, salmon and was a great eater.

I’ve been hooked on Brach’s brand candy since I was a kid. Malted milk balls, chocolate stars, chocolate covered peanuts plus all the non chocolates they offered. Chicks and Rabbits for Easter and my favorite, Circus Peanuts. Kinda orange/peachy/yellow colored marshmallowy candy about as big as my pinky. Sickeningly sweet. Yum. I started bringing 2 Circus Peanuts in a snack bag every time we watched Graham, but kinda without Sarah’s knowledge or permission. We’d give them to Graham long before supper or shortly after. That little stinker soon realized every time we walked in the door, there was a candy treat that would be his shortly. One Saturday he’s sitting in his high chair eating thin strips of yellow pepper when we walked in. Sarah’s running around, putting on makeup when Graham pipes up, “cirt-kus p-nups. Cirt-kus p-nups!” Sarah walks through the dining area, shoving stuff around in her purse, looking for her keys, frowns and says, “what’s he saying? I can’t understand him.” “Umm, I don’t know,” I said feebly, crossing every body part she couldn’t see.

Graham’s a remarkable little kid. By the time he was 2, his vocabulary was bigger than mine. He was obsessed (in a healthy way) with all things dinosaur. He had a book containing pertinent factoids/pictures/pronunciations on every dinosaur known to man (kid) kind. He knew his stuff. You could open that 100 page book anywhere and he’d rattle off the correct name, pronounce it right, the dinosaur’s size, what they consumed, (this was no Little Golden book) where the beast lived, slept, swam, how they communicated and what size poop one could expect to see after a meal.

One weekend Hubs looked over to what was holding G’s attention for so long. He had built a fenced in enclosure on the floor, filled with tiny, plastic dinosaurs milling around in small groups, palm trees and a lone male figurine smack dab in the middle of the whole works. Grandpa said, “oh that poor guy, he’s in trouble Graham. He’s going to get hurt or stomped on by one of those carnivorous dinosaurs, probably the T-Rex.” Immediately G turns to grandpa for a teaching moment, “no grandpa, he’s not going to get hurt. He’s a paleontologist.” (I kid you not). What a character. He was 2.

Graham and I looked forward to our Saturday nights together. We started doing the corniest projects, which was highly unusual, unbelievable even, because I’ve not one crafty bone in my body. I couldn’t think of something clever to make with a 3 to 7 year old kid if I was offered a substantial cash bonus! I am taking credit for a couple things we made together, but even those projects are dicey because I made the originals when I was in grade school. Guess I’m really taking credit for something my talented teachers thought up 60 years ago.

Even though Graham was a little young, he had the patience of Job and our Saturday night craft projects held his interest until he was around 7. By then he was playing outside with neighbor kids and my goofy crafts lost their appeal. (I’m about to start the same ritual with my great-granddaughter Jovi. Should be fun and I’m looking forward to learning lots from her). Of course, many of our craft projects revolved around snacky food ingredients like Twinkies, cupcakes, bananas, Rice Krispy treats shaped into snakes, cupcakes into an enormous centipede, dirt cake that turned my cake pan into a spooky cemetery. But a couple of them, one with clothespins glued on a tin can which made a neat pencil jar I hope mom and dad save for him. My favorite was something we made for Adam for Father’s Day. I took G to one of his and daddy’s favorite spots. A neat park/pond/playground near their home. We brought a bucket along and collected lots of small stones. At home we made a big batch of salt dough, (a favorite staple for craft projects) shaped it into an oval, poked holes on the top so we could hang it and stuck the pebbles in before we baked it. DAD ROCKS. Always have special meaning for both of them since they spent a lot of time at Mill Pond Park where we collected the rocks.

This was around the time we decided to move closer to the kids. If we weren’t driving across the state for one of 12 year old Landon’s travel basketball tourney’s, it was a Peyton school party, grandparents day, a dance recital or simply to visit. Josh and Erica lived in Detroit, Adam and Sarah in Ann Arbor, Shannon and Tracey in Jackson. All within an hour of each other-except us. We were 150-180 miles from all of them. It was crazy. We were retired, living in a house too big, too expensive and too far away. An easy decision to make. We’d move somewhere at least 150 miles east. We wanted to see everyone more often but without the 3 hour drive.

Selling the house took a lot longer than we thought so we continued our weekly treks to enjoy various events. We finally moved 4 years ago. What a wonderful difference. Should Sarah get called in for an extra shift, we’re available and a half hour away. If Peyton gets sick at school while Tracey’s stuck in Ann Arbor and Shannon’s testifying in court, we’re just a few minutes from picking her up, bringing her home or to our house. It’s rare we miss anything that’s going on where family is concerned.

Graham’s gonna be 10 in a couple weeks, hard to believe. Now he’s playing flag football, little league baseball and zipping through 5th grade when I think he should be a toddler. Still a wonderful, thoughtful boy who’s a joy to be around. Hope he never changes…

We say this frequently, but seriously this time, it’s just not possible. Could it be I’m missing an alternate universe clip from my life and Rip Van Winkled my way through 20 years? I don’t feel like I’ve missed much, yet a couple of decades have quietly slipped from my life without me even realizing it.

It was a mundane Monday. I was jittery. Stomach doing flip-flops, my mouth as dry as a popcorn fart and I had unconsciously nibbled a good sized chunk from the bottom of my lip, which would prove sore for the next several days. I was in cahoots with someone, keeping secrets, both which I’m pretty good at but this was different. Life changing even.

As far as I knew only 3 people in the world knew our secret (and one was a total stranger so I wasn’t expecting him to spill the beans and announce my intentions to the world). I felt like I was wearing something akin to ‘The Scarlet letter,’ emblazoned on my meager chest. Anyone glancing upon my countenance would certainly nod as they smirked, “I know what’s going on, you’re not fooling anyone.” So I looked no one in the eye during the preceding weekend leading up to the mundane Monday.

Johnny Wayne and I had dated/split/dated/split for several years, mostly through no fault of our own. Oh I’m responsible for a couple of them because I was a fickle, spoiled little shit, though most of our breakups were caused directly from above. My parents, (not God-He was on board except for the fooling around part) usually Mom. She didn’t view John as a suitable mate for her delinquent brat and voiced her strong opinions daily. I was neither assertive or strong willed enough to fight them on this matter. Except for the mundane Monday after the preceding weekend. I just kinda grew a set, said hell no, I’m not gonna take this anymore. Whoo boy. (There would be consequences from Mom, lasting until the day she died. She may still be holding a grudge).

