When one lives in Michigan (long winters-gobs of snow) and the holidays have just peaked for another year, any thoughts of winter travel usually includes heading south or several hundred miles west. This year after Christmas however, we found ourselves packing our warmest winter duds, checking The Weather Channel frequently, and praying for travel mercies in preparation for a seldom winter trip destination to-northwest Iowa! 

One of my favorite pictures of Elly…

The yearly pilgrimage to Iowa just as winter begins-ended decades ago when our kids were still young. The Hubs and I felt it was time to start our own Christmas family tradition. Instead, we traveled to Iowa during spring break or summer vacation to get together with family. Although I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life-Iowa will always be my home. You might think just because they’re only a couple states apart the weather/seasons are similar. Heck no. Not even close. Iowa’s summer’s are hotter and more humid. Winter’s in Iowa are colder with more wind. Michigan usually wins the snowfall total. Spare me-please.

Jim, Arlyn, John, Elly & Les, 2002…

Spending much time during late December/early January in Iowa reminds me of a difficult birth/delivery. After your beautiful newborn makes their debut, you forget how miserable and painful labor was. Iowa’s just like that. While chugging our way west from Michigan, I didn’t have to check mile markers. It was easier to watch the outside temperature drop a degree every few miles. Started above freezing in Jackson, around 35. By the time we hit Spencer it was 7 and that wasn’t the low for the night. We would soon learn 7 above wasn’t that bad-as a couple of the days dipped several degrees below zero.

Elly showing Adam 7, her special Christmas tree, 1986…

I had forgotten how hard and crunchy snow sounds under my shoes when the temps really plunge, or how long it takes my windshield to defrost when not in a garage. I failed to fully appreciate most Michigan snow falls straight down from above, not out of the west at 20 mph with wind gusts often higher. I wasn’t even remotely surprised when I started my Jeep and was awarded a yellow warning light and beep telling me all 4 of my tires were low. On two different mornings. While I do most of the driving, Hubs is the gas and tire filler upper. One morning it was so freaking frigid it took him a long time to get the air in the tires back up to 36 psi. Finally done, he plopped into the Jeep with a groan. After a minute he said, “did you put my seat warmer on? Turn it off please. My butt’s so cold, I’m afraid it’ll crack.” We’re hopeless, that gave us the giggles-which felt really good. Probably better than it should have considering the reason and timing of why we were actually in Northwest Iowa during January.

John & Elly early 2000’s…

The way it began. Mid morning, 2 days after Christmas. I just started taking decorations off the tree. Love the tree, love the lights, but after Christmas is over I’m so done with decorations. I long/need/require (for sanity’s sake) my house back to normal. It would literally require me experiencing an epiphany to leave my house decorated until epiphany. I max out on the house being ‘out of whack’ after 3 weeks. Twitchy. Order needs to be restored. Posthaste.

The Christmas tree skirt Elly made for me, 1981…

Every year I go through the same ritual. Make an oath to myself before I set the tree up and get the ornaments out. I’m going to take my time and make some-hard-some-not-so-hard decisions about which ornaments perch on my tree, and the ones that no longer hold a tight grip on my heart strings. Every. Single. Year. Yet I never follow through. Never. I know which containers hold my favorite ornaments and start there. By the time I slip the lid off container # 4, I’m spent. Nope, I’ll have more time after Christmas to pick & choose what stays, what’s offered to the kids and what gets donated to the local religious thrift store after the family has celebrated the birth of Jesus for the year of our Lord, 2018. 

Elly made me this Nativity set in 1979…

Now there’s a couple hundred decorations laying around in separated piles all over the living room. Waiting patiently to be snuggled for the following 11 months in bubble wrap. Hubs phone rings. It’s our nephew Ken from Langdon, Iowa (near Spencer) with devastating news. His mom, John’s only sister passed away during the night. Although she was 88, the news is a shock and unexpected. We had just received a Christmas card from Elly. Hubs called her a couple weeks ago and they talked at length. Elly assured her baby brother she was feeling good, and still planning on trying to make it to her 90th birthday. She was getting along fabulously with her new cochlear implant (an updated replacement of her first version) and life was good.

The front of the card read, To my brother and sister-in-law…

Ken would call back after the kids decided when Elly’s memorial service would be held. John sat in his chair, numb, reminiscing about the sister he adored. They really had nothing in common, she was 18 years old when he was born. By the time John was 2, Elly had married Dewey. But the 5 years we lived in Spencer during the late 70’s changed all that. True, Elly & Dewey were my parents age, yet they became our best friends with a bond that would last the remainder of our lives, though we never lived close to them again. They became a third set of grandparents to our kids. Josh, then 7, reprimanded Adam (a toddler) constantly because Adam insisted on calling Elly and Dewey grandma and grandpa. 

Christmas 1973, Elly, Eleanor w/ Matt, Kerrie & Mag on the organ…

So early on December 29th, John and I head west for a long day of travel. Had some dicey weather as we dipped south to get around Lake Michigan by Chicago. An hour of sleet/rain mix slowing traffic down but the rest of the trip was uneventful. We arrived in Spencer unscathed but pooped 13 hours later, only to learn the hotel has no elevator. Up a long flight of stairs, lugging our suitcases with 2 bum legs, 2 tired backs and lacking enough ambition to waddle downstairs again to fill the ice bucket. On the upside, I slept really well the first night, which is rare.

Oh boy. Highway 18 on New Year’s Eve, 2018…

It’s difficult to look forward/anticipate/dread going to the actual service. No one’s ready to say goodbye to Elly. Mom to 4, gram to 10, great-grandma to 19, only sister to the 3 remaining brothers, (1 brother, Arlyn passed away 7 years ago). Plus friends-too numerous to count. The little Methodist Church of Langdon was packed like a can of sardines which is a testament of how much Elly was loved and admired. Though much of the circumstances were sad, it was great to hug and visit relatives I’ve not seen (or ever met other than Facebook posts & comments) for years. How come it’s always a funeral that binds/brings us together? 

Elly, me & Kerrie at our house in Spencer, 1979…

Lots of Elly anecdotes, goofy recollections and stories, accompanied by laughter and tears. The way she would have liked. I think Elly would have been blown away with the number of people, squeezing in shoulder to shoulder to pay tribute to HER. Amazed and humbled. 

Christmas in Spencer. Elly & Joshua 1980…

Elly had sold her big 2 story house after Dewey passed away in 2013. She moved to Langdon which is about 3 miles from Spencer, next door to Ken & Jeannie. Right across the street from 2 of her grandchildren, Ben and daughter Destiny in one house, Brandy and her family next door to Ben. Elly’s daughter Val lived right behind her. (Langdon or Lawrence-ville-it’s truly a family affair). Whenever we visited, we stayed with Ken & Jeannie, an easy way to spend time with Elly. John would head next door when he saw Elly drinking her morning coffee on the porch. We’d always have supper together and visit until Elly got tired and someone walked her home. After the memorial service it was hard to see Elly’s empty house or realize she wouldn’t be walking over to eat supper and spend the evening with us. 

Love this pic at Les’ house. Elly, Kristin, Ken & Kerrie around 2015…

Our dearest Elly, you were special, you were loved and you will be missed. I imagine she’s been singing regularly in heaven’s choir since she arrived. No longer bothered by her profound and annoying hearing loss, but belting out solos or duets with Dewey again. Preach…

Dewey and Elly, now singing duets with the angels…

 
It was the fall of 1970, and we just celebrated our first anniversary. We were broke, deep in debt, and expecting our first child. Sigh. We’ve all been there, right? Some of us just dumber & broker than others. 

The nomad clan of 2 (plus 1 expected soon) were on the move. Just a few miles outside of Sioux City. A small burg called Hinton. The little rental house was about 20 feet from Highway 75. Rent was half the cost of our adorable duplex but about the same size when we were needing more room. Remember the dumber part here folks. And when I say ‘little’ rental, I really mean it. This house might have been the original blueprint for tiny homes. Three rooms. 3. Maybe 600 square feet. A small kitchen with a tiny bathroom off of it. A good sized living room, thank goodness, it had to be. It was part living room with our early American couch, chair and gigantic 13 inch color TV. Part dining room with our early American 48” round maple table and 4 chairs. Plus part nursery with our garage sale bargain, 5 dollar, lemon yellow, lead based painted crib with 6 slats per side. Awaiting the birth of our yet to be determined baby boy or girl. The only bedroom barely held our early American queen size maple bed and one dresser. The bed was shoved tight against the wall so we could walk sideways to our tiny closet. The double dresser wouldn’t fit, thus it also resided in the living, family, dining, nursery room multiplex. 

