If you’ve been following my blog during the past 4 years, you pretty much know there’s not many subjects I won’t talk about. Besides politics. Politics are fiercely personal. Most of us STRONGLY believe one way or the other, but as a rule tend to hold these beliefs close to our vests. I try not to argue with friends who have views different than mine, because it just causes hurt or hard feelings. Who wants that? Besides, I’m not gonna change their mind and they’re sure not gonna change mine. For the most part, I have no trouble baring my soul, faults, aspirations (a haphazard attempt to make you think I aspire to anything) misgivings, shortcomings and sins in front of others.

My favorite spot-Niagara Falls, on my way to Paris, 2017…

This is different though cause it’s more of an uncomfortable or embarrassing story. It’s about our house. Can you believe we’ve been here 3 years already? I pretty much included you guys with our remodel, taking you along through the purchases, frustrations, decisions, lost furniture. Deciding to take out a wall to enlarge our bedroom. Remember when I couldn’t find the shelves to a couple of my antique china closets for months? So all of my Delft and Waterford sat in boxes while I searched every nook & cranny. Recall where I finally found them? In the bottom of those long, narrow boxes with our framed pictures. Goodness. I wasn’t ready to hang stuff up until the glassware boxes were empty, but couldn’t find the shelves. Pretty funny now, but at the time, very aggravating.

Our house turned out great. Small, but we’re comfortable here, it suits our needs. New appliances, floor coverings, paint and more paint. New driveway, sidewalk, plus an addition on the garage. Hubs is somewhat satisfied with our yard thus far. We had no grass to speak of which drove him crazy. One huge hollow tree, only shrubs on the east and north sides, which were as tall as the house. We tore out the east side, had the hollow tree removed, and left the privacy shrubs in the back. Planted new shrubs, a couple of gorgeous trees added 6 tons of river rock and edging.

All of our new cute, little shrubs. Wow, everything has really grown…

The room that needed the most work was also the smallest. Our bathroom was HIDEOUS. No lie. Window was moldy, tub was indescribable. We kept the toilet. That’s it. Had the room tore down to the 2 x 4’s and started over. Eliminated the tub (caught some flack for that, “it’s gonna hurt your resale not having a tub.” Don’t care, we’re not gonna use the tub and we sure don’t want to step over it for the rest of our lives) tiled the floor, walls and step in shower. It’s the nicest room in our house. Truth. Nothing fancy but very nice. Couldn’t do anything about the size-it’s small with an abnormally big-ass window smack-dab in the shower. I hate it but we didn’t want to buy new siding (the siding and furnace were the only 2 things we didn’t have to spend money on). So far. 

My bathroom buddy, Nemo…

We didn’t start on the bathroom for 6 months. There was a shower stall downstairs, plus the questionable/but usable sink and toilet upstairs, so we made do. After picking out everything for the rest of the house, we just needed a little break. When our contractor was ready to tackle the bathroom during the spring it was actually fun again to decide on cabinets and fixtures. Tile pattern, size, color was a tough one. I loved the one I chose, a mixture of grays/blues and khaki. But when Duke started tiling the walls it didn’t look anything like the pattern I picked out. Lovely but predominantly shades of grays/blues, missing khaki. Didn’t really matter but we picked out shower door trim, faucets, handles with a khaki base in mind, so chose oil rubbed bronze. Had we realized the tile colors were more grays/blues we definitely would have gone with brushed nickel. Our bathroom is fabulous and I’m happy with the results. 

The “real” Nemo….

Now this might get a tad uncomfortable. Shouldn’t be, but having a conversation about doing anything in the bathroom constitutes TMI don’t ‘ya think? Me too. No matter, that’s never stopped me before, so here goes. 
I’m anal (oh boy, here we go with the butt jokes) about my phone. A 3 year old iPhone (dropped 3 times, starting in Italy, 2016) which I treat with kid gloves. In every room of our house, I set my phone in exactly the same place. Why? Because I’m very deaf and have a lot of trouble figuring out which direction sound is coming from. Although it rings infrequently, for my peace of mind, I need to know where to look when it starts ringing. Placing it in a familiar place let’s me locate it quickly. 

Look carefully, here lives Nemo, Jesus & Tinkerbell….

I don’t like bringing my phone in the bathroom. Who wants to fetch it out of the toilet should it take tumble number 4? Kind of a double edged sword. For safety’s sake I should have it in case I fall. So for the most part my phone does tag along in the bathroom when I shower, but I don’t fart around (a feeble attempt at potty humor) with it. My phone sits safely on the back of the toilet while I-well you know. Which is a complete waste of time. Why would God design us this way? Seems strange. Needing to flush (that’s 3 and counting) our bodily wastes frequently, day and night. I hate using the bathroom. But since my bathroom is totally awesome, my reactions remain mixed. 

Oh good Lord, it’s Jesus…

Who knew as I sat on the pot, my tiled walls are as eager to tell stories as I am? Indeed. Not long after my beautiful bathroom was completed I spotted a perfect Clownfish on a tile. Little Nemo-swimming happily at eye level from the pooper. I know it’s cute and disgusting all at the same time. Other creatures have since randomly appeared-only to disappear the next time I’m using the facility. But not Nemo. And he brought with him an unusual variety of characters to happily live together. Jesus and Tinkerbell. On the same tile. Oh my word. You do have to use your imagination however.

Several times daily I search for more recognizable friends imbedded in my line of vision to keep us company. But most have been reluctant to join our little soirée. Marlin (Nemo’s daddy) has been a no show and I’ve heard Dory is making laps with the blue wave. Nemo’s joined the swimming group from the red wave. Politically, they are are now sworn anemones. Hope someday they again see eye to eye on such matters.

Tinkerbell is a bit harder to envision. Use your imagination….

John just walked past and asked what I was doing? When I didn’t answer immediately, he ventured, “you’re blogging, you know I’m gonna read it when you’re done.” While it’s no big secret, I didn’t know how to describe my strange star studded tile bathroom blog attempt. After hem-hawing around, I told him of Nemo’s existence. Nonplussed he quips, “have you spotted the uniformed Star Trek soldier with Deanna Troi, hovering over him, touching his face yet?” WTH? Pray for me, Hubs has gone Looney Tunes…

Let’s go back 5 years. I retired from Parish Visiting. Our lake home was on the market longer than we dreamt possible-without a nibble. We had followed suggestions and pared down our overstuffed abode in anxious anticipation of our next move in more than 20 years. We were so excited at the prospect of not driving 150-180 miles to see the rest of the family. So many changes coming, just not as fast as we had expected or hoped.

A celebration! Opal turned 100…

You know I have this weird compulsion/obsession/habit with anything to do with making lists. I love note pads, from tiny free ones to odd sized and costly. My stash. Where my ideas are stored, often forgotten, only to be discovered again-usually with a smile. Anything from my mundane grocery list to blog post stories. Just teensie idea seeds-fermenting, ready to sprout. I have notepads all over the house, my Jeep, my purse, even on my nightstand. A suggestion from my friend Cindy in case a bright idea comes to me during a sleepless night. As if. That little journal remains as barren as this great grandma, but the ones in my purse and car have been bearing fruit for several years. Mighty strange how inopportune the timing can be when a thought crosses my mind and I jot down a story line for my blog. Or when I notice something’s missing in my overflow cupboards downstairs which I’d forgotten to write down.