During that fateful weekend, Johnny Wayne and non-confrontational Neese quietly decided to elope. To stay on the down low, we opted to get hitched in South Dakota for a couple reasons. Our impending nuptials would not be published in the Sioux City Journal where hundreds of folks from our hometown would read about it ahead of time, and there was no waiting period in South Dakota. We had our bloodwork done (soon-to-be-Hubs passed out when the needle was inserted. To this day-he’ll never live that one down-hilarious).

There were a couple of hiccups of course. Had a flat tire on our way to Elk Point on Friday when we were applying for our marriage license. This had to be done before they closed at 5 so we narrowly missed the deadline. And we had no money, no place to live, bills up the wazoo, but by this time there was no stopping us. No asking permission or forgiveness and no apologies. Let’s do this.

On that mundane Monday, September 22, 1969 we (I had to drive-soon to-be groom had lost his license from speeding tickets and drag racing-what in the world was I getting myself into?) I was 18, John 21. Parked my 1968 Ford (fix or repair daily) Mustang in front of Elk Point’s beautiful courthouse about 6:50 pm and waited for our witnesses to show up. (One was Hubs roommate and a friend from our hometown-thanks Dale, the other a teaching buddy of Dale’s named Ed something, his last name is illegible on our marriage license ha-ha. He was the stranger who knew about our secretive, devious plan).

Didn’t know if my legs would propel me up the concrete steps of the courthouse and I think John was more nervous than I was. Met in the judge’s chambers, stammered our way through 3 minutes of vows, and by 7:05 we were legally wed. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change one solitary thing. Not one. Don’t even get me started on spending thousands on a stupid wedding. Instead of planning for months, over thinking, over spending, fighting who sits at what table, changing your mind about insignificant crap, how about getting married with 40 friends and relatives present and spend all that extra time working on your first 5 years of marriage because they’re brutal! If there’s gobs of money, use it for a down payment on your first home. If this mode of thought was followed religiously, (BTW God is a big help in the area of marriage longevity) the divorce rate would plummet. Trust me.

Freshly minted Hubs and I took our 2 witnesses out for a steak supper in Elk Point and bade them farewell. The newlyweds were headed for the Black Hills. We got as far as Sioux Falls before reality smacked us in the face. We had very little money and only a couple days off from work. The parts that were still thinking rationally decided we’d just hole up in a hotel for a couple days, call it good and head back to Sioux City without a bigger credit card bill.

So here we are celebrating our 50th anniversary. Feels surreal. When I think back I realize it’s not always been easy. Our marriage didn’t always include the perfect job, a decent house, vacations, or enough money to cover the bills. Sometimes it was sick kids, lay-offs, broken down cars, arguments on child rearing. Unless you’re made from a whole different dye lot than we are, marriage is hard work. We were 2 individuals with very different ideas on everything from raising kids, jobs, religion, sex, and what to do with our money (or lack of it). However, we were deeply committed and in love with each other which is paramount if your marriage is gonna work.

Except for a couple glitches here and there, the years have been good to us and have sped by at warp speed. Our 3 children are grown, successful and wonderful people. They in turn have given us 4 amazing grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. Who knew how much of a blessing your kid’s kids would be in your life? I’m up in the card category during our many years together. Hubs forgot our anniversary once. In his defense he was working on a multimillion dollar project, requiring too many hours a day as his deadline neared. (He made it easily, under budget, saving the company a million bucks). Does not negate the fact I’ve now bought 50 anniversary cards while he’s only purchased 49. Slacker.

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A couple of anniversary memories come to mind. On our first I was 6-1/2 months pregnant with Shannon. I looked so cute and felt so good. We bought a crib at a garage sale for 5 bucks (the crib slats were about a foot apart), painted it bright yellow then got a 20 dollar mattress at K-Mart. I think our kids (plus Ariana) made us a fancy supper at home for our 25th anniversary in North Muskegon.

But the one that produces the most poignant memories for me was our 10th. We were living in Spencer, Iowa (loved it there). Shannon was 8-1/2, Joshua was 4 and Adam was 10 days old. His breech birth had been traumatic for all of us and I was recovering slowly. There would be no fancy restaurant on that September 22nd. Hubs and Shannon were making supper downstairs, Josh was playing with his Matchbox collection on the floor in our bedroom, Adam had just finished nursing (my only breast-fed baby) and was laying next to me. I could barely hear John and Shannon collaborating on supper chores, plus the sound of Joshua’s cars zooming up and down on the wooden floor. I was in a semi-stupor thinking about the previous decade. Totally amazed that I was the mother of 3 and had been John’s wife for 10 years! One of my favorite memories.

Hubs folks had 58 years together before Jim passed away in 1987. My parents celebrated 62 years before Mom succumbed to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2004. Average that and I come up 60. Another decade together. Doesn’t sound very long does it? (We are rarely satisfied and tend to always want more). But there are many couples who never reached 30, 40, let alone 50 years together. Thanks for the first 50 God…

I assumed once ingrained as a habit, it would remain as such forever. I was clueless yet again. No surprise there. How was I supposed to know this beast had to be nurtured and encouraged like my little tykes years ago? I was grateful it hung around as long as it did. But it’s my fault it disappeared, and now I’m fighting hard for its return.

There were a couple of glitches during the first decade, lengthy pauses, but I always returned with good intentions. Until I moved to Jackson. Can’t blame Jackson but a series of untimely events made everything go haywire, and I’m having trouble reviving my routine. I still think of it as my routine, but following through and actually completing the routine has not been a walk in the park. (Which is exactly what I should be doing).

Four years ago we were living with our daughter Shannon. We had sold our lake home, stored several tons of ‘stuff’ (this after a major purge, eliminating everything unnecessary in our lives, ha-ha) and bought a fixer upper (in our mid-60’s, what were we thinking)? At the time we didn’t give much thought and actually had a pretty good time working on our new crib. We moved a month later but there was still a huge amount of work to be done. The yard and driveway were a disaster but our main concern was getting the interior comfortable before winter, so we kept working.

It was late fall. For the first time in 20 years we were living in a different neighborhood. There was a small lake but no sidewalks which is different. I was accustomed to my morning walk along the lake and never wavered from the exact same route I lumbered along for 15 years. (Anyone watching me by day 2 knew where I walked, how long I’d be gone after I stepped out of the house, all no-no’s). Along my path everyday, I knew what time every man/woman left for work and what kind of car they drove. How many kids they had, who was getting divorced, if they got new carpeting, when they took vacations and where they worshipped. All because I walked past their house every day without fail. I memorized their license plates and knew as they drove past which driveway that car belonged in. But in my 4 mile stretch I knew the names of very few people. And I’m sure none of them knew mine. They might have had trouble recognizing me in a store when I wasn’t sporting dark shades, Mickey Mouse headphones, along with my long strides and swinging arms. To them I was invisible and I was fine with that.