One would assume living within 20 feet of Highway 75 might be bothersome. Au contraire. The rumbling tires beneath fully loaded semi’s weighed down with cattle, hogs, or sheep headed to the Sioux City Stockyards had a natural numbing hum. Highway 75 traffic was a nice distraction that could lull you to sleep. The local cops were diligent about handing out tickets for those who chose to drive through our sleepy burg above the 35 mph speed limit. Heck, it was the way Hinton was financed.

It was just a titch east of Highway 75 that drove us to drink. Railroad tracks. Such a picturesque setting looking out our front door. Constantly moving railroad cars. The trains literally shook our house. The glass in the windows rattled. The floors vibrated. Day and night. Located directly behind the train tracks were (still are) massive silos. Sometimes the trains unloaded grain into the silos, other times the silos were emptied into rail cars.

That tiny house would forever remain a special place in our hearts because we brought Shannon Marie home from the hospital. She was born in early December. I remember this more clearly than I can recall yesterday. She was reclining in a cheap plastic seat on the hardwood floor looking cross-eyed at the lights on our crooked, nearly ornament-free tree.

Something relatively new on TV, geared towards young children was all the rage. A program called Sesame Street. Maybe not as as young as 2 months but Shannon was incredibly bright and I couldn’t risk her missing out. ‘Bob’ from Sesame Street was teaching a lesson on opposites. Shannon was paying close attention. Bob ran towards the camera filming him and when he was very close said, “near.” Then he ran 20 feet away from the camera, tuned around and said, “far.” Shannon got it. 

Our landlord’s name was Louie, but dick would have been more appropriate. He was not nice but greedy and mean. The only decent thing he ever did was waltz over one day to announce he had another rental in town with 2 bedrooms if we were interested. Same rent per month. This was very good news. About 2 blocks off Highway 75 in more of a neighborhood setting. Huge yard with a garage. Little bit run down but Louie was willing to knock off some rent, buy materials to fix a couple things if John was willing to do the labor. Always handy, Hubs happily agreed to make the house a better place. 

Wow, a 5 room house. Kitchen, dining, living room and 2 bedrooms. John laid cheap harvest gold linoleum squares in the kitchen and bath. Painted the cupboards white which helped a lot. Only downside of the house-no furnace. An oil stove/heater sat in the corner of the dining room. Even though the house was small, 900 square feet-tops, the farther away you were from the oil burner, the colder you felt. Fuel oil was expensive and we lacked the money to buy it sometimes. The oil company insisted on cash for fuel oil which was almost impossible for this destitute family of 3. When the oil tank was bordering empty, Shannon and I would go stay with Mom & Dad in Rock Valley until payday. Poor John spent much of the winter, alone, hunkered under every blanket because we had no heat. 

We had some great neighbors when we lived in our furnace-less house. An older couple, Clarence & Ida (probably in their late 50’s, both were still working) were as friendly and devoted to us as their scary-ass-mean-smart-manipulative-demonic-barking-biting-bastard-Chihuahua dog allowed. Ginger, all whopping 10 pounds (although that’s what the real scale read, Ginger knew in her heart she tipped the scales well over 125 pounds and wasn’t afraid to throw her weight around when and where needed). And lest I forget to mention, Ginger sported some nasty habits. 

1. She smoked. (I shit you not. Clarence and Ida had built her a throne which allowed Ginger to be near the top of their antique oak table. They would put a lit cigarette in the side of Ginger’s mouth. Ginger played her part to perfection. She would tilt her head up and a bit sideways and squint her eyes like Tony Soprano. She ran that mafia.
2. Ginger drank coffee. A lot of coffee. From a dainty cup sitting in a matching saucer. And you best add the right amounts of cream and sugar if you valued either of your hands. Or face.
3. Ginger was the Queen. To be adored, spoiled, coddled and pampered. If you think a beautiful, smart, adorable 7 month old baby girl could compete easily or knock Ginger off her throne, you were in for a world of hurt. We kept Shannon far away from Ginger. There was never any doubt who was in charge of that household. Ever. We signed the appropriate paperwork Ginger handed to us the day we moved in. Deep in her black, pinky nail sized heart, Ginger was threatened by this small, cooing, winsome creature her slaves now fawned over occasionally. That simply would not do. Ginger let us know the roles and rules we would play (or pay dearly) when in her realm. Period. 

Clarence and Ida were a dear couple we thoroughly enjoyed but there never was a moment when we weren’t on guard when the Queen was among us. Her castle, her rules. 

Keith and Patty lived in back and off to the side of us. They were a little older than us and had 2 kids who rivaled Ginger in their charming personalities. Geez, was it the water or the entire neighborhood just odd? Threatened by our darling, precocious infant daughter. Patty had a beauty shop in her house, plus about 4 other part time jobs. Keith worked second shift at Sioux Tools and didn’t like to work. At all. Since Hubs worked nights at Channel 4, they became pretty good friends (when Keith wasn’t trying to kill John), doing stuff at midnight when they got home. 

About the night I almost lost my husband of less than 3 years. Keith wanted to go raccoon hunting after work-in the dark-using a spotlight. Hubs was game (a stab at hunting humor). Keith was driving a 1968 Chevy. After prowling around for a couple hours west of Hinton and doing some shooting they were ready to call it a night. Keith walked to the driver’s door and handed John his .243 rifle through the window. When John grabbed the gun, Keith was supposed to take his finger off the trigger-but did not. Resulting in a bullet going through the floorboard, the clutch and bell housing. But not through Hubs though he was deaf for several days. Turned out to be quite an expensive car night for the dumb ass. Keith, not deaf for a few days Hubs.

Most of the time John and Keith went fishing at the river after work. Hubs  always brought a couple of beers, but Keith never drank a beer-he was a Methodist after all. One rare date night John and I were doubling with another couple, (cannot remember who was with us). After supper at Anna Mae’s Townhouse, (best lasagna and French onion soup) as a joke, I was giving Hubs a hard time about going to Joe’s Cocktail Lounge (a strip club). The guys finally relented and we stopped for a nightcap. (The gals did not take off everything, they just seemed to have a lot of layers on to slowly remove). We were waiting for our drinks and I was gawking all over when who do you think I spotted? Keith-alone in a corner booth, nursing a beer. I poke Hubs and subtlety pointed out our teetotaler, sharp shooting, beer drinking neighbor, feasting his eyes on the cast of strippers. John quietly slinks away from our table, heads to the bar, orders another Hamm’s Beer (from the land of Sky Blue Wa-ters) and slides right next to Keith, not allowing him an escape route. Gives him a HUGE ration of shit, starting with “Hi Keith, where’s Patty?” “Umm, she’s in Winnebago visiting her folks. You aren’t going to tell her are you?” Of course John never would, but their relationship was never quite the same. Keith was forever worried that Patty would learn about his unforgivable deadly sin. 

One day, out of the blue, Louie (the dick) stopped by to let us know he had sold our rental and we had 30 days to vacate the premises. Well shit. Managed to find a house requiring a minimal down payment and bought our first home in Sioux City. Not very far from our little duplex in Leeds where we began married life. The house was huge, needed lots of work and paint plus the yard was a hopeless mess-but for a couple of years it was our wonderful home. Guess I have to thank Louie (the dick) for that little push…

We lived in Spencer, Iowa from 1977 through 1981. Our move after life on the Cascade farm in eastern Iowa. Spencer was one of our favorite places to live in nearly 50 years of marriage. We were devastated when we had to leave that quaint town. Color us shocked when we loved the big city of Davenport. These 2 cities were as different as night and day.

Life in Spencer, 1979. Josh 4-1/2, Adam 4 months, Shannon 9…

The reason for much of our love for Spencer was Hub’s sister Elly, her husband Dewey and their family. They were quite a bit older than us, almost like another set of parents-without judgment. We had more fun together. Antiquing, bowling league, shopping, family meals together at either of our houses. It was a wonderful 5 years and we didn’t want it to end. Wish it would have lasted longer.

Elly and Dewey years after we moved farther east…

I think Spencer’s population was 8 or 10 thousand at the time. We did much of our shopping downtown. Several blocks of various clothing, shoe, department, book & gift stores, pet stores that weren’t part of a chain. Close to The Lakes, it was darn near a perfect place to live but for the winters. Oftentimes the coldest spot in the lower 48, running neck & neck with International Falls, Minnesota. The winters were brutal. But we were young and dumb so blizzard conditions and 20, 30, 40 below zero never stopped us. Sometimes stopped our cars for a few days though.

Shannon, Elly holding Adam, Dewey with Joshua in front, 1981…

We were in our first decade of marriage, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck. Shannon was 8, Joshua, 4 and Adam was just on the horizon. We were living in a concrete block house a few blocks from downtown. The kids had friends in the neighborhood, and a creek in the back yard. We were blocks from a Super America gas station which made their own doughnuts. Almost every Sunday John took the kids and let them pick out doughnuts with sprinkles. I’m not a big doughnut fan but they were always fresh, often warm and pretty good. The kids thought it was a huge deal. The other spot which was quite popular with our little family was Godfather’s Pizza. A new franchise trying to compete with Pizza Hut.

Breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, Spencer 1981…

Do you remember when grocery stores had special displays with arrangements of pots, pans, dishes, or silverware you could buy at bargain prices after you spent money in their store? There was a grocery store I frequented which was near highway 18 south and 71 junction. I think it was a Hy-Vee but not certain. They were starting a special sales event featuring silverware. And I was hurting bad in that department. I had a small amount of mismatched, bent out of shape, dime store junk. One day I walked in for groceries and feasted my eyes on this fancy display of flatware. Shiny, patterned, heavy, made in Japan. The good stuff. Butter dish, gravy ladle, soup spoons, salad forks, ice tea spoons, plus all the regular daily stuff folks actually used. I was giddy with anticipation. And full of new silverware lust.

For every 3 bucks I spent, I could buy 3 pieces of silverware for another dollar. On an average week of spending about 20 bucks, that would net me 18 pieces of brand new, fancy flatware for our home. For 3 bucks. I needed and wanted a lot of it. OK, I wanted it all. All of it. Every piece they offered. But there were several weeks when I truthfully didn’t have the extra 3 bucks to pay for my new table setting after groceries. We were definitely lacking any kind of discretionary fund in our tight budget. And I think there was a small catch. I could only buy their choice for the week. One week it would be forks, the next maybe spoons. And the accompanying pieces were higher priced which caused major problems and thoughts of despair. How to keep up with getting a complete set of 12, plus the serving spoons, gravy ladle and that cute little covered butter dish. I was worried.

My Springtime gravy ladle…

Eventually I did buy a pretty good sized set of Springtime silverware (made in Japan) and was pleased as punch with my humongous matching set. But you know how it goes when you have little kids. You turn your head for 2 seconds and the little stinkers are nabbing some spoons to help dig out a trench for the toy pay loader in the backyard. You ask one of them to clear the table and while they’re helping, 2 forks somehow land in the garbage, never to be seen again.

So 25 years later my Springtime flatware (made in Japan) is looking rather meager in the drawer. I just couldn’t see buying something different. How could I grasp a fork if I wasn’t comfortable with a new pattern texture to which I’d grown so accustomed? Could I even bring an offensive shaped spoon up to my mouth? No, didn’t think I could. I stuck my head in the sand and ignored how few pieces were left in the drawer.

My official Springtime butter spreader knife. Never use it, but I had to have it…

Living around Muskegon got me hooked on estate sales. Wonderful things really. As a rule pretty classy stuff, everything is marked, and the sale lasts 2 or 3 days. The prices were slashed 30% on the morning of the second day, half price during the last afternoon. There was always a line waiting to get in when they first opened. Never me though. I went opening day to look, but after the first 3 hour feeding frenzy, fresh corpses still littering the floor. Those in line early for the sale are crazy. This is the way I viewed the sale: if the item I was coveting was still available when it was either 30 or 50% off, it was meant to be. Otherwise I wasn’t supposed to have it. Period. Bought much of my Waterford collection at estate sales. Some antique furniture but our big collecting years were a thing of the past for the most part.

My Springtime sugar spoon. This I use everyday…

About 10 years ago I was perusing an estate sale of somewhat lower quality. I could jog my way through in a hurry if nothing was catching my eye. Nothing to see here folks, keep moving. Yeah, it was that kind of sale. I tried to be thorough, zipping from room to room, willing something, anything to be worth a second glance. Down to the basement (always last), a room that originally was used to store coal, rested a box. Inside the cardboard box was a set of flatware, still in thin plastic wraps. Oh. My. Goodness. Springtime silverware (made in Japan). Tons of it. I was dumbfounded. Wary. Suspicious. Peeked over my shoulder to make sure no one was going to stop me or grab the box out of my hands. Made my way back upstairs, clutching the heavy box. Hubs was shopping in another room and when he spotted me didn’t know what to think at my dumbass grin from ear to ear.

My 2 serving spoons. They aren’t even shaped the same way…

I can’t tell you what I paid for the whole lot but it was a pittance. Maybe ten bucks. It wasn’t a complete set but a nice amount of the basics, plus the serving spoons, which turned out to be the biggest surprise of all. My closed serving spoon has served me well. Forty years this spoon has attended to my every need whatever I mixed, stirred, boiled, hacked to pieces, beat or served with pride. When I got home from my glorious estate sale shopping spree, I threw all the plastic wraps away and tossed the whole lot in a sink of hot soapy water. Upon rinsing the set I noticed a huge difference between my 40 year old serving spoon and the sparkly new one. The new one was much heavier and almost twice as thick near the tip of the spoon. What?

Never realized how strong I really am…

I have literally beat the livin’ shit out of my spoon. Huh. It’s paper thin in comparison to the new, clunky, chunky ton-o-spoon. Where has all that spoon matter disappeared? Have I been eating bits of spoon with my spoon?

I know the main culprit has been Fudge and Penuche. Each batch of candy I’ve beaten for the last 40 years has devoured most of my favorite spoon. It’s like disintegrating. But what can I do? I hate the new one, all thick, fat and hard to handle. I can’t beat a batch of Fudge with that enormous heavy scoop. I’d need a forklift.

Newbie on the left, candy beater unparalleled on the right…

Every time I need a big spoon I dig around the serving piece section of my drawer until I lay my hands on the familiar feel of my favorite, wafer thin spoon. Ah, there it is. Ready to beat some boiling hot candy into submission and turn it into another success story? Me too. We’re friends, my old spoon and I. We’ve been through a lot together and I’m not ready to give her up or give up on her. I’m not certain which one of us will bend, break or give up first. I’m definitely not ready to give up making fudge, or try to break in her Amazon sized big sister. Skinny spoon still seems up to the task. I like spooning with her. We fit. I hope we both have a few more years of making candy together…

My poor spoon. Who knew I literally beat the shit out of it?

My Mom is on my mind a lot every December. Shannon, Mom’s and my birthday’s are all this month. Mom would have been 92 on the 13th and has been gone for 14 years already. Don’t know exactly why as the end of the year nears, she’s in my thoughts more often.

Mom feeding me, Larry & Mona peeking over her shoulder, 1951…

It’s probably the fudge. When I gear up to make Christmas candy, Mom’s fudge pushes its way to the forefront. And it’s not really her fudge either. It’s Mom’s grandma Berghuis’ recipe, so do the math. Mom was born in 1926, lost her young mother a couple weeks later. Grew up in the care of her paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but also lived close enough to spend a lot of quality time with her maternal grands, the fudge and penuche makers. (Frequently on Sunday afternoons, between morning and evening church services. A sin for sure, but you didn’t hear it from me). Meaning this recipe probably originated in the Netherlands before they immigrated to Sioux Center, Iowa in the late 1800’s. They were sponsored by local folks (friends and relatives, also from the Netherlands earlier in the century) who had housing and jobs lined up and waiting for them when they arrived.

Great grandma Berghuis’ fudge recipe…

I love making candy, well, because I love candy. Over the years, I have tried various fudge recipes, marshmallow fudge, evaporated milk fudge, sweetened condensed milk fudge, chocolate chip fudge, (never made peanut butter fudge because it’s useless and gross) but all pale in comparison to the simple Dutch recipe of my great grandma Berghuis. The ingredients are few, but the taste is smooth, solid and deliciously creamy. There are drawbacks. It’s not called Never fail fudge for a reason. Because I’ve failed perfecting it numerous times. Distracted or in a hurry will get me every time. Patience is a virtue to be desired when one makes old fashioned fudge. I don’t use a candy thermometer because my Mom didn’t, her mom didn’t neither did her grandma. It would be disloyal or simply letting them down somehow if I used a different method to make perfect fudge. Just can’t do it.

The hot chocolate set brought over from the Netherlands as a thank you gift to their sponsors…

You can’t miss the window of opportunity given when one makes candy. The perfect soft ball stage lasts only a minute or two. My job is to test it during that short time frame. My failures are usually when I prematurely turn off the heat source. Maybe a mere 30 seconds from victory and the soft ball may look just about right. Don’t fall for this pagan candy wannabe. Be patient and wait another half minute and test again. And again. The effort becomes apparent when that small dot of fudge removed from its cold water grave sets proudly on my index finger for a nanosecond before succumbing to gravity. Perfect. Move it off the hot burner, add butter and vanilla and wait about 20 minutes. Don’t touch, stir or look at it cross eyed during the cool down.