Blog post ideas. Umm, it could be fuller…

One of my more obscure journals for the last decade is about my canning exploits. Sometimes in great detail. It didn’t start that way. Merely a way of tracking what I canned, plus where I bought the produce and how much I paid. Some vendors at the Farmer’s Market just carry better produce for a gooder price (didn’t want to use the word better again). I end up going to the same dealers every time. They get to know you and aren’t offended if you try and dicker the price down a bit. I had no idea on how much I really canned every year until I started jotting down the total number of jars that sealed their way through my kitchen. Boy was I surprised at the number of jars. This was during my busiest years of visiting. These visits always included some of my homemade pickles or jams unless the folks were in a nursing home. (Then they received a small loaf of banana or pumpkin bread or a half dozen cookies).

What I brought along when I visited folks…

At the peak of my canning frenzy (which only lasted 5 years) my total number of jars canned was between 1,100 & 1,400 jars. For one year. Oh my. If you consider the number of jars we consumed, maybe 100-150 tops, that’s still an awful lot of jars setting around. (I think per chance I was possessed). There’s never been any left over from the previous year. I made and gave away hundreds of jars in gift baskets plus brought a couple hundred jars along to Iowa every year. But I digress. This is not about the actual jars I canned, but about my journaling on canning and my all around decline since 2015. No more wacky sidetrack paragraphs.

Just missing my pickled beets cause Hubs hasn’t brought them downstairs yet…

Knowing how wordy I tend to get, it comes as no surprise that the first couple of years, my 10 word descriptions of a day in the life of canning would expand into mini-blogs equally several paragraphs. Sigh. Maybe since I’m not very talkative anymore, my continued writing or tapping out of words was to be expected.

End of the year canning total when I was possessed…

I realize I’m no longer at the top of my game physically. But until a couple of weeks ago, I was working 25 hours a week, carrying around 20 plus pound babies 6 hours a day. Still, how much the last 3 years have affected me is evident by my simple canning journal. I canned a bushel of apples into sauce last week. (Sorry Hildonna, I’m still using a paring knife to peel the apples). First time in my life, I had to sit down to peel the apples, because I’m having issues with my right leg. Ugh. I was optimistic-yet realistic when I drove to the orchard, so instead of buying 1 or 2 bushels of Northern Spy’s for pies, I pared (lame apple peeling joke) down that little number to a half bushel this year for a couple of reasons.

1. Our apple pie consumption is down for the first time in decades. 
2. Neither Hubs nor I need ready to eat pies in our freezer. Ever. Really. 
3. Even sitting to peel pie apples, I gotta stand to roll out pie crusts, mix the apples with my secret ingredients, crimp the edge, top w/ milk & sugar, seal the outer edge with aluminum foil, which is all very time consuming.

First pot of apples ready to go…

So after the applesauce was canned, I decided not to make any pies this year. I should also tell you this bothers me. A lot. It’s selfish and stupid. It really bugs me not to make my pies because of physical issues. I don’t want things to be wrong with me. You know how I detest change of any kind. And I had just resigned myself to let the dumb pie making go this year. Until I got out my old canning journal. What a difference a few years make. In July of 2012 I bought 3 bushels (yes that’s really three) of cucumbers ONE DAY. Do you know how perishable they are? You can’t sit round the house for a week deciding when you’re going to can your famous (yes, I’m gloating) Bread & Butter Pickles. Chop-chop Neese, time’s a wasting. I canned 63 pints on Tuesday and 97 pints on Wednesday. Dang. I mean it. Dang. It was quite common for me to make 100 jars of jam-a day. Who does that besides Smuckers? After one such we-be-jamming-day, my last journal sentence read, “it’s 2 am, think I’m gonna have to crawl up the stairs, my feet hurt so bad.”

Deaf person-running dish water-epic fail on watching apples boil over…

On one of my more lengthy written observations was a day when I did 14 batches of Bread & Butters which took 10 hours (and the prep work was done the day before. Hubs sliced all the onions while I rinsed the cukes and snipped the ends). I discovered after I started a batch on the stove, just as it began to boil, I started a second batch. Cut at least 2-3 hours off my long day. I felt so smart. At least for that day.

Finished product (apple sauce) looks awesome, 2018…

I knew when we moved to Jackson, my big days/months/years of canning were coming to an end. No longer visiting 30-40 people a month, so my canning gift baskets were down to a minimum. Gave Goodwill hundreds of my empty jars before we moved (don’t go there, I’ve bought 12 dozen jars since last summer-referring you back to the possessed canning poltergeist living within). But it was my choice/lack of need/ to take my canning bingeing down a notch when we got here. Not because I’m not physically able.

I know not why I’m compelled to write at length about everything…

Yet I’ve been pitched curve ball after curve ball since we whittled down our living space here in Jackson. About 6 months after we moved (February, 2016), my left leg decided it needed to be lugged along side of me like the loose limb of a zombie. I doctored, did therapy and limped for a year, yet it’s still only about 75%. Three months ago, pain and swelling in my right leg, which hasn’t gotten any better. Waiting for a second opinion on what’s exactly wrong with one or both of my limbs.

Beets are-messy. Neese as backup to “Maroon 5”

The last produce I can for the year are always pickled beets and cranberry sauce. I love both and freely share my beets with the world. Cranberry sauce-not so much. I make 15 pints a year, and I eat a dozen. Truth. I eat a pint a month. (If you should ever get a pint of my canned cranberry sauce-consider yourself very special. Same goes for canned meat or spaghetti sauce. You’re highly revered in my book, just saying. I rarely part with those 3). One of my fondest memories of eating supper as a family when the kids were young is about pickled beets. While no one else ate them, a jar of beets was usually on the table. When I asked for them, Josh & Adam would do these rap like noises with their mouths and start snapping their fingers ‘to the beet.’ Neat to remember those silly supper moments.

Here’s the reason for the pretty maroon fingers…

I recently went to Muskegon to visit my friend Joann, and stopped at the Farmer’s Market. People of Muskegon, you are so lucky to have this great produce market. A month earlier I had made 10 phone calls trying to find Concord grapes around Jackson. Finally stumbled across some, paid a fortune, made a few jars of grape jelly. Then, while in Muskegon I spotted a gorgeous half bushel of Concords for 15 bucks. About cried. Let me reiterate. Since moving away, I miss 3 things about Muskegon. My friend Joann, The Farmer’s Market and Lake Michigan. Period. And not necessarily in that order.

Aren’t those jars gorgeous? Yum…

Beets are not as temperamental or delicate as most produce. I waited a couple days before I pickled them. You boil them until they’re fork tender like a potato, dump them in the sink to cool, slip off the skins and trim both ends. Then I hauled them to the dining room table so I could sit and dice them. Sigh, yes another first-sitting to dice beets. Then comes the stand up part. The beets go into a delicious syrup which kinda makes your eyes water. Strong smell from tons of sugar and vinegar with a dash of water. (Still the best part of pickling beets. Those little shits actually stink while you’re cooking them. Hubs always finds something to do outside. He hates both smells though, the cooking and pickling part). So ‘ya dump 10 pounds of diced beets into this ginormous vat of syrup so they can simmer for 5 minutes, (which takes a long time to get back to a simmer). But then you’re practically done as you fill scalding hot jars, turn the lids & rings pretty tight and wait for them puppies to seal with that distinctive pop.