Now in new surroundings, I looked up and down my long block (20 houses on each side) and didn’t know exactly where to begin with my good intentions. I needed a pattern which I was sure would become routine shortly. Late in 2015 I started ‘marking my territory.’ I wanted to utilize the pretty lake nearby because Muskegon Lake was a familiar, favorite part of my walk in North Muskegon. The lake here is a couple blocks away so I made it the focal point of my morning walk, going about a mile and a half from our house, then turning around. That lasted until winter hit hard near Christmas. I had taken 2 nasty falls (6 years apart). Both spills were when it was still fairly dark out and both resulted in a fractured left elbow. After the second break I determined no more walking when it’s dark or on a surface that is slippery. Period.

In February of 2016 we had some gorgeous winter days. Sunny with temps in the 40’s. And I was so ready to get back to my routine. Not a block from home I felt a searing pain in the back of my left leg. Wisdom wasn’t currently along during this walk, thus I decided to limp my way through the pain. The price for this little error was steep. Physical therapy, cortisone shots, prescriptions and a year away from ‘my good intentions’ before my leg was almost back to normal. Still had to be careful pivoting and squatting was impossible.

You know what happened during my year’s hiatus? I got out of the habit of walking every morning which I vowed would never, ever happen. I couldn’t imagine a day where I wouldn’t take a walk. (I can remember driving down Ruddiman on my way to work and being envious of a walker as I zipped by. Mind you, I had already walked 3 miles a couple hours earlier, yet I was jealous of her walking and me in my stinking car. What the hell happened to the gal who walked during torrential downpours, blinding blizzards wearing 3 layers, humid, scalding sun, winds that nearly knocked me over, live electrical wires on the sidewalk after a storm? Where had she disappeared? That euphoric feeling after the first half mile that lingered for the rest of the day. My daily mood enhancer. Didn’t I miss that? Heck yes, but obviously not enough to start anew.

Couldn’t get the gumption to get my fat ass moving every morning again. My good intentions were so far on the back burner my pilot light blew out. I reminisced about walking-how great my walks made me feel about life, how grumpy I felt if I missed a couple days. But the months passed with nary a guilty thought anymore. I took another fall which had nothing to do walking, (because the only walking I was doing was back and forth to the fridge) hurt my right leg and just for good measure, my left elbow for the 4th time. I waited a month (to see if it would get better on its own) before going to the doctor. The news wasn’t good. Neither of my knees were in good shape, the cartilage was gone and I was facing replacement, probably for both. The fall didn’t do that, it just finally made me go see an orthopedic dude. The pain wasn’t going away so 5 months ago I had my right knee replaced.

Unlike physical therapy for my bungled up elbow when Brunhilda (the PT sadist) harped, “time is of the essence and your window of opportunity for range of motion is slipping away at a fast clip,” my knee surgeon stressed my leg would continue to improve and get stronger over the next year. I was skeptical. But those darn professionals are proving me wrong again. I’ve noticed quite a change since I hit the 4 month mark. Stride is better, not using a cane, going up and down steps is easier, even my big issue-balance is much better.

So I decided it’s time to restart my ‘good intentions’ routine again. (For keeps I hope) First thing I needed was a walking stick (staff) for a bit of stability on our crappy, pot-hole infested, uneven streets. Had Hubs buy me this gnarly vine/branch. (I resemble Charlton Heston’s version of Moses parting of the sea. Perhaps I’ll try it on the lake when no one’s watching).

I’m on my second smart-ass phone (glutton for punishment with intelligent gadgets smarter than me). Once I started walking in 1998 it became mandatory to listen to music while I walked. I could still daydream, plan my workday, but to keep moving I required tunes. At first it was the Beatles, Doors, CCR but that grew tiresome. (Sorry favorite bands, I still love you) Face it, I’ve listened to those groups for 50 years. Josh, my tech guru ‘woke’ me to pop music in the early 2000’s. I listen to different music. Good stuff but a little raunchy (it’s ok, I’m really deaf so most of the lyrics could be spoken in Latin and I probably wouldn’t notice the difference, but it keeps my feet moving and my butt in arrears).

First walk was down to the corner and back with my walking stick. Nothing else. But if I’m serious about getting into the swing of things, I’ve got to go back to what was successful for 15 years. Music. I’ve used a cassette player (which was so big it also doubled as a weight around my waist), a CD player that skipped notes with every other step and drove me insane, and a tiny iPod, which is like an antique in the electronics world. Since I’m up on all the latest technology, I thought I could use my latest phone for music while I walked. (Honest to God until a few days ago I did not realize all my music was already on my phone). Sigh.

I couldn’t remember where anything was, my shoes, special socks, headphones, iPod but it didn’t take me long to rustle up everything, and get them charged. I looked all over my phone but could not find the small round hole to plug in my headphones. (This is so lame and makes me feel old and out of touch, yet Josh never belittles or tells me I’m an idiot when I ask stupid questions). Seems I need an adapter (which is more than Apple could afford to include with my iPhone 8. You think they’re made outta money)? So my 12 yr. old iPod will suffice for now, we’re old pals.

I’m not gonna tell you all is kosher in my walking world. It’s not. Geez I need some stamina, but it’s a start and I feel good. (I’m cranking out a half mile but still getting outpaced by a garden slug). My decision to start walking and how much improved my mood is afterwards. Actually it’s been my non-surgical leg that’s been more painful and tired. Gotta say, I did get a little weepy when I reviewed my old playlists. I won’t be shopping for any new tunes just yet. Black Eyed Peas, David Guetta, Enrique Iglesias, Flo Rida, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, JLo, Ke$ha, Kylie Minogue, Maroon 5, P!nk, Pitbull, Usher, Kelly Clarkson, Lady Gaga, Train, plus all my old favorites from Huey, Neil, Johnny Cash, Beatles, Doors, ABBA and more! (Although I don’t have any tunes by Willie, I am on the road again. Yay. Appropriately enough, the last song I listened to while walking this morning was Johnny Cash’s, Sunday Morning Coming Down). I can’t remember how to buy music anyway, plus I’m overdrawn on my dumb question quota for Josh in September…

Something’s been bothering me since I visited my home town, Rock Valley, Iowa this August. Like a little bobber on a fishing pole, dipping under the water for a nibble, tug and a miss, then resting back on the water’s surface.