When it’s still too hot to carry the pan to the table bare handed, but the pan has cooled considerably, your second tough task begins. About 5 to 10 minutes of hand beating with a large spoon. I lay an old towel over my lap because that melted butter splashes around until it’s mixed in. I have never made a batch of fudge that didn’t end up on a buttered plate. Never once poured it in a pan. Mom thought her poured, sometimes uneven fudge had some depth on a plate and was pretty and unique. The middle tends to be thicker with some swirly designs as you’re scooping out the entire batch on a plate. And the word ‘nutmeats’ is just so Mom. She rarely made fudge without nutmeats, always using walnuts. Me too unless it’s a specific request to go nutless. Over the years this family fudge recipe remains near and dear. I feel a strong sense of belonging to some exclusive club, surrounded by love every time I make a batch. (Except for the occasional cursing fit when it fails to ‘lose its sheen’ and I’m ready to pour it on the plate. Yeah, there’s that). I hope it’s years before my fudge making days are a thing of the past. And yes, Shannon makes the same fudge, so the tradition lives on.

No uniform, even pieces of fudge in this house…

Mom also bequeathed her soup gene to me. I honestly could eat soup everyday of the year. But her soup days were more determined by the seasons, mine aren’t. If I’m hungry for Bean Soup in July, I’ll be making a pot whether it’s 92 degrees or not. Mom only made Pea (whole, not split) and Bean soup during the winter months for the strangest reason. After a big snowfall, she’d get out her white enamel 4 quart soup pot, pull on her boots and coat, trudge out to the back yard and fill the pot to the very top with fresh packed snow (never yellow tinged). After the pot full of snow melted in the kitchen and she’d gone through every stinking pea or bean, deeming them worthy for our consumption, she’d toss them in the melted snow to soak overnight. Couldn’t use regular great tasting Rock Valley tap water, had to be snow. I don’t know if she thought it was softer water or if it was the fluoride in our drinking water that bothered her, but she always used snow when the peas or beans needed to be soaked.

Mom’s homemade chicken soup recipe…

I thought that whole snow business was a bunch of hooey, plus prohibited me from making some soups during warmer months, so I veered away from that strange tradition. Geez, I don’t even like looking at snow when it’s falling, let alone bring it in the house on purpose. I simply use tap water, soak my peas or beans overnight, drain, rinse and use fresh water to cook.

Mom didn’t make chili very often (neither do I-that’s Hubs department) but she did make great Vegetable Beef, Chicken Rice, Pea and Bean soups. I’ve kind of lost my taste for rice in soups the last few years though. I prefer pearl barley (pain in the ass, it’s got to be soaked like beans or quick cooked. If I’m not feeling the love of pre-soaking/cooking I just use 10 minute quick barley (hanging my head here in shame).

Can’t forget about Penuche (pe-noo-chee), brown sugar fudge…

Maybe the reason I’m prone to Mom’s soups can be explained because we live in Michigan. (Besides our endless winters like Iowa’s, I could easily melt snow most months for soaking). You know how much I enjoy reading ‘actual books’ and ‘real paper newspapers.’ I only get a real newspaper 2 days a week. (Besides my weekly Rock Valley Bee which shows up whenever it so chooses). Last Sunday I sat down with pretty good sized paper because of all the Christmas ads. Front section of the Jackson Citizen Patriot has almost of full page of weather. Local forecast for the week plus this meteorologist dude writes a couple paragraphs about some weird weather related phenomenon, or astounding snowfall amount for the poor schmucks who live in the UP.

No, not a fungus. It’s flour from rolling my loaves of bread that spilled off the counter…

I’ve been down in the dumps all week about his weather article. It just seems so much worse when I see this type of language in print. There’s a tool (besides the weatherman) in Grand Rapids which measures the amount of sunshine we get. During the month of November, there was a possibility of having 17,500 minutes of glorious sunshine in Michigan. We were blessed with 1,500 minutes of sunshine. Turn it around it’s even worse. Instead of the lowly pittance of 8% sunshine, we were graced with 92% of cloud cover during daylight hours. Oh for cripe’s sake, just shoot me now. Weather rants over, I’m spent.

Homemade bread on the rise. Hey, it’s got a cup of wheat flour in it…

Thursday morning dawned dark and dreary, surprise-surprise. Good day for chicken soup and homemade bread. John prefers me to use a whole chicken for soup (dark meat), I prefer 2 big chicken breasts with skin and bones to start. But I had thawed a chicken so simmered him for a spell. Started mixing my 3 loaves of bread and decided to eat totally healthy for the day so I threw in one cup of whole wheat flour. (That justifies the thick slices of bread and the glob of butter slathered on each one). Before that healthy bread dough needed some major smack down I cut my veggies for the soup. That’s when I was hit with such a Mom moment it almost knocked me to my (bad) knees.

Tastes great and I did give a loaf to Ari…

Chopped up a big onion, cried for awhile (just because of the onion-not Mom-induced-yet). Half a bag of shredded carrots chopped in half, measured some 10 minute barley and a handful of small noodles. Got out the celery, rinsed off 4 stalks to chop. Looked at the 5 inner, smaller stalks remaining when it hit me. Mom. She always chopped those beautiful green leaves of the celery stalks and threw them in the soup during the last couple minutes. I don’t know if it was for the taste especially, maybe for the visual appeal, added color or texture to the soup. I’ve done it oodles of times in my life, but yesterday it knocked me for a loop. Just a flood of Mom thoughts. This frequently happens when I least expect it.

It was the small container of chopped celery leaves that got to me…

Mom must have thought those celery leaves added a lot to her soup. If she had extra, she’d lay paper towels down on the counter, chop up the extra celery leaves and let them dry for a day. Store them in a container and the next time when soup was on our supper menu and she was pushed for time, she’d use the dried celery flakes from her spice cabinet. Really, how much love does this show for a simple supper of soup? I should have appreciated her more. Much more. Mom, for always adding celery leaves to our pot of chicken soup, thanks…

Penuche-uncut version…

Shannon and her 2 business partners were planning this year’s Christmas party for their associates. An afternoon open house. Shannon asked if I would make an assortment of dessert finger foods? Guest list was under 40. Well sure, doesn’t sound like an enormous amount of work. I might have however forgotten my age once again. I am baker, hear me roar. Or whimper softly. 

My peeps outshine my baking-always. Shannon and John, 2018…

Shannon wasn’t fussy, she wanted fudge without nuts, (crazy, right?) cutout frosted Christmas cookies for sure. The rest was up to my discretion-until I mentioned Pecan Tassies. “Umm nobody likes them mom.” Well right there in a pecan nutshell is what’s wrong with society today. Who doesn’t love a 3 bite piece of pecan pie? Really. I love Tassies and dread the future December when I’m no longer up for that particular task. I have been eating Tassies for a half century (unfortunately that part shows). Heck, ever since I started dating Hubs. John’s mom, Mag was great baker and excellent cook. Or maybe the other way around, an excellent baker and a great cook. 

Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas tree, my Tassies how I love thee…

Every Christmas season Mag made a boatload of Christmas goodies. Homemade dipped chocolates, fudge, penuche, cookies and her famous Pecan Tassies. Let me tell you right here and now. For being so dainty, delicious and cute, Tassies are a royal pain in the ass. Way too time consuming. Way. Mag had 4 aluminum Tassie (tart) pans which each held a dozen Tassie shells. The shells are a mixture of cream cheese, butter and flour which has to be chilled before the shells could be formed. You pinch off a piece the size of a small walnut, roll it around in your hand, then plop it in one of the little tart openings. Heavens no, you’re not done. Not even close. Then you carefully use your index finger to pat the dough on the bottom and build up the sides just past in each individual top opening. The filling is beaten eggs, brown sugar, melted butter, vanilla, and lots of chopped up pecans. Why anyone in their right mind makes these scrumptious tidbits on purpose is simply beyond comprehension. You bake them at one temperature for a few minutes, then lower the temp for another few minutes. Royal pain. 

Penuche, delicious and super sweet…

Newly married, without a clue on how to cook or bake anything I eagerly embraced Mag when she was in a teaching mode. She had a lot of patience with me and there was a recipe for Tassies to follow which helped. Many things I would learn to make from Mag had nothing written down, and in those instances I needed to watch, listen and write shit down because she used terms like, “you just add a little sweet gherkin juice.” What? I didn’t even know what that meant. For a 20 something clueless girl, this could be anything from a teaspoon to a half cup. So watch her closely I did. 