One of our favorites, canned meat, redskins and fresh green beans. With cranberry sauce…

My pickled beets netted me thirty-six pints. And I felt like I had been rode hard and put away wet. So stinking tired. After 36 pints. Makes me want to weep. What happened to my stamina a mere 5 years hence? I don’t know. But I do care. Hoping once my legs heal (Orel Roberts-where are you) or are fixed surgically, I am back. Not stronger than ever-necessarily. Just stronger. Cause I’m beet….

Muskegon Lighthouse on Lake Michigan with high winds. By Mike Dixon…

I’m constantly reminded how fast time is zipping by these days. One of the biggest culprits is Facebook. Every couple days when I open Facebook, I’m surprised by a picture from my memories. Could be from one year ago or 5. It’s my option if I want to ‘share’ the photo again. I’m always shocked when I read, “Denise, we care about you (right). This is from your memories 4 years ago.” How can that be? I swear it was just last year! Upon further inspection I see how little Graham was and realize yup, had to be at least 4 years ago. Too fast. Slow down. 

Our Halloween craft project, a dirt cake cemetery in 2013, Graham 4…

Another ‘tell’ is my old calendars. I jot down little snippets, doctor appointments, grandkid’s events we attended, when or where we go somewhere. It’s easy to page through if I’m looking for something specific. When I buy a new calendar I use my current one (adding yet another year to whatever I want to be reminded of) for keeping track of Mom & Dad’s anniversary, special folks in my life who have passed away and how many years ago. Maybe that sounds morbid but it isn’t to me. While looking through the month of October, my eyes stopped on the 19th, and I realize Mom’s been gone 14 years. Can’t be true. Seems like she just called me yesterday (I can hear her voice distinctly) telling me how much she loved me-the night before she passed away. 

Mom, looking lovely in 1992…

Whenever the kids are around if I mention I’m looking for a gadget or need something, the first thing they say, “did you look for it online Mom?” That’s simply not the way I’m wired. I was raised/taught/encouraged/nurtured to literally ‘shop’ for the things I need. That’s why God made Malls. Duh. Who in their right mind would actually order an apple corer off the Internet? (All of my kids if they needed one). My Internet interest span gets seriously twitchy when I’m looking for something in earnest. Everything seems to take too long. That obnoxious little gizmo-the disappearing/revolving circle which means your iPad or computer’s still busy working/working. Drives me insane. This is not something I notice as I’m wondering around a humongous store and not finding what I want. Then again, I lived a much larger portion of my life without the Internet than all my kids. 

Still computer illiterate in 2000, yet I look relatively happy…

For decades we had the 1.0 version of shopping online. It was invented simultaneously by 3 ambitious business men. Namely Aaron Montgomery Ward, Richard Sears and J.C. Penney. Each pretty much had it perfected by the time I was a kid. It was the stuff dreams were made of. All you could ever hope for and covet in your lifetime. It was called The Catalog. Spring/Summer, Fall/Winter versions, plus the best one of the year, (at least according to our kids), The Christmas Wish Book. Hundreds of pages, literally thousands of items-all for viewing at your leisure. No battery draining, no sketchy service interruptions. It was massive, enticing and in bright colors. All the models were thin, gorgeous and happy. The way life’s supposed to be. Slick, shiny pages, filled with endless choices of the latest clothing trends, shoes, linens, kitchenware, furniture, even your next new home! And pets. You could order dogs, and cars, plus more exotic animals like parrots. 

Mom loved Montgomery Ward’s Catalog. Me too, early 1960’s…

My Mom was the ultimate shopper. She was tireless. Driven. Although she was frugal in many ways and saving money was very important, she loved splurging. She didn’t feel guilty about these little binge shopping escapades either. Part of her savvy savings were earmarked for these special shopping trips. It was a rare day if she were not enthusiastic about a trip to one of the Sioux’s-Falls or City. Shriver’s, Younkers, Penney’s, Sears, Montgomery Ward, she loved and shopped them all. But she could just as happily shop in a nearby, smaller town with independent stores, who were more likely to carry different brands than the bigger department stores. Hokey pete, you didn’t want to walk into church on Sunday and see someone else with the same dress or suit on! Oh the shame.

No words for my coat Mom bought. But I loved it…

Before a new school year started Mom and I would peruse her new stash of Fall/Winter catalogs from The Big 3. (She also received the Spiegel Catalog, but we never ordered much from them). We’d pick out a couple of skirts, slacks and tops that coordinated, hoping that our picks were just a little different than the other moms and my friends. Mom wanted my clothes to be unique. For that reason alone, a good percentage of my school clothes were handmade, like all the sweaters she knit. Mom had an expert seamstress on retainer, thus ensuring my black & white houndstooth wool, fully lined Bermuda (winter) shorts were indeed one-of-a-kind. No one else in their right mind were on the same level of originality (as Mom) or me for that matter, to be wearing shorts during an Iowa winter. Knee socks helped, but still, brrrrr.

Showing a lot of leg for an Iowa winter. Loved the saddle shoes, knee socks…

 
Back in those days Mom did not have a credit card. She just added up the cost of the catalog items, looked on a chart for the additional shipping & handling charge and simply mailed a check with the order form. We’d both be so excited, waiting what felt like an eternity for our order to be delivered. I can still remember numerous packages, tissue wrap, (Mom holding all the straight pins), plastic bags scattered all over our living room floor, while I tried on new clothes. Mom had the final say on everything, including quality control of said garments. If the plaid pattern of a new skirt didn’t match EXACTLY from one seam to another-bam-she’d slap that thing right back in the package for a return. Shopping from The Catalog was about as much fun, but in a different way as an actual shopping trip. Weird.

Just pick out your house from the catalog…

The novelty of catalog shopping didn’t wear off after I grew up (I know that’s still up for debate) either. Catalogs were bigger, brighter and competition remained stiff. Those marketing guys were crafty. Suddenly one catalog arrived which was slightly smaller in size. What! Just as the rest of the catalogs were getting bigger and bigger. Why? So the smaller version would be placed on TOP of the rest of the catalogs in your house. It would be picked up first. Sneaky bastards. 

Oh my goodness…

But there was something special about literally ‘going shopping’ which held so much appeal for Mom, and later me. While walking through the store, my eye was drawn to a piece of clothing. I found my size, grab an item off a circular rack, held it by the hanger, swinging it frontwards & backwards. Touch the fabric to decide if it’s worthy of a trip to the dressing room. Unless it was for Joshua or Adam. Neither were avid (clothes) shoppers, so when I brought home new clothes for them, they were usually agreeable. Shannon-not so much. She was ready to pick out her own clothes when she was 3. Whether I went along for the ride was entirely up to me. 

Shannon’s choice, Mom and I were along to pick up the check…

Still, the allure of The Christmas Catalog was overpowering when our kids were small. From approximately 1975 to 1985 the arrival of the Christmas Catalog somehow transformed our once semi-neat, happy home into something between, Children of the Iowa Corn and a shark feeding frenzy after a ton of chum had been dumped in the ocean. They’d immediately fight over first rights just to ‘look’ at the catalog without someone else gawking over their shoulder or trying to turn a particular page too soon. Sigh. Like king of the mountain. Each kid would grab a crayon, pencil, ink pen, or magic marker and circle the toys that could and would make their young lives complete. If only that tight ass Santa would come through. Yes, I still harbor a huge grudge against Santa. He didn’t exist in my home growing up. Imagine my surprise when our toddlers would echo their daddy’s sentiments about the tubby white haired guy. “No, mommy and daddy can’t afford that train Josh. Why don’t you ask Santa for it?” (Are you kidding me)? Too late to take those words back, but he’d get an earful in bed that night!  “John, who’s got Santa’s financial back here? We can’t afford the toys you’re promising he’s gonna bring. Why do you do this to us every year?”