The place was never much to look at, but to my folks, it was almost unattainable, thus putting it on the same level of importance and beauty as the Taj Mahal. Buying their first home after 13 years of marriage (and 3 kids). I’ve talked about the house before so I won’t go into details about the constant work Dad did over the years (under Mom’s strict tutelage and guidelines after several firm requests).

My folks lived in that house from 1955 until 2005. A half century. By the time they moved into the house on 15th Street, it was probably already 50 years old. (Generally once folks hit a certain age they grow weary updating and remodeling their homes). The same was true of my parents, but let’s say they kept updating for at least 40 of those 50 years. During those 40 years they (let’s be real-he) remodeled the kitchen and bathroom. Each twice. Tore off the long front porch and enclosed a smaller one. Added a breezeway with a zinger step, leading to a new double garage with a turn so tight, often rendering an experienced driver into a panic. Landscaping they were so proud of. New siding, roof, windows.

Added a large bedroom on the main floor, eliminating the need to sleep upstairs as they got older. The staircase of our old home was not for the feint of heart. Narrow, steep with a couple of turns that could send you sailing backwards down the steps much faster than it took going up. My bedroom, so stinking hot during August, Mom would pull my bed up to the window facing south to try and catch any breeze. The smaller bedroom behind mine with the wooden covered attic opening which is still home to a killer I saw during the night when I was 7. I had serious issues walking in there when I was in my 50’s. No one can convince me he’s not real or still up there, waiting for me. With a knife. And a wide mustache.

Much like the unique style of the rooms, (fabulous dining room) our house included an odd assortment of steps going from one room to another. Crazy. These were mostly the fault of my father (the builder-without firm plans or drawings), though it was never on purpose. From the tiny 1-1/2 inch step from the beautiful oak dining room floor to the living room carpet, to the enormous/scary/unusual plunging step of 9 inches plus from the kitchen to the breezeway, which was anything but a breeze in utter darkness. (There was a pull string just out of reach until you landed safely with both feet planted. Or not).

With all the wackiness of the rooms and odd steps, add to the mix that our family did not have many years of happiness living in the house in the middle of the block. My brother Larry was killed riding his bike 3 years after we moved to 15th Street. That right there set in motion years of mourning and slowly drifting apart from which we would never recover. A senseless, tragic death that changed everything. For all of us.

I went through my rebellious, teenage angst in that house. My sister Mona couldn’t wait to leave, marrying at 17. I left at 18. But I still have many fond memories of living in that house. Mom, sitting in her favorite chair, knitting up a storm. Her beautiful flower bed and Dad’s garden-loaded with tomatoes the size of his fist. My play house and the swing set he built. The huge unattached garage out back where Dad painted the signs for his highway outreach ministry.

Coming through the door after school, getting hit with the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls permeating through the house. Walking home for lunch and having Mom surprise me with, “let’s go shopping in Sioux Falls this afternoon, I’ll call school.” Mom making popcorn on top of the stove, covered fry pan sliding gently back and forth over the blue flame from our gas stove. Dad’s black lunch pail setting on the counter, waiting to be refilled by Mom (everything wrapped in waxed paper-even his daily banana) for another work day. Me watching (but never helping) Mom make 7 minute frosting (the absolute best, I’m still so intimidated by her ability-I have never tried to make it myself), fudge, penuche or divinity. Dad’s corner of the kitchen table holding the Bible and variety of religious material used during our lengthy devotion time before and after eating supper together.

Not everything about living in the middle of the block was unhappy, which enables my strong feelings for the home I’ve not lived in since the late 60’s. After Mom passed away in 2004, Dad was so done with that house. Duh, he worked on it non stop for 4 decades. I was ok selling the house, but honestly would have (should have) paid to keep the Gerritson phone number intact. Giving up that number (which was a lifeline when I was a teen) still hurts my heart.

So while riding around Rock Valley, we were reminiscing about classmates, homes we’d been in during our youth, places nearby where we hid while making out, old businesses, changes in our growing community. We rode past Hubs house and mine. His old house has seen many changes. New porch, addition on the back plus a garage. My house has seen many changes too, none as positive as John’s. Backyard weeds were tall, shed looked dilapidated. The blue spruce shrubs Mom planted and loved on either side of the front step were gone. Driving slowly down the alley I stopped, idling. The shingles on our steep roof were literally curling like taco shells. Now why should something like that hurt so much?

I know the house wasn’t much but my parents always had (and showed) pride in their home. It was fixed up, paid for and I dare bet, one of the cleanest homes in town. (Mom was anal about cleanliness, floors, furniture dusted, windows sparkling). Some of my friends had nicer homes but many classmates had homes similar to ours. I was never ashamed to invite my friends over. But seeing its dismal condition recently really has me in a funk about it.

A couple weeks ago my friend Wanda messaged me, “hey Denise, I think your old house is for sale.” What, we were just there. I checked but couldn’t find anything until she literally sent me the link. Sure enough, there’s my childhood home. Looking sad, even a bit ratty, but the pictures weren’t too bad (except for that damn roof, geez slap on some new shingles please).

What can I say? That it would make a good investment for a decent rental with a few bucks stuck in it. Maybe the amount of money needed exceeds the income it would generate for a new owner. Or maybe it’s a hopeless case, and the neighborhood would be better served if someone bought it, tore down and started over. As much as it would bother me having it torn down, seeing it go downhill reminds me how much I dreaded seeing my parents fail the last few years of their lives. It’s just a house. I know. A neglected, worn out house. But for many years it was my home and got me (us) through some tough times. I wish it was fixed up, looking spiffy. Nurtured and enjoyed by a family who took pride in ownership again…

I’d forgotten how upset I was after receiving the first letter. It’s been a long time, but when the second envelope arrived, it all came flooding back. Thinking about the circumstances leading up to my rather unattractive meltdown. Ugh. At least I’d been alone. It’s been about 15 years. I would venture everyone thinks about how they’d react, what’s expected of them if they’re selected. I did. Being responsible. Making a difference.

The 5 years preceding the first summons had been tumultuous for me. Mom and Dad were both on a downward spiral and I was 750 miles away. I visited for a week about every 3 months but it’s not the same as hopping in the car for a half hour ride to their house every couple days. Like clockwork I noticed with dismay, the changes in their demeanor, behavior and overall health every time I stepped foot into my childhood home.