Learning from one of the best. Mag & I, early 1970’s…

Practice, practice, practice. Each year I got better at making Tassies. Much of the grief and angst was caused by those dang pans. If one iota of filling bubbled over the top of the shell, you literally had to bring in the chainsaw from the garage to remove that buggar from the pan-because they had melded as one. I suffered through 4 decades of those miserable stinking pans until meandering through Meijer a few years ago and spotted a Wilton non stick Tassie pan. Are you kidding me? The sucker was huge and netted 2 dozen Tassies at a time. I bought 2 pans and haven’t looked back once. The Tassies never stick. Worth every dime. Only wish I would have had these pans when I made 100 DOZEN Tassies a year. (I was a stay at home mom, friends and fellow bowlers would each order a couple dozen Tassies every Christmas. Tough way to make a buck but I always enjoyed baking). 

Well back to this year’s addition of, ‘Christmas baking with Neese.’ As recently as 5 years ago, this little baking party foray would have been easily handled in a day and a half. Not so fast there, sloth-gram. The new Neese is beginning to recognize her limitations when it comes to standing in my kitchen for hours on end. I just can’t with these bum knees. Can’t. So I made one of my famous lists, doling out these six desserts over a few days instead of 36 hours. Listed first what couldn’t be done until Saturday, then it was just a matter of going backwards to my start time. 

The nutless batch…

First was a batch of Fudge. Yeah I know it was too soon to make the candy, but I needed to practice a batch. I do soft ball stage without a thermometer, so 30 seconds either way is the difference between a  beautiful, delicious firm batch of fudge and crap you can beat for two days but will not set up. This batch turned out perfect (which bodes well baker gram) and I thought long and hard how that soft ball looked and felt on my finger, just out of the cold water. Since cookie and Tassie dough have to be chilled, I made both on Wednesday afternoon.

Thursday afternoon I baked 6-dozen-pain-in-the-butt-Tassies, freezing all but a few for the Hubs and me and the party tray I was sending-despite Shannon’s Tassie-less warning. Just something I had to do. Surely there are a few palates out in the therapy world who love these mini pecan pies as much as I do. 

So cute, so good, so dang time consuming…

Friday was a big day for getting lots done. I baked the cookies and made the frosting. I’m not one of those multi-talented folks who make 8 different cutout shapes, or uses non-pareils like there’s no tomorrow. I make 2 cookie shapes, bells and mittens-period. I dare say my frosting is better than most. I give all credit to my Kitchen Aid. I’m just the intermediary. And my cookies never touch each other once frosted (unlike my food which I like up close and personal with each other). So each cookie gets its own sandwich bag-always. In the case of this party I did buy cute cookie bags with Santa’s mug slapped on the front. I frosted the party cookies right before we left for Landon’s basketball game so the frosting would harden a bit. Bagged them when we got home. (Yes, Pioneer won easily so my star, Landon hardly played-not needed when they’re ahead by 30). 

Quite unimaginative but tasty…

Another batch of nutless fudge was on my Friday to-do list; because it’s touchy to get just right in case I needed a do-over on Saturday. My Penuche turns out perfect 98% of the time. Fudge maybe 85%, so I was assuming my Saturday batch of Penuche would be flawless. (It was). The fudge turned out great too, thus I was feeling pretty smug so I tackled the cream puffs too on Friday. They’re not much work, but I’d never made them so small before. I wanted the cream puffs to sit nicely in festive cupcake papers. A couple of them were really small which made the perfect dessert for Hubs & I with grilled hamburgers Saturday night. 

Bite size cream puffs…

Shannon was picking up all the sweet treats on Saturday at 1 and I don’t like to leave very much until the last minute. Makes me twitchy. I washed all the Christmas plates, made my favorite Cherry-Coconut-Nut bars which take like 15 minutes. Next was the Penuche (1 hour start to finish) which turned out perfect. Wasn’t worried about the filling for the Cream Puffs. I use Mom’s recipe for banana or coconut cream pie filling. Egg yolks, milk, flour, sugar, butter and vanilla. Easy-peasy. But I still needed to cut up everything but the candy and put all individual pieces in cup papers and arrange on trays. Plus drizzle chocolate over half the Cream Puffs and dust the other half with powdered sugar. Those 2 little steps would absolutely be done right before Shannon showed up. 

One of my favorites for decades…

My tiny hand held desserts came off without a hitch. Well, after dividing the work between 4 days instead of a day and a half. Sigh. Just have to accept that stuff and move on. I’m really grateful for the things I get accomplished, but sometimes it’s easy to get down because I want to do stuff like I used to. You know when I was young, full of stamina and ambition.

Hope they tasted as good as they looked…

Change is not easy. Especially when it comes to actual physical limitations. I really don’t see myself as getting older and slower. But I am. As sure as my hair continues to grow and show more gray/white. (Which hasn’t been as bad as I thought with an inch now clearly visible). Kind of makes me smile that I’m sticking to my decision. I fretted about my dang hair color for 20 years-then bam! I was simply done using hair color. Why did I stew about something so trivial for so long? I don’t have a clue. Happy baking and Merry Christmas…

It happened a long time ago,
Yet I’m quite sure of the date.
The year our family went from 5 to 4,
It was 1958.

Our dog Spitz, Larry & me, months before Larry died, 1958…

Larry had been snatched from us,
After 12 years on this earth.
I didn’t fully comprehend,
But had loved him since my birth.

Though I was only seven,
Life would never be the same.
For Larry was now up in heaven,
The year Santa Claus never came.

West side of Rock Valley, 1954. Me, Larry & Spitz…

Our house grew oh so quiet,
Larry always picked out our Christmas tree.
But Mom and Dad weren’t alone in their grief,
Shared with me and Mona Lee.

The laughter all but disappeared,
The spark from our family was gone.
We seemed to shrink within ourselves,
Everything said to each other was wrong.

Dad, Mom, me & Mona (pregnant) in 1961…

The years sped by, some sadness left,
Mona got married and I grew up.
Grandchildren were born, smiles reappeared
Our family wasn’t as lost as I feared.

The family of the boy I loved,
Knew Christmas should be shared.
Mag cooked all their favorites, plus tassies & fudge,
Comfort food to show me they cared.

Ed, Mona, Brian & Brent in 1965…

They celebrated on Christmas Eve,
With family, food and fun.
After gifts were exchanged and eating was done,
Midnight Mass to praise the birth of the Son.

I grew to love Christmas-when we had kids of our own.
Simple ornaments made with their little hands
Fillled with pride for all to see.
Still have the highest priority-upon our Christmas tree.

Christmas 1985…

You might not think about it much,
But traditions are being made.
That doesn’t mean there’s no room for change,
But the groundwork has been laid.

After our kids grew up, we had to allow
The in-laws to have a say.
Of when they choose to spend some time,
At our house and away.

My tree doesn’t change much anymore,
The ornament total is high.
No themes, no rhyme or reason
Just celebrate our Christmas season.

Still adding stockings since this picture, 2014…

I miss our hearth and mantle,
Stockings hung near our neat lake shore.
Now displayed on a goofy curtain rod
On top of the patio door.

I’m more sentimental, the older I get,
My Christmas’s left are numbered.
My throat gets tight when I reminisce
The tears come frequent and quick.

Our own family of five in 1982…

I’m grateful to God who lets me stay,
On earth for yet another day.
I try my best to make them count
Being good, being kind and to pray.

I think about my past a lot,
Messed up Gerritson’s we’d become
Larry, Mom & Dad-now Mona too,
From a family of 5-down to one…

We were happy at Lake Okoboji in 1957…

In January, 2015 I wrote a story called The Burbs. The time frame from this post was during 1987-1994, when we lived in Jackson the first time. That move was significant in many ways. First time we ever moved from our native state of Iowa. (We never thought we’d still be in Michigan 32 years later). I had a great group of friends in Davenport. Leaving the Quad Cities was very emotional for the whole family, and moving the kids was tough on us. They were 16, 12 & 8. Heavy emphasis on tough for the one who had just turned 16.

Great house on McCain Road with awesome neighbors, 1990…

My story on The Burbs was more about my neighbors on McCain Road. I was in my mid-30’s with 3 kids in school. It was easy to meet people. Maybe the root of my loner-ness in recent years has been caused by my hearing loss, but I blame much of it on my age. At least for me, it’s harder to meet and develop lasting relationships when you’re over 60. Everyone my age already has their inner circle of friends. They don’t need another friend to fill a gap in their life. It’s just easier to stay home. But I wasn’t like this 30 years ago. I considered myself quite outgoing. There have been significant changes.

The Burbs house was located in a huge oval subdivision, consisting of about 60 homes. Every lot was about an acre so these homes weren’t very close together. Hard to believe, but at the time I knew the occupants (by name) in at least 50 of those homes. (Fast forward 30 years. We’ve been back in Jackson for 3 years. I know 5 neighbors by name. First name only-of 4 of them). Much of this is my fault. Hubs wanders around the yard, spraying, weeding, mowing, watering. Next thing I know, he’s been talking to a neighbor or a couple out walking for 15 minutes. (Though he doesn’t always remember their names. Chalk one up for me). But that’s just not me anymore. For starters, I’m rarely outdoors unless I’m sitting on the deck, trimming errant branches off new landscaping or weeding my pachysandra bed. Conversing is tough for me. If there’s any distractions, cars going past, wind, tire drone off nearby I-94, or lawn mowers in the background, I miss much of the conversation.