The reason for many fights in the fall, The Christmas Catalog…

Much has changed in the shopping department since our kids were small. Still, when I need something, my first thought is ‘hmm, where’s the best place to start looking for solar shades?’ A couple hours later, exhausted from limping my way through a couple hard copy (retail stores), I dejectedly conclude the Internet is now my only best hope. Although the days of our kids fighting over The Christmas Catalog used to drive me to distraction, I’d love a do-over sometime. 

The fights were over, just waiting to see what Santa brought. He got credit for all the good stuff…

By the time our third kid got ahold of the catalog for their top choices, pages were missing or ripped, other kid’s choices scratched up or torn out out with a vengeance. Like a horde of grasshoppers descending on a crop of munchies in biblical times. Epic. The beat up sad, tattered Catalog was now filled with barely recognizable toys bearing either multiple circles around it, an “X” marked next to, a pastel heart or the sign of the beast. All that remained unscathed was a pristine page of girdles. Great. At least I’d wouldn’t have to suck in my gut during the holidays…

Don’t take my title here literally. I really wasn’t around when rock & roll debuted. That was a bit before my time. Music was a different world when I was a kid. I remember very little about radio music (elementary school music and church hymns were the 2 biggies in my life) before I hit my teens in the mid-60’s. I do recall fighting with my sister about listening to the radio before we went to sleep at night. She wanted country music on when we were in bed. I wanted quiet, she didn’t. She had the prime spot next to the nightstand and was almost 8 years older than me. Needless to say, I lost that battle. 

One of my first concert experiences. The Roof Garden at Arnold’s Park, 1966…

I think kids today have a bigger interest in music at a younger age than I did. They know all the popular artists, plus every word from their songs. I didn’t have a huge interest in TV or radio as a kid. Until I saw The Beatles. Namely Paul McCartney. Hubba-hubba. And I didn’t get to see him as early as the rest of the world’s teenage population because I couldn’t watch the Ed Sullivan Show (or Bonanza) on Sunday nights. I was in church from 6:30, attending  RCYF (Reformed Church Youth Fellowship). After our youth group concluded, we headed upstairs to catch the evening’s sermon (no sneaking out of line and trying to dodge the rest of the service. Every parent looked over as we filed in. They knew in an instant if you were not among the kids you always sat with). A whole new world opened up to me once Paul professed his longing to hold my hand. And love, love me do. Even when I’m 64.

Paul, my favorite Beatle…

So by junior high the girls I hung out with had numerous slumber parties and music became a much bigger part of my life. In my book, no one ever quite measured up to the Beatles, but there were tons of popular groups. The Beach Boys, Dave Clark Five, Rolling Stones, The Monkees, The Buckinghams, The Temptations, Mamas & the Papas, The Animals, Simon & Garfunkel, Elvis, Neil Diamond (a close second to the Beatles for me), The Righteous Brothers, The Supremes. I’m sure I’ve missed some of my favorites, the list of musicians and fabulous songwriters from that great era were endless. 

Neil, 2017 concert…

One of the earliest entertainers I ever remember watching on TV was Liberace. Anyone remember him? He was flamboyant, outrageous, quirky and wildly talented. What he could do to a set of ivory’s was amazing. I thought he was a hoot, and my Mom loved him. I’ve been thinking about Liberace because of a concert I attended Friday night. That’s right. This little concert groupie with the gimpy leg checked another item off my Plastic Pail list. Namely, Sir Elton John. That’s right folks.

Daredevil P!nk swinging, singing on a trapeze, Truth about Love concert tour…

As soon as I realized Elton John was doing a “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” tour I texted my daughter-in-law Erica (who’s really our concert junkie in the family). Wouldn’t ‘ya know, she already bought tickets for herself and Josh. Well nuts. I had checked some of the ticket sites and knew there was no way my other go-to concert buddy, granddaughter, Ariana could afford a ticket. They were sinfully expensive. But Shannon was willing to sacrifice an evening and go with me (she really doesn’t care for concert type venues). 

Adam Levine, Maroon 5 at the Palace of Auburn Hills…

Six months zip by and suddenly Elton’s concert is upon us. Shannon and I are meeting Josh and Erica at their house and going out for supper before heading down to the fabulous new Little Caesar’s Arena for the 8 o’clock show. Josh & Erica know Detroit like the palm of their hand and delight in choosing different restaurants for us to try. But it was a Friday night, and we had to eat relatively early so I wouldn’t be rushed before the actual concert starts. Geesh. We finally decide on Mexican Town, not new but one of my favorite spots. (Last time we ate there was a couple years ago when Flat Stanley was our house guest for a week. Now that little guy could pack away the fajitas). We snarf our way through 2 baskets of piping hot tortilla chips, salsa and guacamole dip. Mexican Town is famous for their margaritas, but not tonight Neese. I can’t be half tipsy when I’m trying to pick out a t-shirt or find my way to the cotton candy kiosk before the big show. And who wants to get up during an exciting concert, (sitting squarely in the middle of my long row) to run to the bathroom? 

Sir Elton John, Little Caesar’s Arena, Detroit, 10-12-2018…

After ordering modest amounts of food (mini fajitas), platters the size of small yachts are placed in front of us. None of us made a very big dent on our delicious Mexican fare. Couldn’t take the excess food with us either as we were using Uber to get from here to there. (My first time for that too). It had been sprinkling since Shannon and I arrived in Detroit, by the time we were heading to the concert it was a steady drizzle and very cool. But the wait to get in the arena (everyone had to go through a metal detector, and they totally checked every inch of my purse) wasn’t 10 minutes. 

Elton scorching those ivory’s, 2018…

It wasn’t as early as I had hoped though. A mutual split second decision for a slight detour was made to get in line to buy souvenir paraphernalia before finding our seats. First top I saw hanging above my head was a grey zippered hoodie with a large gold sequined E (for Elton, focus people) was moderately priced at $125 dollars. Oh my word. No thanks, but I saw several being worn during the night. Since my arms are always cold I don’t favor short sleeves. Tried on a long sleeved T which hung down to my (sore) knees. Nope. Chose another from the large assortment, meanwhile Erica wanders over, shows me her shirt when the clerk hands me the T shirt to try on. “Good choice, this one’s only available tonight and tomorrow, exclusively for Detroit.” “Sold,” I say happily. Erica’s face fell, she mutters, “man, I should have gotten that one.” Salesman dude was very gracious and swapped Erica’s first pick for our limited edition Detroit super cool shirt. 

Part of Detroit’s skyline, made with a capital E…

The concert. No opening act and Elton walked out on stage at 8:05. He’s prompt. He starts off with one of my favorites, Ba-Ba-Ba-Benny & the Jets. (I’ve been singing this one since I started working because we’re on our second little boy named Ben). I didn’t recognize another song during the first hour which was disappointing. Elton used the backdrop to show lots of pictures, some sad, some silly about almost everything, people, wild psychedelic images. The second hour had more of my favorites, Rocket Man, Daniel, Crocodile Rock. He only changed clothes (and glasses) twice, basically sang over 2-1/2 hours. After leaving the stage at the end of the concert, he came back out in his dressing gown (what a riot) and ended the night with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. 