At the time, my job consisted of 20 hours a week, and I could set my own hours, which was helpful taking all those trips to northwest Iowa. I was Parish Visitor and the ordeal I was experiencing with my parents was happening to most of the folks and their families I visited on a regular basis. Still, it’s much harder to deal with all the complexities involved when it’s your own parents. A small part of me was resentful every time I went home. (Not about the time spent with them, helping with chores and cooking. Those I really kind of enjoyed and knew how grateful they were for my help. Some peace of mind when their freezer was fully stocked with measured out meals, sweet breads, cookies, soups, even homemade fudge and penuche). But I didn’t want and wasn’t ready to face the new crop of health and emotional issues every time I came back. I wasn’t ready to accept that during the last 90 days one or both had slipped another notch.

I was going through some stuff myself. Menopause had struck, rendering me irritable, forgetful, sleepless, losing my hair, developing homely new age spots on my hands and face, plus hot flashes (without warning) at the most inopportune and embarrassing times. What a freakin trip. Man wish I could have a do-over for that half decade.

Then this whole ‘noggin’ issue started up. What first felt like weird allergies/cold/funny feeling in my head in the beginning eventually led to a hearing loss diagnosis. Which did not seem like such a big deal. My ENT’s recommendation was getting a hearing aid for the ‘good ear’ which then sent magnified sounds to my impaired ear. Which worked well-for a couple years-until I began losing hearing in my, thus far, perfect ear. Well heck. ‘Lefty’ was losing the ability to hear and understand clearly at an alarming rate so the consensus was to deal with my right ear exclusively and get a new hearing aid.

My hearing loss was now saddled with 2 complications. First and foremost was the noise. How is that even possible? If you’re deaf, your world should become silent. Oh what I wouldn’t give for golden silence. Complete quiet. My head feels too big-oversized (no, we’re not talking ego, introvert here, try to keep up), filled with constant racket. Sounds like a wind tunnel, chain saw, dentist drill, snow from a TV station off the air, live wire pinging on the ground after a lightening storm. All these loud sounds at different times. But never given a break from them all at once. Since 1998 I have not had one second of silence. Not one. Ever. This is caused by my brain trying to help me as I continue to struggle deciphering the spoken word. As more sounds become garbled, my brain started making goofy noises to compensate for words I had trouble understanding. These words are not unfamiliar to me but cause me all kinds of problems because they’re somewhat similar. Like late and lake. Only one letter difference but to a deaf person, I don’t often hear the end of a word. (Not helping brain-at times it’s enough to drive me crazy). The other biggie is Meniere’s syndrome, which causes fluctuations in my inner ear affecting my balance. Holy cripes. (Still, could have been much worse. At least it wasn’t my eyes. Thanks for that God).

And that’s when I got the first letter. Jury duty, in the form of a summons (basically no choice-it’s your civic duty, which I wholeheartedly endorse and agree). But I had huge misgivings about serving. Would if I were seated on the left of a testifying witness? Well forget about it. No way I’d understand what they’re saying. Same if a young child was giving testimony. So I called my ENT and asked what I should do? “No problem, we’ll write you a note.” (felt like I was back in school). “Pick it it tomorrow and send it along with your jury questionnaire.”

When I picked up the doctors note it was in an envelope but not sealed. After I got in the car I took out the letter and read it. Besides a hearing aid this was the first concrete documentation of my deafness. I thought I’d never forget the stark realization of those words but I simply can’t remember them verbatim. (And why didn’t I make a copy? Now that was dumb). But the message came through clearly. Something like, “Denise has a PROFOUND hearing loss and does not have the necessary tools to adequately serve as a juror. Please excuse her.”

The word profound hit me so hard, I just sat there and sobbed. ‘Profound’ made it so real and inevitable. This was never gonna go away or get better. Probably get worse (which it has). No it wasn’t a serious or terminal diagnosis like cancer, merely a tiny blip in my life. But both ears. Why both? One was bad enough. I felt pretty low for weeks. In a funk, wallowing in self pity.

Well I just got another jury duty summons in the mail. We moved 150 miles east 4 years ago to be closer to our kids and grands. Guess county jury duty information, exemptions do not move along with you. My first instinct was to make an appointment with my primary care guy and have another note written to excuse me again. I happened to mention it to my brilliant clinical psychologist daughter who then asked, “why don’t you want to be on jury duty? I think you’d find it very interesting.” “Well because I think I’d have a lot of trouble understanding what’s being said.” Shannon responded, “Mom, I was just testifying in court and the defendant couldn’t hear. Took them about 2 minutes to hook her up with headphones. It’s not a big deal. What’s the worst that will happen? You’ll be excused. My guess, you probably won’t be called at all.”

So I resisted the urge to get an excuse for sidestepping my civic duty. Filled out my questionnaire, stuck it in the prepaid envelope and threw it in the mailbox. Assuming most courtrooms now come equipped with headphones. I’ve been using headphones for years in movie theaters and at home to watch TV. They’re cordless with adjustable volume control. And if they don’t offer headphones, or I pose problems not foreseen, I’m sure I’ll be excused. Not as big of a deal as I surmised. I can do this. Just hope they’re patient and ready for-“huh? Would you mind repeating that? What? Did he say cat or calf?” Oh brother duck….

You can’t really argue. We’ve all got them. Insignificant telltale signs which make us unique. These very personal oddities don’t require a label or diagnosis from a highly educated professional. We’re perfectly fine. Really. Except for a few crazy quirks.

I’ll start. One of my Mom’s favorite colors was orange. For a time during the 1970’s she had orange kitchen cupboards, plus loud curtains and bedspreads sprinkled liberally with orange, lemon yellow and avocado. I like orange too. My high school colors were orange and black. I can picture a couple of tops in my closet right now that are orange.

When we moved to Jackson 4 years ago, we had our bathroom gutted and remodeled. I couldn’t decide on a color scheme for accessories. Rugs, towels. I’ve never embraced the theme of bath, hand towels, wash cloths, with matching rugs. It’s just too much. Wash cloths are my downfall. I can’t buy matching ones because they’re usually way too plush and thick. So my bath towels are deep plum color and match nothing. My stack of hand towels are stripes of grey/turquoise/black/tan striped with another couple along the same line but with periwinkle/maroon/black/tan. (I am a hater of any bathroom accessories containing white. Think make up, dirty hands, shoes, feet and toothpaste). Then I bought a dozen colorful wash cloths-just for my face. Robust, bright colors, not too plush, but just the right thickness. Because I’m worth it. Yellow, lime, hot pink, lavender, aqua and orange. But I had an immediate aversion to the orange wash cloths. Makes no sense. Whenever I open the cupboard for a clean wash cloth and an orange one is sitting on top, I gently place it on the bottom of the pile. This way I have several preferable colors before I have to turn away one of the 2 orange ones. The easy way out is just to remove the 2 orange wash rags from my rotation, yet I’m compelled to leave the two offensive orange ones with the rest of their siblings. They never get washed so remain a bit brighter than the others. This my friends is one of my quirks. But I’ve accepted this handicap and moved on with my life. For now.