Joshua with grandma Mag before tree taken out and poured patio, 1988

Now about those neighbors on McCain Road. Three of them would be of key importance in my life. Two of the gals, Diane & Elissa are my age and all of us had kids around the same age. Mildred was twice my age, we were as different as night and day, yet we became close friends for a lifetime. After we moved 150 miles west seven years later, every time I came to Jackson to visit Shannon, I spent time at Mildred’s house and went out for breakfast or lunch with Diane.

Mildred passed away in 2006, so our friendship lasted 20 years. She had two children, 5 grandchildren and several greats by then. After Mildred’s family divided up what they wanted and were ready to dispense with the contents and sell her home, I was invited over before the sale. I could choose a couple things that reminded me of Mildred. One item was a small watercolor which hung in the bathroom I used when I stayed with her.

My dear friend Mildred, the classiest woman I’ve ever known…

The other item given to me was one of her plants. Mildred mentioned the plant numerous times through the years. It was given to her by her relatives decades before. She said it was 50 years old when we were neighbors. Let’s just round that date off to 1990, making that plant about 80 years old now. And I almost killed it. I’m a horrible person.

The plant (I named her Millie, I’m so original) wasn’t exactly a raving beauty before she came to reside with me. Mildred had a lovely family room and spent a lot of time in there. The room had an enormous picture window overlooking her lovely backyard. Millie (the plant) spent winters sitting in that window, getting some much needed light during Michigan’s gloomiest season. During the summer, Mildred would move Millie out to her covered patio. There she sat, lopsided, root bound in an old clay pot, pushing out new growth in spite of no preferential treatment. None.

Mildred’s egg coddlers, made in England. No, I’ve never made eggs in them…

So I lugged home the chair I sat in during our visits, the egg coddlers (yes, they’re a real thing) an indigo blue teapot, her hand tailored wedding dress (still trying to get ahold of family who might want to reclaim it. I am hesitant to get rid of the dress, but recently have considered donating it to a lady who makes baby gowns from old wedding dresses for parents whose babies were stillborn). Conundrum. Plus guilt.

Mildred’s everyday teapot, we had tea together often…

I’ve never had much of a green thumb. You could probably tell that when I said I’m not keen on being outside. I’d rather be inside, reading, cooking, canning or baking. Or doing nothing. I’m really good at that. But under my care, Mildred’s Christmas Cactus responded splendidly. Millie was huge and magnificent. Repotting her helped a lot. I’m just anal enough to be enormously bothered by a lopsided plant. I bought a pretty pot, threw in new soil, fertilizer, plopped Millie in there ramrod straight. She was quite appreciative and graced me with hundreds of gorgeous red blooms twice a year. Usually between Halloween and Thanksgiving, and during the spring around Easter. This relationship flourished for ten years.

2015 was stressful but good. We finally got an offer on our house in North Muskegon and closed on it late that summer. We purged numerous pickup loads, embracing our upcoming move and welcomed the downsizing, instead of cringing on what we were leaving behind, selling or giving away. (It was hard. I had grown unhealthily attached to stuff). Shannon and Tracey had generously offered us sanctuary while we renovated our new little home before it was habitable. Yikes, it was pretty bad. We stored everything but the clothes on our backs, (ok, that’s a bit of a stretch but pretty close) and my plants, which I plopped on Shannon’s front porch and promptly forgot.

Millie, in all her glory, 2013. I almost killed her a couple years later….

Six weeks later, mid-October we hired movers for a second time (no, once was not enough) to pick up everything from storage and cram (still) too much stuff in our yet, unfinished house. As I was loading plants in my Jeep I noticed all my African violets were beyond saving. I felt really bad because they were gifted to me, but I was encouraged because Mildred’s Christmas Cactus looked pretty good. I snagged an antique oak plant stand from the movers, set Millie in a south window while we unpacked, moved things around, finished enlarging the master bedroom, and got carpet installed.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching and I was trying to figure out how to feed our family of 13 in a 4 person dining room when I realized there were no buds on Millie. Strange and disturbing. Besides no blooms peeking, my whole plant looked weary, worn out, pale & pooped. (Kind of like Hubs and I after feverishly remodeling for 2 months). Come to think of it, I’d felt her soil several times in recent weeks, never giving any thought that she never needed watering. In fact, the dirt was still sopping wet after being inside and not watered once for several weeks.

The watercolor I was given was Mildred’s estate, 2006…

I was beginning to panic about losing Millie. Realistically it was impossible because I had trimmed her numerous times during our decade together and ‘started’ many baby plants with the clippings. So Mildred’s heirs lived on and I knew where the adoptees had been placed. All three of my kids had Mildred’s young-uns (although Shannon keeps trying to kill hers. She’s good with plants except for Millie Jr. Dr. Shannon’s either too busy healing people or baby Millie is lonesome for her mama and me so she periodically comes to stay for extended visits. Both boy’s plants continue to thrive). Still-it’s not the same. I didn’t want to lose the original mother plant.

I needed help. One of my old Rock Valley school buddies, Marlys Etter’s hands are all green thumbs (yes, she looks strange but Marlys is oblivious, so play along). I asked her what I could do to save Millie? She said, “she’s drowning Neese. No matter how long you wait, that soil is not going to dry up. The roots of your plant are literally rotting. Get her out of there now. Save what you can. Start with some gravel, new soil and plant the greenest, driest clippings you can salvage.”

Yup, between moving twice in 8 weeks, I let 4 gorgeous African Violets die…

That was 3 years ago. (Sarah & Adam’s beautiful Cactus, Millie Jr. Jr. Jr. is doing exceptionally well, and Sarah’s offered me clippings for a starter plant. But I held out, hoping I could nudge Matriarch Millie back to her feisty self). No, I didn’t lose the original plant. But she’s a shell of her former self. Maybe the word I’m looking for is dormant. It’s like she was in shock (sick from my neglect) and needed to ‘lay low’ until she felt better. Three years. No more summers outdoors either. Millie was royally ticked but I stood firm. She had the life of Riley in North Muskegon. Covered and protected by our front porch where she got tons of light but stayed out of direct sun, wind and rain. But the front and back of our house now offers no protection, so Millie’s spending all of her summers indoors. Period.

The beginning of November this year I noticed something. Millie seemed bigger, greener, taller. And what were those tiny growths on the end of some of her fronds? Oh my stars! She’s pushing out buds like there’s no tomorrow. While Millie’s top heavy in some spots, kinda frail looking elsewhere, and definitely not yet needing a trim, she looks fully recovered and healthy. My Millie’s back and right on schedule…

She is a bit lopsided, but Millie’s made it back from the brink, 2018. Thanks Mar…

Haven’t talked much about Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) lately. I’m in denial. For sure. But excited. Any recent newbies reading my blog, Landon is my 18 year old grandson. His middle name is Andrew. When he was 4, Landon decided he’d rather be known as Drew. Sigh. I like the name Drew, but I love the name Landon. To me, he’ll always be Landon, but I’m in a very small minority of 1.

Although he wasn’t born on a basketball court, if I hadn’t been there myself, I would have sworn Landon came out spinning a basketball on his index finger. He’s the epitome of slang speak, ‘Gym Rat.’ Landon’s dad Tracey was Jackson High’s basketball coach at the time, so by the time L was 2, (and still in diapers), he was a regular on the team. Landon didn’t see himself as a 34 inch mascot, he was just one of the guys. It took several serious talks, over & over to convince Landon he could not run out onto the court during games. If he wanted to sit on the bench and stand in the circle during time outs he absolutely had to stay off the court. There is no doubt in my mind, these formative years with daddy and his high school team on the court have shaped Landon into the player he is today.

There’s no denying Landon’s got talent up the wazoo. But there’s so much more. By junior high, he’d somehow magically acquired (and was utilizing) this uncanny ability to “see or read” the court during a game. Didn’t always end well because Landon’s picture perfect, threaded passes through 4 different players were not always anticipated by the rest of the team. Still most of his teammates eventually caught on and were ready when he zip lined the ball to them. Since he hit his teens, Landon’s been in the gym by 5 am. Everyday of his life. Not just basketball season. He has played and practiced year round since middle school. He practices before practice, lifts weights, strength training, shooting copious amounts of free throws and 3 pointers, over and over. Watches hours of basketball films. Although he makes everything look easy, Landon’s certainly clocked in the hours. He’s wildly talented, smart, good looking, sure of himself, likable, charismatic plus kinda cocky. (Occasionally prone to talk trash).