Elton sang his heart out, 2018…

I guess I would describe the concert on the whole as sedate. Elton, like Liberace, enjoyed embellishing his musical numbers. Almost like a rehearsed ad lib. Added 5-7 minutes to many numbers, playing the piano accompanied by his band. Maybe the people in the top shelf seats stood the whole time singing along, but no one did in the nosebleed section. It had nothing to do with his age (or even mine). I stood for most of Neil Diamond’s concert and EVERYBODY sang along with almost every song. Sweet Caroline, DAH-DAH-DAH! Good times never seem so good, SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD. I mean that was crazy awesome. Elton did tell tidbit stories about his life, one with a picture collage about the AIDS Foundation he started in the 80’s which has raised over 200 million dollars. 

Farewell T-shirt, exclusive for Detroit venue…

Elton John gave a good concert, though not a great one in my humble opinion. But not one I’m gonna be thinking about with a smile on my face for years to come like when I remember the concerts with P!nk, Maroon 5, Paul McCartney, or my all time favorite, Neil…

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road…

More often than not my boss is right on track. Once in a while I’m left scratching my head, but not too often. Basically, she’s got a lot on her plate and usually rises to the occasion. She has a lot of love and empathy for all of our children and it shows in how she treats them. Even the kid (not one of our babies, but much older) misbehaving in the lunchroom. Well, bless his heart.

This is our dining area lunch table. Yes, it’s that low…

I don’t know if she was purposely looking for something or stumbled upon a program she brought to our attention this spring. A new way of tracking what we do to and with every baby in our care during the day. Our old way was a printed sheet of paper. Parents filled out their baby’s name, the date, how their baby fared during the night and the last time they ate (the baby, we do not care when mom and dad last partook). These were the top 3 lines. The rest of the sheet was divided in 2 sections with several columns. First, eating and diaper changing took up about 8 lines. We noted the time, if it was solid food, a bottle, wet or poopy diaper. Then scribbled our initials in the last column. There was a space for a comment in case he refused food, ate half, fussed for more, or had a red hiney that required diaper cream after a diaper change. The last small section was on when and how long they slept during naps. 

Enter the new program designed to simplify our lives on how we track our babes throughout the day. (This geriatric dinosaur has so many issues with change that requires brain power). Tracy brought in a laptop for us to use. I’ve not used a computer since I got my first iPad over 6 years ago. Normally I’m the one who opens most mornings, thus it’s my job to get the computer out, plug it in and set it up for the day. I did not remember how to turn on a computer. Michelle had to show me. Several times. Slowly. The laptop had no mouse. I can’t do that whole hocus-pocus thingy with my finger. (My index finger, come on, get serious) Ninfa brought in a mouse from home. (I tell you I’m more work than I’m worth). Luckily the babies love me, or I’d be no use to anyone around here. 

Part of our younger baby section…

I had hoped to get rid of our ginormous dry erase board once this Neanderthal learned the computer ropes, but it’s still needed for timing diaper changes and food/bottles. Three columns, starting with their name, when their diaper is due to be changed, plus the next approximate feeding time, whether it’s a bottle or food. We find some babies can go a bit longer than their schedule, others need their food or bottle several minutes before. Kind of a loosely timed demand schedule I guess. We’re not going to let a four month old cry very long before we get his bottle. They fidget, suck their fingers, complain and you just know they ready to eat. The bigger kids tend to congregate by the kitchen gate, trying to hunt you down as you pass by (often to get that complaining little one his bottle). They all have their own tell. Little shyster card sharks. 

On the new computer program all of our babies names are on top. You click on their name, scroll (yes, I can scroll) down to the appropriate category (there’s a whole lot of them) but usually only the top few are most frequently used. Solid food, bottle, sleep, diaper, cup, incident report, or activity. The activity button includes things like tummy time, playing with others, going outdoors, art project, or the category I use everyday, brushing their teeth. I remind them as they’re finishing a meal it’s dental hygiene week (dental hygiene week is every week, the toddlers just haven’t called me on it-yet) and I’ve set the timer for 90 seconds of rigorous brushing, which usually garners me some blank stares or a waving of their hands with a yada-yada-yada. Although they tend to get excited when I bring them their tooth brush and sing the song about brushing. And unless I’ve cleared their table or tray tops, you’d be surprised how many brush for 30 seconds, fling that sucker across the room, and go right back to eating, after they solemnly swore they were “all done.” They are not to be fully trusted where food is involved. It’s a learning process for them and me. If I don’t get sidetracked, we brush after breakfast, but there have been days when it’s during a lull in the morning (a lull lasts approximately 38 seconds) or after lunch if they’re not too tired. 

Scary, but the bigger kids love this thing. Steps and a slide…

The keyboard has been my biggest stumbling block. At home I use an iPad mini. Phones have grown to the same approximate size. Keyboard letters are very close together. You know how wordy I tend to be? So I want to add a note to some things I accomplished with their little one. “He loved his Mac and cheese, but I made the mistake of mixing in his veggie. Although he loved the broccoli yesterday, he managed to maneuver every single piece of cauliflower back out of his mouth today. Amazing to watch really.” Try typing that when the keyboard letters are about a mile and a half apart. Mistake is my middle name. And I’m anal about mistakes. So this takes me a LONG TIME. The rest of the girls waltz up there and are gone in like 30 seconds. Saying the same darn thing! But I think it’s those  insignificant comments which mean something to the parents when they’re reading the email they get after they get home. How well their baby fared. I don’t want to group 4 babies together to say, “they ate pizza, applesauce, and drank 4 oz. of milk. If he flicked his toothbrush and filled my face with spit while brushing, well Mom can just visualize that little scenario as she reading that night. Smiling, I hope. 

So we have this category I don’t use frequently but I love it. It’s called Milestones. None of my children were in daycare, but as a parent I would guess this category would be a love/hate relationship. You want to know what your baby’s doing and if he does/discovers something, but you want them to do it at home. In front of you and daddy first. I get it. But. If I’m holding a 5 month old and she has a tiny rattle in one hand, should she move it to the other hand, I’m gonna put that down in a the milestone column. At least until mom says, “oh yeah, she’s been doing that since last weekend.” Same thing when they get up on their knees and start rocking, army crawling, drinking out of a straw from their sippy cup for the first time. If I notice a new little saw blade tooth has popped through a gum while she’s laughing when I’m changing her diaper, it’s gonna get jotted down. I’d want to know. Sorry new mommies. This caregiver is sharing. And dang proud (right along with you) of their little and major accomplishments. 

Table & chairs to practice climbing…

The new format has gotten easier, but I’m still painfully slow. At pretty much everything. While this bothers me tremendously, the babies tend to be quite patient when I’m doing something with them. Like singing. They’ll forgive almost anything if I’m singing a song for them. Any song or commercial jingle. They care not that I’m off key, or when I’m making a complete fool of myself. The goofier I act, the more enthralled they become. And really, who am I trying to please-teach-nurture-entertain? The babies. That’s right. It’s why I show up, and buy stuff for our room. Making the best home for our babies when they’re not at home….

This snippet in the life of Neese started in February, 2016. Walking on a beautiful, dry, winter afternoon when suddenly I got a searing pain behind my left knee. A golf ball sized lump appeared. Doctor visits, misdiagnosis, physical therapy, steroids, and cortisone shot helped but it’s never been the same. Can’t pivot at all either way and at times it feels like my leg won’t support me. (Hubs often feels the same way about supporting me). Sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I stand up and walk. Still, it’s 75% better than it was 18 months ago.