Facebook posts. Not so much memes friends post, most of them make me laugh out loud. (Not even going to start on the political crap-for now-I’m still ignoring them). Stay strong Neese, scroll right on by or hide those suckers from your newsfeed. Don’t get pulled in, there is no chance of reasoning or winning. Ever. But once in a while someone posts something so vague, I can’t imagine what they need, or are even trying to say. These are different than when a member of your family is facing a serious health issue they’re not ready to share, thus only prayers are requested without any details. I’m fine with this vagueness. The posts that trip my trigger will read something like this: “Well, that made me feel like shit today.” No explanation, nothing further. Do you give it a thumbs up, a heart, a wow? Any comment is borderline crazy because you might really be indicating the wrong thing. So you’re left out in the nether regions with a furrowed brow thinking, why even post something like this? What are they trying to achieve? Makes no sense. Makes me nuts (maybe that was their goal all along). Ha, guess they showed me. Well played vague Facebook post. This is one of my (many) irks.

Some of you must have issues with robo calls. Most of these calls will originate from your own area code. Their rationale is you’re more likely to answer the call if it’s local. My robo call randomness seems to go in spurts. One day I might get 6, then nothing for a day or 2, followed by a phone feeding frenzy from everywhere. I haven’t had a call from intimidating, female monotone “courthouse official” saying they’re issuing an arrest warrant for me in a while, so that’s been a pleasant respite. But I have had a half dozen calls from freaking Liberia. What in the world is that about? I’ve pretty much accepted there are approximately 2 dozen people in the world who might want or need to call me occasionally. Everyone who’s actually friend or family knows of my hearing loss. So they text, iMessage or use messenger. (A note about me and my friend the messenger. I like to think of it as a means to have a private conversation with someone (or several someones) without using an actual phone. I’m not crazy about memes sent to me to be forwarded. I don’t and won’t. Isn’t that what Facebook’s about? Wanna talk to me, use iMessage or messenger. Want me to see something funny, post it on Facebook. It’ll be on my newsfeed, not to worry. I follow all my friends). I guess our government is tired of hearing folks complaining about robo calls and is looking for ways to stop them. Yup robo calls are a definite irk.

I might have a problem with toilet paper. Sigh. Since I’m the one who removes and replaces the roll (it has to be Northern-does this qualify as a quirk? Asking for a friend). I place the roll going under with the paper against the wall or cabinet. It’s just the person I am, although I’m in the minority on this from what I hear from the haters. Everyone else in the world puts the roll on ass backwards over the top. I’m not trying to change anyone else’s mind, but as for me and my house, the roll shall remain ‘going down under.’

So I made a small turkey (with all the fixings) last Sunday because it’s Landon’s favorite meal (he leaves for Holy Cross soon). There were 10 of us but I’m discounting Jovi, the Hubs, Landon’s girl friend Lainie because she’s never been to our house before, (therefore uninformed of my toilet paper rules), and me from this dastardly incident. One of the remaining 6 suspects replaced the toilet paper roll-GOING THE WRONG WAY. In my own house. Yup, that’s the thanks I get for cooking a great meal including fresh peach cobbler and strawberry pie. I’m thinking of hiring Liam Neeson, including his phone. He will find you. You’ve been warned. Irked-up a notch.

Little did I know 4 years ago when I attended Landon’s first varsity basketball game that I was starting a tradition that would require absolutely no changes in the way I kept stats on the kid during his prolific high school career. I bought this small, neat leather journal to use. At the time I didn’t know how much information I wanted to keep so part of his freshman season is a bit sparse. But I got better at counting his minutes of playing time and some stats I didn’t deem very important but others do. Like assists, rebounds, turnovers, fouls. I was all about the minutes played and points. But I got in a certain rhythm with his stats. I’d chart the date, opponent, if he started on top. Draw dividing lines (not always very straight) to track each quarter. Down the left side I’d start with LU (layup), J (jumper), 3 (3 point shot) and FT (free throw). Skip a couple lines and follow with the rest that didn’t get tracked as well, adding minutes and the score. Twice in 4 years I veered off course with some disastrous results. Once I forget the journal at home and had to use a scratch pad. Number 3 had an off kilter game, plus they lost when they should have won. The second time I messed up I filled out this sheet at home on the afternoon of the game. Wrong. I needed to do this while I watched him warm up right before tip off. Duh. Not good for Landon’s game. My fault. Sorry dude. Quirk.

Inanimate objects. My anger has no boundaries. Dumb stuff like dropping the end of a radish or a lid on the floor. Missing when I try and scoop it up. Twice. Or not paying attention and miss the doorknob hauling in 3 bags of groceries. Certainly all these little blips from life are my fault-maybe that’s why I get so irked. But from failing to snag a Kleenex to trying to start a grocery list when the first 4 pens will not write-truly drives me nuts. Irk.

What remains? Oh right, still my # 1-irk of the decade. Driver’s who camp out in the left lane. How can it be so hard to pass a car and return to the right lane? Do you feel threatened when someone wants to drive faster than 68 or 71? Not your fault or responsibility. Let them get the ticket. Laugh when they get pulled over. It’s the small joys that give your life meaning. Give them (me) some space and move over…

I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life, yet consider Iowa my home. There is a deep abiding affection when I reminisce about my native state. I hold my home town, Rock Valley close to my heart. I can’t foresee a time when I don’t get choked up thinking about Iowa. In my immediate family however, I’m in the minority with these heartfelt thoughts. Our three children have all lived in Michigan much longer than Iowa and none nurture that strong pull/loyalty/love for Iowa like I do. All have graduated from high school, college, graduate school, found spouses, had kids-in Michigan. This is their home. I get it.

You’re gonna think I’m being petty. Perhaps you’re right. A piece of my heart literally broke in Iowa recently. After all these years of my undying loyalty and warm fuzzies. Really, where is the love? Ever since we left Iowa in 1987 there’s been many reasons to go back. Family was a biggie. Both sets of parents and all siblings still made Iowa their home. Most of our vacation time was spent in our native state. For decades. And what do I get in return? Nothing. It’s over. Kaput.

See it was all a ruse. I methodically used, “yeah, I gotta go stay with my folks for a week.” Cooking and baking for days so their freezer was packed like a can of oily sardines before I left for the airport again. The martyr visits, fooling people into thinking I was really ‘there’ for them and no other reason. I lied.