Deciding which college basketball scholarship to accept is every parent’s dream. Landon had several college offers and after visiting various campuses, chose Holy Cross, near Boston. The college is run by Jesuit priests. Goodness & mercy abounds. Shannon, Tracey and Landon were all impressed with every aspect about Holy Cross. Famous, successful alumni from all walks of life, everything from CEO’s, to a Supreme Court justice. (And the alumni wholeheartedly support their alma mater, making Holy Cross one of the highest endowment donating colleges in the country) You can pretty much go anywhere, write your own ticket, do anything after graduation. Get this. His freshman year at Holy Cross is the equivalent (approximately) of what we paid for our little HUD home before extensive renovations 3 years ago. One year of education, including basketball. Oh. My. Word.

While I’m a little bummed Holy Cross is 800 miles away, I’m happy with Landon’s choice. I’m all about playing time. Minutes matter. Is it more advantageous to play for a bigger school, sit the bench for a couple years and get minimal time on the floor? Or play for a smaller school and get the chance as a freshman to make a huge difference, be a star with some serious playing time? I think Landon’s gonna own that Patriot league.

I’m here to offer helpful suggestions for the rest of his college life. (Yeah, that’s what his gram is for). I’ve no doubt he’ll be an enormous asset and very successful on the court, but my hope is for him to be as equally successful off the court. I don’t see classes posing a problem. (Holy Cross does not recruit players with a gpa under 3.2). So we’re good on basketball and studies. I hope. Dude, study. Seriously, though in this day and age, you must remember this one thing at all times. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, rest assured someone is recording you or snapping pictures. Of you. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

Now I’m gonna advise him on charisma and cockiness. Landon draws people in. Which is great, as long as you’re attracting good people. But I hope he’s not only drawn to athletes. That’s a mighty small circle. Just be nice. To everyone. It’s really that simple. Acknowledge the kid (and mean it) from South Dakota, who at 5’5” might not know (or care) you’re a jock, but is literally studying to become a rocket scientist. Smile, say ‘hi’ and be sincere to gals and guys who aren’t in your social circles. Just be nice. Be polite. Be courteous. Being a nice guy doesn’t hurt you. It gives you enormous mass appeal. You want to leave your mark on your college years? This is how it’s done. You’ll be a rock star. Remembered fondly by everyone, from all walks of life. That’s how you’re gonna leave a mark on Holy Cross, besides on the basketball court.

So Landon’s senior year of basketball starts Monday night. How can this be? I’m not ready. Three years ago, as a freshman, Shannon forwarded me a letter to Landon from his coach saying, congratulations, he’d made the Varsity team. (Including the sentence, ‘don’t get too cocky. You’re making great strides offensively, but you have to work harder defensively’). Which he has made a priority since. I was disappointed but not with Rex’s insight. I thought Landon would sit the bench the whole season, instead of getting some serious playing time starting on JV. While he didn’t ‘start’ his freshman year, he did get adequate minutes right off the bat. The first time Landon went into the game it was mid-way through the first half. Landon immediately nailed a 3-pointer against one of Ann Arbor Pioneer’s city rivals. The whole student section erupted with, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” (I cried). How about the time he scored 29 points, 9 three-pointers and a jumper, in the first HALF of a tournament game? (I bawled). Or winning a three point shooting contest against some of the best high school players in his age group? Landon walked off the court and handed me his trophy. (I sobbed all the way back to the hotel). These are a fraction of his high school standout moments. I truly hope and believe he’s not done making highlights (on the baskeball court and off) for this gram just yet…

Have you ever had a fleeting thought, problem or solution for a split second-then just as suddenly it disappears? You’re not really troubled by this and it might be years before it pops up in your head again. Sort of like you’re waiting for that second shoe to hit the floor, but never realized the first one smacked the floor boards a long time ago.

Adam, late fall 1979. No apparent ill effects from his traumatic beginning…

It began in the early 80’s. I’ve talked about it before but let me recap for a minute. Adam. Our unplanned, amazing youngest child. Who was darn near impossible to get borned. (I don’t think borned’s a word, yet somehow it works here perfectly). Shannon was 8, Josh was 4 and I was going through a difficult pregnancy. My due date was September 7. At the tail end of a long, hot, humid Iowa summer. (Not many women plan for a late August or September birth-unless they’re sadistic). The only thing that felt good-was nothing. Nothing felt good. Literally. I was humongous. And swollen. With about a month to go I was in for my 8th month check up, which included a pelvic exam to see how things were progressing. 

Yikes, late August, 1979. A couple weeks before the addition of Adam…

Doc was frowning and muttering to himself. Said something like, “something’s not right. His head seems too small and you’re huge. Let’s take an X-ray, and see how this baby’s doing.” Came back in the room after he had studied the X-rays wearing a bigger frown. “It’s not your baby’s head that’s so small, those are his little feet. His head is under your right breast. But I believe something’s not right with this baby.” (Well why not scare the living shit out of me while you figure out exactly what’s wrong with my child)? “His head should be tucked down, with his chin on his chest. Instead he’s looking straight up your throat, head tilted way back. First, I’m gonna try and get him out of that breech position. He’s not too big to freely move about, yet seems determined to stay feet first.” 

Gently Doc placed his hands under my right boob where you could clearly make out the outline of Adam’s round (and normal sized) head. Working his fingers clockwise he slowly moved Adam’s (we did not know at this point he was a boy, that fun fact became clear a bit later) head until it was snugly in my groin. Hustled me to X-ray, then I waited. All the while, lying on the table, watching Adam’s little head move slowly counterclockwise until he was all comfy again under my right boob. Oh. My. Word. Doc waltzed in, proud of himself because Adam’s little head was clearly down in my groin on the X-ray minutes ago. Placed his hand on my abdomen and spotted Adam’s little head tucked neatly under my boob. Hmmmm. Doc went through the whole procedure again, including another X-ray. (For the love of God, please stop with the X-rays). This time Doc watched in amazement and disbelief at Adam’s steady progress. Returning to where he was most comfortable. Little stinker. 

Honest the doctor encouraged a small glass of wine for milk production. At Elly’s house for Christmas, 1979…

Doc conceded. “Denise, looks like you’re gonna have this baby breech. It’s your third pregnancy, I don’t see this as a big issue. He still has plenty of room to move in the right position before you go into labor. Don’t worry about this. You’ll be fine.” 

Long story-short, (long version is called, Party of 5, September, 2014) both of us (Adam and me-though John almost killed the doctor afterwards, so maybe I should say all 3 of us) nearly died during (or after) the delivery. They couldn’t get Adam’s head out which was the last part of the little guy coming down that worn out path. Scary and terrifying time. Hubs was extremely upset that I didn’t see a specialist in Sioux Falls or Sioux City after we learned he was breech or insist on a C-section. 

Those rubber pants! Adam about a year old, 1980…

Anyway, everything was eventually fine and dandy and I’m veering away from my storyline. The point I’m trying to make was the huge traumatic impact this pregnancy had on me. Physically and emotionally. I did not feel well for about a year after I had Adam. Plus walking on eggshells around Hubs because he was still furious with the doc and me. Safe to say from August of ‘79 through December of 1980 took a huge toll on me. 

Besides not feeling well, parts of me seemed to age decades overnight during the 14 months before I hit the big 30. It was like one day I stood in front of the mirror and noticed for the first time half my hair was gray. WTH. When did that happen? After I picked myself off the floor I called for an appointment with my hairdresser. “Holy smokes Joan, help.” She suggested a non peroxide rinse which would last 6 or 8 weeks. Covered the gray and just slowly washed out with shampoos. Well that worked for a couple years, but the grayer I got, the more stubborn the gray hair became. My gray hair seemed royally pissed for using shellac on a regular basis and picked up the slogan, “resist.” Yes folks I made up that now infamous slogan-it’s really all about my hair follicles-not politics. Thieves stole my line. 

Salt & pepper by 1981. And looking like a complete dipshit to boot…

So in the year of our Lord 1983 I started dyeing my hair with permanent hair color. Since I was young (33) and still supposed to have brown hair, my first choice was L’Oréal (remember Cybil Shepherd sitting in a chair, looking absolutely stunning, advertising the use of L’Oréal-because you’re worth it) medium brown. As I aged, when the color suddenly seemed too harsh, I’d move to a lighter shade. (I’m now close to running out of lighter shades-ha-ha) From that very first time I never gave one thought to, “what am I gonna do when I’m done dyeing my hair?” I assumed one day, more than likely a milestone in my mundane life I would simply say, “OK, I’ve had just about enough of that hair dye crap.” 