Just look at all my perfect bones. Neese, 1954…

Couple months ago, a routine day, worked from 6-1, then ran several errands. Several being too many. By the time I got home my RIGHT leg was on fire. Starting on the inside of my lower thigh, heading under my knee to the back of my calf. Swollen, tender, I used ice gel packs and anti-inflammatory OTC. But after 10 days it wasn’t any better. Sigh. I called for an appointment with my primary care guy. Dr. Arntz poked around said he didn’t like where the swelling was, and suggested an orthopedic guy in his building. Made an appointment but it was a month away because it had to be my day off, a Friday or late afternoon. The discomfort was pretty bad, so I called back asking if there was anytime sooner I could come in? The best she could do was put me on the cancellation list, probably only a day or few hours notice, but my name was added. Never got the call though, he must be a busy guy.

A week before my appointment (Friday, my day off) and my to-do list is extensive. You know weird stuff happens when you have something wrong with one of your big limbs. You unconsciously adjust your gait to try and make it hurt less. I felt like I had shin splints. A couple of toes had blisters from walking awkwardly. The pain was down a titch, but not much.

From the back, Pam, Shirley, Neese with the great knees and Char, 1968…

First on my list that day was meeting my friend Diane for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. As I was leaving home, I got into the Jeep and felt a sharp twinge in my lower back. Tingled all the way down my left leg for a few seconds (not the good kind of tingle). When I got to the restaurant I gingerly got out and felt another bad back twinge. Oh hells bells. After catching up with each other’s lives for 90 minutes, it was all I could do to get up off that straight chair without crying. OK, my to-do list just shrunk to 0. No way could I stop half dozen times and get in and out of the Jeep. Plus walking around. I came straight home. The upside of this? My back now hurt worse than my leg. Yay.

I still had most of Friday through Sunday to heal before work on Monday. Ha! Ironic. Working at FCC has been a trip. I was literally sick for the first 8 months. Caught everything the babies threw my way except hand, foot and mouth. I worked through bronchitis, pneumonia, sore throats, cold after cold, my sore leg (which took over a year to feel somewhat better), until I built up some immunities to those little buggers (the babies and their good natured way of literally sharing everything with me). Only to have my back go out. By Sunday night the thought of bending over to pick up anything about made me cry. Standing or laying down wasn’t too bad, sitting however was almost impossible because I couldn’t get into an upright position for at least a minute. After finally managing to hoist myself up, I was still hunched over, legs shaking and my back unable to straighten. But within a minute or 2, I was standing somewhat normally and could walk pretty good.

Char, gal from Canton I can’t remember & Neese’s brown knees, 1962…

So I hobbled into work Monday morning, knowing I couldn’t stay once the babies (who am I kidding, over half of them weigh between 20 and 30 pounds now, they’re practically teenagers) arrived. But I did get our room set up and ready for the day. When Liz showed up, I explained my sad state of affairs and crippled my way back home. Did the same thing on Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon though, most of my back spasms had stopped. Whew. They were wicked. Piercing, sharp pains that sucks the breath right out of you. Feels like you’ve latched onto an electric fence. Zap. Happened sometimes just moving a couple inches, but most often whenever I tried to bend over. An inch or a foot, didn’t matter.

Wednesday I tried to work. Big mistake. It is impossible to work in our room and not pick up crying babies, bend over, or move fast to try and prevent a disaster. One kid can now get our door open so you gotta jet if he pulls the door handle down. Someone else spits up on the floor and the rest of the gang find that puddle fascinating and want to investigate. The high chairs need to be washed, (they’re low to the ground) floors need to be swept again and again. That day was my longest ever. (And I love our babies and work) My reprieve was a 30 minute lunch break, but sitting down hurt worse. I lost 3 days of healing by working those 7 hours. The spasms were back twice as bad. Didn’t think Friday and my doctors appointment would ever get here.

1953, with perfect limbs…

After filling out 5 pages of new patient info, a nurse leads me to X-ray. Well this was different. She did not want me to lie down, but instead climb 3 crudely made wooden steps which were covered in red out door carpeting. The railing resembled part of a walker where you place your hands as you shuffle forward. No need to remove my slacks, socks or shoes. She snapped front and sideways of both knees which I thought was odd. Back to the waiting room for a couple minutes before my name was called.

Small exam room, painted gray. One wall was filled with framed MSU & U of M and the Lions football pictures. Not an avid fan of any, I only recognized one. Desmond Howard in his now famous Heisman pose. Although one of the Lions pics could have been Barry Sanders, but I don’t remember his number. My X-rays were snapped on a lit up frame of bright white. Dang, those knees look pretty darn good. My legs look rather slim. Sweet. Shades of light and dark grays, some stark white spots. (Why I didn’t snap a couple of pictures while I waited I’ll never know. Old school and I don’t think that way).

These are not the joints that are gonna give me grief. Really???

Doctor Kenyon (pretty close to my age I think) waltzed in, shook my hand asked how I was doing? What’s wrong? Told him about my 6 weeks of pain in my right leg, then proceeded to my aching back. “I don’t do backs. Here’s a guy, practices in Ann Arbor and Chelsea. He’ll fix your back.” Hands me a card.

We were 2 feet apart, Kenyon was facing me, and other than glancing at my X-rays a couple of times, he talked right to me, so I don’t think I missed much of what he said (though soon I was in a state of shock and denial). “Both your knees are in horrible shape. It would be fraudulent of me to order an MRI or do arthroscopic surgery. Total knee replacement is your only option. You’re missing cartilage, it’s bone on bone in spots, see this big white spot here?” I nodded numbly. “That’s a huge bone spur. You’re growing extra bone which is trying to replace what you’ve lost. You’ve been walking so badly, your tibia is starting to turn the wrong way.” WAIT. WAIT. JUST. ONE. MINUTE.

“Um, do you actually mean my leg bone is turning the wrong direction,” I asked incredulously? “Yes, that’s what I mean, but not just your right leg. Both of your tibias are turning.”

Tibia, tibia turn around,

Tibia, tibia touch the ground.

Tibia, tibia go up the stairs,

Tibia, tibia say your prayers…

Yet, through it all she maintains her warped sense of humor. What a trooper!

Now I knew shock was setting in. I don’t remember laughing hysterically, and he didn’t get out the straight jacket, so I think I kept my near surface meltdown at bay. For the moment.

“I’m gonna give you a cortisone shot. Should help for a few months, but I wouldn’t wait too long. Call me when you’re sick of the pain. Whichever knee hurts the worse, we’ll replace first,” he concluded. Stuck a needle under my kneecap, and pushed hard. Yikes. Done. And walked out.

I admit I haven’t been able to sit on my haunches like this for a decade. Me with neighbor baby Cindy, 1957…

But. But, my aching back. Knew I was gonna have another miserable weekend if I didn’t get something to help with the back spasms. Crippled out to my car, called the office I had just walked out of and asked if there was any way someone from my primary care team could see me today. Yup, my doc’s assistant could squeeze me in at 2:30. Drove home, ate lunch with an ice pack on my back. Lezlie listened to my symptoms, felt around the hurting spot (C-4 she surmised), took me off work for a week, wrote a script for a muscle relaxer and suggested X-rays. I love her. She’s the gal who treated me during my 6 weeks of bronchitis/ pneumonia bout 2 years ago. While she had strongly suggested I spend a few days in the hospital, she was fine with me coming back and forth to the office a half dozen times to check, change prescriptions and order breathing treatments, but not be hospitalized.