It started several months ago as I perused Facebook. Something was afoot in my favorite state. (note: I didn’t say favorite spot. Not gonna fib about this. Favorite spot is Niagara Falls-hands down). Some seriously rich guys were investing mega bucks into something very dear to my heart and taste buds. No, not corn, beef or hogs although I’m partial to all 3. Much more significant than just what keeps Iowa’s farming economy revved up. And it does have a strong connection with moo cows.

It’s all about the Wells. A band of brothers with more money than they know what to do with (think heated driveways in Iowa-what a hoot, second, third and 4th homes and probably as many wives). These guys have had the world as their oyster for decades. A few years ago they opened a quaint ice cream parlor on Highway 75 in the ice cream capital of the world, Le Mars, Iowa. A quirky establishment with an antique restored milk delivery truck permanently parked outside. Couldn’t rake in the bucks fast enough, so they up and moved the store. Huh? Chose a building a few blocks east on Le Mars’ main downtown strip. Spent major coin designing another cute ice cream/souvenir shop. Place could handle a pretty good size crowd. Nostalgic tabletops showing how Wells Blue Bunny got their start-with black & white photos. You were happy to sit and enjoy a scoop, sundae, shake, cone, and revel in the cuteness of everything Wells. Oh cripes.

But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. So another huge remodel got underway last fall. New color scheme, conference room, and party room. Roof top seating covered with solar shades to ward off some of Iowa’s glorious sun. The souvenir shop size was diminished and moved. Wall art was added. I was giddy with anticipation. Couldn’t wait to visit and order my ice cream. Sorry ’bout the drool.

It’s my goal to have ice cream everyday I’m in Iowa. Every. Single. Day. It’s not that I’m crazy about ice cream in general. During the summer, I eat a soft serve twist cone once a week in Michigan as a treat. But there’s this thing about Wells Blue Bunny ice cream. They make this flavor I can’t get anywhere else. Blue Bunny Ice cream wasn’t even sold in Michigan until recently. And only like the top 10 flavors. Not the ONE flavor I’ve literally traveled thousands of miles for in the last 30 years. (Kind of like a religious pilgrimage/while scamming everyone that I was really there to see them-ha).

I’ve enjoyed Wells Blue Bunny Ice Cream since I was a little girl. Their extraordinary flavor is called CHERRY NUT. Pink colored ice cream with chunky pieces of maraschino cherries and hunks of chopped walnuts. That’s it. Not readily available anywhere, it remains the number 1 reason I continue to drive 750 miles west. I kid you not.

We arrived in Le Mars late one morning last week to take our nephew Andy out for lunch. We’re all hungry for Mexican food and meet him at a joint. Food was ok. Andy’s on his lunch break from work but has just enough time to scoot for a scoop at Wells. We walk in and I wander around for a few minutes, admiring the wealthy boy’s (probably closer to my age. I’ve got to stop calling them boys. They need to be held accountable for their bad decisions). The decor is cute, but not any cuter than the last 2 times they opened a parlor for their money-making-shtick. Eager young faces peer at me from behind a long, long counter, courting multiple 5 gallon round cartons of every imaginable ice cream flavor known to mankind. “I’ll have a good sized bowl of CHERRY NUT please.” Well(s) had flavors up the wazoo-everything but-CHERRY NUT.

I felt light headed, the fringe of my peripheral vision dims. Voices sound very far away and I think I’m gonna faint. “You don’t have CHERRY NUT? Now? You ran out? I can wait.” The only worker who’s older than 12 steps conspiratorially close to me and softly mumbles, “no ma’am, they’ve discontinued CHERRY NUT. Permanently.” Well(s) my life’s shattered. There is no reason to go on (ok, I’m still planning on attending my class reunion-but as a broken woman-without purpose. No goals. I’m seriously in a funk). “How could they? Do they realize what they’ve done? That I’ve driven to Iowa every year-for 3 decades-just for WELLS BLUE BUNNY CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM? 750 miles. For ice cream. Would it help if I bought some cherries and walnuts? Did they finally run out of money?”

“I’m very sorry. We don’t understand the reasoning in their decision either. They discontinued peach about a week later. CHERRY NUT is no longer available in the grocery stores either, I’m afraid. I can relay your disappointment, but your disapproval would have much more of an impact if you complained to the head office.”

“Oh, those little shits are gonna hear about it. Mark my words, they will see the error of their ways. After all the money/praises I’ve lavished. How could they? Honestly, how could they hurt me so? Umm, I’ve never been in this position before. I don’t know what to order. I’ve never tasted another flavor. I’m lost and afraid. Please help me.”

“Well(s) we have butter pecan, moose tracks, strawberry, blah, blah, blah.” Just stop, I’m gonna be sick. The rest of the day was a blur. I think I gave Andy a hug goodbye and pushed him towards work but I really don’t remember.

My sister-in-law Mary Jane came through though, after we had supper with them at Archie’s. She had a half gallon of bootleg CHERRY NUT. (That woman remains a mystery. I didn’t ask how the CHERRY NUT was obtained-she just knows people). CHERRY NUT has always been made by Wells, then packaged for various grocery chains. After a great steak I wasn’t craving much of anything but I did myself proud. Ate as much CHERRY NUT as I could. Took one for the team. The CHERRY NUT flavor was somehow enhanced with the realization this might be the last time I’m ever really happy and content for the rest of my life.

Two odd things happened since. Well more than 2 really. My vision eventually returned which was good. You know how I am about ‘real’ books. I want to hold them, turn the pages-literally-while I read. I had some catching up to do with an author I love named John Sandford. He’s written a series for 20 years about a cop from Minneapolis named Lucas Davenport. So I ordered the last several in the series and was on maybe my 5th Lucas book in a row. (Sandford writes an even better series about a coworker of Davenport’s named Virgil Flowers. I love him). Anyway, I’m reading this novel about this gorgeous young woman who’s running for the Minnesota senate. She’s a freakin nut case/psycho but Lucas can’t prove it (actually pretty close to the whack jobs we have in the senate now-truly not funny-but certainly resembles some of the lifers we continue to elect). Lucas needs to question her while she’s campaigning and she walks out of her trailer, eating an ice cream cone. Lucas thinks it’s CHERRY NUT, one of his favorites. (Just shoot me now. He’s going to be so disappointed too).

Recently I read a comment on my last blog story (about my class reunion) after I failed to hook up, (time was of the essence and mine was running out) with one of my Facebook friends, Renee’ from Rock Valley. She invited me to her house next time I’m in town-for CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM! Now how am I supposed to deal with that kind of negativity in my life? Living/coping/pretending-in a world that’s Well(s) CHERRY NUTLESS….