Never happened. The “when am I gonna stop using L’Oréal” thought might pop into my head close to each biggie in the life of Neese. My 40th, my 50th, my 60th. Zip-nada-zilch. Lasted maybe 5 seconds and I just knew I wasn’t done having fake brown hair or ready to go gray-yet. 

The lovely Esther after 6 months of wearing hats…

I visited this wonderful lady named Esther for several years. She had an Asian background and was getting close to 80. With jet black hair. She’d been dyeing her hair over 40 years. (Not as absurd as you might think. It’s almost been 35 years for me). She had a minor skin issue and had to see a dermatologist. Asked the doctor about the length of time she’d been using peroxide based hair products and should she stop? He said, yes it was time. So she did (unbeknownst to me at the time). I dropped in for a visit a few weeks later (we always had a cup of tea together) and Esther answers the door, wearing a hat. In her house. Told me the tale of her encounter with the dermatologist. To which she added, ”I’m staying in the house and I’m going to wear a hat until my natural color has grown out. I won’t be coming to church this winter.” I chuckled. Oops, sorry. Not really a laughing matter. 

It probably felt like forever to Esther, even though she wore her hair quite short. Several months later on a Sunday, she walks down the center aisle of church, meandering to her usual ‘reserved’ pew with exquisite snow white hair. She looked like a million bucks. Her hair was beautiful. At the time I thought the whole notion of hiding, covering her head up was kind of silly. Not anymore.

I was in the bathroom about a month ago when it hit me. I’m done. Right now. D. O. N. E. Not going to color my hair again. Never realized in the back of my mind, this had been simmering for at least 20 years. Maybe more. You know what a quantities shopper I am. It’s a rare occasion if I run out of anything. Well, if I’m not gonna use any more hair color, I wonder how many boxes of L’Oréal I have stashed  in the cupboard? Goodness there’s 7. Ugh. There’s 60 bucks I’ll never get back.

One time where buying ahead has not saved me money. Oy vey…

My hairdresser said hair grows about a half inch a month. I wear it short, still it’s going to take 6 to 8 months, which now feels like an eternity. Oh Esther, I apologize. Right now is the time I should be getting out one of those L’Oréal boxes. If I tilt my head an inch forward there’s quite a bit of gray in my part line. Looks gross. Yesterday I was shopping and walking behind a gal quite a few years my junior. She had shoulder length auburn hair with about 2 inches of gray roots. I wanted to give her a hug in shared sisterhood of solidarity and mortification, but she seemed quite unconcerned with what was going on with her hair. Good for her. I flip-flop somewhere in between admiration and revulsion. 

I am aware how long (and hard) this winter is going to be. On the inside and outside of my head. I haven’t faltered or changed my mind however. Although I never realized it, this decision has been something akin to having a weight lifted off my shoulders. When I told Hubs I was ‘going gray’ and needed to shop for various beanies and hats, he laughed. After spotting the flying daggers aimed at his heart, he suggested a 6 month stint in witness protection, far from everyone I care about, I laughed. No, I can’t hide out while my natural hair color emerges. Landon’s senior season of basketball starts in a couple weeks. I’m not going to miss any part of it. But I will be sporting an Ann Arbor Pioneer stocking cap to games this year. 

So done with brown hair. If I hate my gray, I’ll go back to my evil ways…

Truth be told, I’ve seriously been hat shopping. Thanks for that Esther. I wonder what color my hair will be when given the chance to be free and naked?  I’m hoping for striking white, but feel strongly, given my root situation, it’s gonna be just plain salt & pepper-gray with white. Not too drab I hope. There is some concern for the inside and outside of my head. Gray matters abound…

One of my favorite movies has this great quote (memorized by one crazy fan). The movie is “What about Bob,” starring Bill Murray (as a guy with lots of mental health issues) and Richard Dreyfuss (as his frustrated therapist). Dr. Leo Marvin is asking Bob about his background.

Oh yeah, Neal’s still got it, 2016…

Leo: Are you married?

Bob: I’m divorced.

Leo: Would you like to talk about that?

Bob: There are 2 types of people in the world. Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t. My ex-wife loves him.

Leo: So you’re saying that even though you are an almost paralyzed, multi-phobic personality, who’s in a constant state of panic, your wife did not leave you. You left her because she loves Neil Diamond?

Our first home purchase, Sioux City, 1973…

I think these 2 types of people (lovers of everything Neil and the few odd freaks who don’t) have similar aspects in our libes. At least one.

In nearly 50 years of marriage we have bought 5 homes which account for about 38 years of wedded bliss. (Altogether I think the total is 16 moves to homes in varying degrees of niceness. About a dozen of those years, the broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted early ones were renting places because our stay wasn’t long or we didn’t have 2 nickels to rub together, let alone a hefty down payment). Except for a couple of questionable rentals, one house in Spencer, one in Worthington, most just became our home after we lived there a few months.

Spencer rental 1981, Josh, 6, Adam, 2. Home was made from cement blocks. Brrrrrr….

How come as a teen I detested being home with a passion but once I got married, ‘home’ (shitty rentals, humble first, or very nice lake home) became my sanctuary? I’ve never suffered from anxiety issues (at least it’s not a phrase I’ve ever coined when describing myself) but about as close as I come hits me with this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach a couple days before we leave on vacation. I simply don’t want to leave. My house. Not a feeling of impending doom like we’re going to be in an accident, or meet with some disaster. More like heading out of my comfort zone where I don’t have as much control. I would rather stay home, protect my little crib, (ha, that’s kinda funny when I type it out. I’m about the least likely person to protect anything) cook my food, sleep in my own bed and use my bathroom with Little Nemo swimming happily through my tile wall.

Davenport stucco, neat home, it was huge, 1985…

There are 2 ways this feeling usually goes away. Once it’s a done deal and I actually leave. Most often my vacation ends up being a fantastic experience. Or if Hubs or someone else stays behind in the house while I’m gone. I don’t know why I abhor leaving my hovel unattended. But I feel loads better when someone stays behind to watch my little pad. I feel like I need to ‘mark my territory’ or wrap the house in bubble wrap. It’s not like we have much inside or out, but this strange feeling seems to follow me wherever I hang my hat.

Rambling ranch and best neighbors ever, Jackson the first time, 1989…

There are probably some of you who are furrowing your brow and thinking, what is wrong with this crazy old broad? It’s a dang house, easily replaceable, get over it. Nothing’s going to happen and if it does, deal with it. Although it’s not fear of something happening to the joint, but more how much better I feel when I’m in it. Are you thinking, Holy Hanna, anytime I can stay in a nice, clean, fancy hotel, eat out at great restaurants, go sight seeing and have no day to day monotonous responsibilities? I’m in. Their home may be exquisite but to a wanderlust it’s just a house. Somewhere to eat, sleep and shower when they need time to plan their next adventure. There are places they wanna go, things they gotta see. Can’t do that from a Lazy Boy. (But I like the Lazy Boy).

Yes, much like Big Bird, I too have a nest…

I want to see those places too. I’ve stated my whole life, I have no desire to cross the big pond, there’s too many exciting places in the US I’ve not visited. And no, I’ve not forgotten my trips to Europe-2 years in a row. Think of it, twice! (Thanks so much Shannon, both trips were beyond amazing. Something I’ll never forget or regret). But I never went through life, jotting down place after place on my plastic pail list either. I didn’t long to see Italy, France or Germany, it just sort of happened, although it was unbelievable. Plus, Hubs stayed behind and stood guard over my tiny dwelling so I could rest easy while I was gone.

Only home by a lake, North Muskegon, 1998…

So how come I can’t be carefree, leave at a moments notice and not fret about my little homestead (and being here) while I’m gone? What in my DNA causes me angst unless I’m in this exact spot doing my regular routine? (I might need therapy-if I only knew someone). I don’t think it’s age related because I’ve been like this my whole adult life, but I do fear it is getting worse as I age. I enjoy being here. I long to stay home. I’m hypnotically drawn back here after short stints elsewhere. After work, I simply can’t wait to get to my little crib. I don’t want to stop 5 different places running errands. Or go out to eat. This is my sanctuary. I’m comfortable here and safe. Sweat apparel is approved by management, makeup’s not required.

Our present dwelling place right after we landscaped, 2016…

It’s not that I don’t get cabin fever. After 2 days on the inside, there is a sense of urgency to go somewhere-anywhere. Drive the Jeep, stop a few places, interact with some other humans gracing our earth. But after a couple hours, that need has been filled and the urge to drift homeward is strong. I want to be home. Does anyone else feel this way about their little residence? Are these feelings unhealthy? Do I care if they are? While envious when I read of friends traveling around the country, there haven’t been many times when I wished it was me instead of them. I like being home. No, I love being home. I’m ok with that, just wish the longing and needing part to always be here would be a little less annoying and intense…