I waited for my prescriptions, stopped at the Professional building to get the X-rays taken, and limped home. Talked it over with Hubs, who was as surprised as me with Kenyon’s assessment of my joints. John has hip issues and our son-in-law Tracey’s had total knee replacement. Tracey recommended his orthopedic doc, who’s supposed to be one of the best, so I will be getting a second opinion as soon as I can get an appointment. The back spasms have stopped, my knee feels the same-pain wise, plus very stiff.

The bees knees. Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

Something occurred to me after Kenyon said I was walking strange, causing my bones to curve. At work as I leave the lunchroom, I walk down a hallway which faces a 30 foot long glass frame hanging on opposite wall, at the t-intersection where I turn left to go back to the baby room. Right now that humongous frame is full of candid black and white shots of kids from all of our class rooms. But I can see part of my reflection in the glass as I walk. Often I think, why do my legs look so weird? Almost bow legged. I walk like I have a cob up my butt. Holy moly. I’ve really been blessed, fortunate with relatively great health. But this surprising diagnosis has knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute. Paging Dr. Carpenter…

After you’ve said your ‘I do’s,’ there might be a gauzy wisp of a vision of growing old together. But you never actually realize what your life will be like after 49 years. Together. Still with the same person. Who knows you better than anyone else. And has hung around through thick and thin. In it for the long haul. We’ve got fortitude and endurance.

Didn’t spend big bucks on elopement wedding pics. Olan Mills special, 1969…

The first couple of decades are normally dedicated solely for the parenthood section of marriage. Trying to raise your incredible creations. Only for a limited time. Just as amazingly, this offer is only for the two of you. These 3 children, available exclusively for John and Denise. Think about that for a minute. There would be no Shannon, Joshua or Adam (or subsequently our 4 amazing grandchildren plus our picture perfect great-granddaughter) had it not been for the elopement of John and Denise. Forty-nine years ago today in Elk Point, South Dakota. Took all of 4 minutes and we were hitched. Joined as one. My how He has blessed this union. Thanks God.

Our party of 5. Joshua 7, Hubs 34, Shannon 11, me 31, Adam 3, 1982…

We talked about it occasionally, but you really don’t ‘see’ yourselves literally growing old together. One of my friends refers to this part of their lives as ‘the 4th quarter, extra innings, or overtime. With the divorce rate still hovering around the 50% mark, it’s great to see silver, golden or beyond anniversary notices popping up. We have become a throw away nation, choosing frequently to toss relationships away as easily as our trash. Rather than stick together, try harder or repurpose.

Yikes, prom 1966…

I’ve always admired single parents. Holding down 2 jobs or more, trying hard to be mom and dad to the children you want so badly to grow up as responsible, kind, productive, hardworking, sincere adults. I don’t think I had the ‘right stuff’ to be a successful single parent. I thought child rearing was hard enough with 2 loving parents in the game. Glad I’ll never have to find out what I’m made of in a single parent home.

Worthington Iowa, with Joshua 1976…

John and I both have some quirks, most barely noticeable after nearly 5 decades together. One of his is, he likes to read the paper. To me. Drives me insane. Why? Because I love reading the newspaper. By myself. Especially a real one. Crinkly, it has its own smell and feel. Fits in my hands. Only happens 3 times a week. The Rock Valley Bee, Thursday and Sunday’s Jackson Citizen Patriot. Every other paper I have to read on my iPad. Ick. Still hate that. There is something special, sacred about sitting down with the daily newspaper. Now the Sunday paper is a fraction the size it was 10 years ago. Hubs, no need to read to me just yet. My ears are faulty, due for a recall, not my eyes.

Too cool for captions…

Our life together is one big ritual. We each have assigned tasks, most of which were never really assigned, just assumed. I’m the better cook, driver of cars and washer of clothing. He can fix anything, does the mowing, snow removal, and fertilizing. I weed my awesome pachysandra bed of ground cover and trim our new landscaping. He handles all grilling, or smoking of pork butts and ribs. He has just started to help me some when I’m canning. He vacuums 95% of the time, I do dishes about the same percentage. I hate sweeping floors. Wish he loved to sweep, but he does not. Dang it.

Both captivated by someone at Les & Mary Jane’s house, early 2000’s…

Is there a certain weird habit/ritual you’ve done for decades in your marriage, yet are reluctant to acknowledge? Or maybe you’re not even aware of its existence? We have one. I doubt John has ever realized it’s what we both do. I would dare bet, he’s never given one single thought there’s a quirk we share. A constant we never change, without thinking about it.

Grandparents day at Landon & Peyton’s school, 2009…

We’re both fond of popcorn at night when we’re watching TV. However, John’s popcorn tastes better than mine. (I think he uses more butter). Yet he thinks I make better popcorn. (I use less salt, so he actually tastes the popcorn). What this really means, while both of us want popcorn, neither of us want to get up and make it. Which takes about 5-7 minutes. No microwave popcorn in this house. Beyond gross. Yellow Jolly Time kernels live here. In bulk. Along with real butter. I believe we are on our 4th Stir Crazy Corn Popper. I know, crazy, right?

Visiting the Falls in Sioux Falls…

The Stir Crazy has a wide base which heats up to achieve the same temperature as Hell. A clear plastic dome sits on top of the base where all the delicious kernels end after they’ve popped from hell’s extreme heat. The dome holds enough popcorn to feed a packed theatre of starving teens, showing a first run horror movie. Or just enough for John and Denise. But here’s the conundrum. While we both like popcorn (who am I kidding? It’s one of my favorite foods, along with fresh tomatoes and cotton candy) while Hubs just likes popcorn. And we like it different. I don’t want much salt, but plenty of butter. He likes lots of salt and lots of butter. Thus after the corn is popped, half of it has to be put in another container, before the condiments are added. Which has always been an old Tupperware bowl. OK, here’s the quirk. Whoever makes the popcorn gets the Stir Crazy Dome. Unwritten law since the beginning of time, roughly September 22, 1969. The remaining lazy ass, reclining in the family room, waiting impatiently for the maker of popcorn to add melted butter, salt, unscrew my lid of Diet Pepsi, hand me 2 paper towels, gets the old Tupperware bowl. EVERY. TIME. The holier than thou person, maker of night time popcorn always gets the dome. Always. How did this even make it into our marriage rules? Don’t know, but yet it remains. In between ‘Denise will be too lenient with the kids, John a bit too strict.’ Just above, ‘do not flap the covers after you fart?’

Hitting our stride in year 15 or so…

These rules/family values/even our quirks have been in existence to help this marriage thrive and survive for the last half century. We’re not about to change what works for us. I’m sure every couple has their own serious and whimsical set of ideals on how to coexist with another person for 49 years. They might be etched in stone, or loosely tossed around during margarita Monday’s. Whatever works-to make it to 50…

The maker of popcorn always get the best bowl. Crazy, I know…

To the one who does nothing, the old Tupperware bowl is sufficient…

I’ve not had many bosses during my life because I haven’t work outside the home very long. Some bosses were terrific, some terrible, and others somewhere in between. I blogged about my favorite boss a couple years ago. His name was Mark and he was 3 notches above terrific. He owned several McDonald’s restaurants. I never witnessed him being unfair to an employee. He treated everyone with respect and always went out of his way to be approachable and kind. The world needs more Marks spread around the business world.