Long ago, in a small Dutch town, the choices were not only limited, we had no say in the matter. Doesn’t sound fair does it? Adults weighed the pros and cons without seeking any advice from us on the matter. What these parents may have considered a minor decision of no consequence would have a huge impact on a group of 45 pounders, happily playing outside during the last, lazy days of summer during August, 1956.

What we didn’t realize, (we were only 5 at the time) the conversations of our parents that summer would be life changing. For some families there was no discussion, others might have been torn trying to decide which way to go. Could really go only 2 ways. You either sent your kid to Rock Valley Community School or the Christian School.

The church my parents were attending for the 3 years prior preferred sending their children to the small Christian School exclusively. But for some reason Mom & Dad sent me to the public school (a mere 2 blocks from our house). Don’t know if they couldn’t afford the tuition for 3 kids because I never asked. In my heart I know I would have been just fine had my parents chosen a different school choice path for their youngest wayward child, but that’s real hard to see when I’m reminded of the life long relationships with the core group of 5 year olds I met on those first days of school.

Our initial kindergarten group wasn’t very big. Two classes, morning and afternoon, each about 20 kids. But Rock Valley was growing and it was with manufacturing and retail, plus a few more farmers. A couple of factories were booming, more workers were hired, bringing in new families. Over the years families moved in and out, (Reinke’s in-Harmon’s out) but this initial group remained-bound at the hip. For better or worse. By the time we were finished meeting on a daily basis, the class of ’69 would number closer to 60.

Did you catch the part about ‘on a daily basis?’ Think about that for a minute. Say what you want about a humongous graduating class of 350, 500 or more, but this fact remains. The starting team of our 1956 kindergarten would attend school TOGETHER over 2,300 days. With 180 days of school a year averaging about 7 hours, we were TOGETHER over 16,000 hours. Just in class TOGETHER. Yes there was an imaginary (social) caste system (ha-ha-gotcha, I did learn something in school) some cliques, friends for life while other friendships faded, but our basic group remained intact. And those were just the required hours of learning.

Extra curricular activities, speech, sporting events, shopping trips, bowling alley pizzas, camps during the summer, Lake Okoboji, cheerleading, swimming, yakking on the phone (my phone number was 691), slumber parties, pep rallies, bus rides to and from games, field trips. The class of ’69 spent some quality time together. Seriously. For 13 years. Longer than many marriages these days. Wow. We did good. Really good.

From tears on the first day of school with some frightened tykes wanting to go back home, to skinned knees, resisting our nap time with the shades pulled, broken bones from playing too rough during recess or PE. Watching one of our classmate’s tongue get stuck to a frozen slide pole during a cold spell (I’m being kind here. An Iowa cold spell means not getting above zero-sometimes for several days in a row, but we still played outside for recess and after lunch).

At the beginning of each new school year as our class continued to age and grow, you were never guaranteed who would be in your class, which fabulous or so-so teacher you might have. This was good and bad. You might be separated from your bestie for 7 hours a day, but it was a unique opportunity to get better acquainted with some other kids who weren’t in your (social circle) the previous year either. And everyone from our class still had lunch together and recess.

So do kids from gigantic schools have the same ‘close’ feeling like our core group from a small, rural Iowa town? I find it hard to believe that a group of 350 just goes around hugging everyone in the class during reunions, but hey, maybe they do. More likely though, you stick with your small group of kids you ran around with most of the time when you were in school. That’s how the caste system really works.

As hard as it is to fathom, my class of ’69 had another reunion last weekend. I wonder if anyone ever actually thought about being OUT of high school for 50 years? I sure didn’t. Our turnout was terrific. I was hopeful 20 classmates plus spouses would show, and the number was about double that. My theory on this is things change drastically after your 25th reunion. Everyone’s pretty much done with one-upping anyone, no one cares if you’ve gained weight, got new joints, have less or no hair, nor the color. We’re way past house size, and high paying stressful jobs. Our conversations now include bragging about the kids and grandchildren. When those subjects have been depleted, we’ve all got health issues that require second, third or 4th opinions.

Still it’s scary when you walk in (like the first day of a new school year). Unless I’m friends with them on Facebook, there’s only a handful of kids I actually recognize. It’s the truth. And no one recognizes me. No one. Ah well, it is what it is. There were several tables set up and 30 people milling around when Hubs and I arrive. I’m looking for ANYONE who looks vaguely familiar and praying there are name tags or I’m gonna have to say Denise Gerritson 50 times throughout the night. Although I can’t remember who said it, this is one of the best lines I heard, “we were sitting at the table when you walked in-trying to figure out who you were. After we decided you were Denise, we all could pretend to know who you were all along!”

I talked with several friends I hadn’t seen for decades, but it wasn’t at all awkward. It was, I’m glad you’re here, let’s catch up with each other-time. Good for the soul visits. Let’s not wait so long again in between chats. You look great. How’s the family?

I wasn’t the nicest kid in school. Heck, I’m still not nice. But I have matured a bit. I want to thank each of my superlative classmates from the bottom of my heart for their part in my story whether it was huge or tiny. When I was a shit, I apologize, even though it’s come years too late. (Yes, I see several nodding heads. Don’t know if you’re in agreement of my shittiness or just dozing off out of boredom). Back then, I didn’t realize what a huge impact all of you would make on my life. How often I’ve thought about being on the playground with different kids, telling scary stories on the merry-go-round as daylight faded, or an evening school party that’s made me smile and give thanks I was along for the ride.

There was a memorial board at the reunion with notes about the classmates we’ve lost over the years. Eight kids-gone too soon. Over 10% and none of us have reached the age of 70 yet. A sad and sobering moment. Laura Vogelzang, Pam Bunch, Harv Voetberg, Wayne Miller, Rod Hulsolf, Tom Gayer, Andy Kaupins and one of my best buds from school, Randy Vandevelde. You are missed and thought of often.

A special shout out to one of my oldest buddies, Dave Suter for remembering the horror movie, Mr. Sardonicus we saw during a blizzard in 5th grade. I was so petrified, I begged Dave to walk me home from the theater in waist high snow.

A big thank you for the crew of classmates (led by Sue) who threw our reunion shindig together. You guys did an awesome job and we appreciate the effort you put into our special night together. Another heartfelt thanks to Robert and Lorna Huyser for hosting the venue. Next time, let’s shoot some hoops! So, no sarcasm, no tall tales, just love, appreciation and a grateful heart on how lucky I was to be included in the class of ’69. Thanks for that. Neese…