The best boss-ever. RIP Mark…

We took a quickie trip to Iowa late this spring. Shannon’s been wanting to go and had a few days off. Next year is my 50th class reunion (yikes) so we’ll be staying for several days, thus no guilt about a shorter jaunt this year. We probably over stay our welcome most years anyway.

Peyton tagged along which was a trip in itself. She got acquainted with cousins she rarely gets to see. Plus she learned how to drive a golf cart, tooling around the tiny village of Langdon like she owned the block, (silly girl, everyone knows that honor belongs to John’s nephew, Ken. And yes, Langdon’s only about a block long and wide). Learning to drive anything, that fabulous new-found freedom feeling might have been the highlight for her, minus the time she drove smack dab into the tree in front of all of us. 

Peyton & Shannon…

We squeezed in most of the important things on our ‘to do’ list. I know it might appear that visiting relatives came in dead last after prioritizing everything else from Wells Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream (everyday) to picking up a couple pounds of dried beef and 8 old fashioned ring bologna’s in Orange City, then continuing with Almond Patties from Casey’s in Sioux Center. Lastly heading further south to Scheels in Sioux City for some Iowa gear (go Hawks).

Love my new Iowa shirt…

Yet we did manage to visit much of the time. Quiet early morning chats or late night talks with Hubs sister Elly, his nephew Ken’s family, including their grown children and John’s 2 brothers, Les and Jim and some of their families. A large, boisterous group met us at Les & Mary Jane’s early Saturday afternoon, (cousins swim time) then ate at Archie’s in Le Mars for supper, then went back to Les & Mary Jane’s after we got the boot from Archie’s (kidding, we were all pretty well behaved). 

Just like Hubs & I ate when we were kids. Red ring bologna, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut. Sorry about the drool…

We spent a fair amount of time with our nephew Andy, treating him to ice cream at Wells and lunch at Bob’s Drive Inn. Bob’s, one of the few places which advertises Taverns on the menu. The Taverns are not like the recipe I make however. Good, but not the same, more like a Maid Rite. Andy had just moved back to Le Mars after a stint in New Mexico. It was great to see him and we enjoyed our time with him a lot. Love you Andy. 

Shannon, Andy (1st cousins) and me after Wells ice cream…

On Sunday morning we met for breakfast in Le Mars. A place on Highway 75, which was packed and busy. Like many small town’s eateries, a few strangers and passers-by, but mostly the same weekend crowd. Families meeting on Sunday after church, a couple big tables sporting same age young families with small children, where high chairs, Cheerios and sippy cups abound. All one-upping each other on the prowess of their own amazing offspring. 

Cousins, Peyton, Marissa and Miranda by the iconic Wells ice cream dish…

We were a party of six (Les, Jane, Shannon, Peyton, Hubs and yours truly) and were shown a table far from the front entrance, which was ok with me. I was hoping for less noise. I always sit with the wall on my left side. (My left is my lesser hearing ear) so found myself facing one more row of small tables against the restaurant’s back wall. The back wall was partly covered with paneling, a chair rail and paint. My eyes were immediately drawn to 3 small crudely made signs taped just above the chair rail. 

Are you kidding me? In full view of several tables of customers. Dipstick…

Oh my stars! Who is this asshole named Kent? Doesn’t he realize actual paying customers are privy to his immature rantings plastered for everyone to see all over the wall? How can anyone work for such a douche? And why would they? I forced my eyes away and looked at some of the help scurrying about. Nope, they were neat, hardworking, and appeared to be busting their hump trying to serve good old Kent’s customers great service and hot food. Wow. The pay must be fabulous. If I saw a negative, derogatory sign like this where I work, I’d be sorely tempted to paste old Kent right in the kisser. 

Not a lot better, but at least a polite ‘thanks’ appeared…

What contributes to the making of a good boss? How can one be the best guy in the world while another is just a plain dick about stuff? (I first named this blog post-Kent, the dick… Then decided that was as insult to my good buddy Dick B, the car guy, so had to come up with some other title without the word dick in it. Does not have the same ring though. I really, really liked Kent-the dick. It just fit). Communication skills are a must when one is a boss. Well, Kent does communicate, I’ll give him that. But not in a positive manner. He’s rude, crude, and condescending. Yikes, not too many complimentary terms of endearment here for Kent-the jerk. Well, what’s good for the goose, is good for the gander. With 3 small signs, Kent managed to place an inexpensive piece of inanimate equipment far above the feelings of his employees, (and in a way, his reading customers). Well done dick-um-I mean Kent. Mission accomplished…

Yes, he really says, “if I see you being disrespectable you will buy it” Kent…

It was one of those beautiful, late summer days when I was healthy and happy. We were living in North Muskegon, on Muskegon Lake, at the bottom of a hill. I didn’t particularly enjoy living at the bottom of the hill because this narrow strip of land was only a couple blocks long and wide. Everything in the world except Muskegon Lake existed-on the top of the hill. And it was pretty steep to get to the top. 

My favorite color combination…

I’d been walking every day for about 3 years. Meaning if I wanted to walk farther than 2 blocks, I had to trek to the top of the hill. After 3 years it was no big deal, but those first 6 months took everything I had just to huff and puff my way to the top of that little hill. What made this sweat inducing jaunt worthwhile wasn’t really at the top of the hill either. It was literally the ‘hiking to the top’ part. North Muskegon has more that their fair share of trees, like the rest of our forest infused state. The tree trimming code in Michigan states as follows: don’t trim anything-ever. Not even a twig. Let nature (wind gusts of more than 50 mph) do it for you. Free. I’m from Iowa and expect to be able to look west and see straight through South Dakota. We have near forest conditions everywhere I look, except when I’m at Lake Michigan.

Except, in the instance of this dang hill in North Muskegon. There were no sidewalks below the hill, so walking up or down is done on the road. Many mornings as you’re walking up, just when the altitude makes you short of breath (kidding, that was caused by rolls of fat, not altitude), this was the most picturesque scene. My breath literally caught every morning and not because of my slow/slug/slothness. The top of the hill was one huge wall of very dense green tree foliage. Varying shades of green, mostly kelly. Above this dense green wall of trees was the most vivid blue sky. Chicago Cubs Blue. Usually cloud free until noon. There’s always a time limit on sunshine in Michigan. One of the biggest differences between Michigan and Iowa. Iowa has abundant sunshine-winter and summer. Most days are split evenly between baby blue or sullen gray skies, but with just enough gorgeous ones like the Cubs blue sky to keep you walking up the hill everyday. 

God bless America. We will never forget…

I had my cell phone, but it was still more of a novelty and I hadn’t gone through the process of having it permanently attached to my body like a tattoo just yet. That would come soon enough when Mom and Dad started their decline, and an emergency phone call was no longer a rare occurrence. I was in my own little world. Listening to some funky music compilation from Joshua, my tech wizard kid. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Beatles, CCR, Pointer Sisters, but I had walked to the same music for 3 years! He changed all that for me.

My plan that beautiful day was to put on my Parish Visitor hat, so I was trudging up the hill by 7 and home again by 8:30. Cool down, eat some toast, shower and be on my way. The older folks I visited don’t get moving too early in the day, thus I was in no rush. Done with my walk, but still appreciating the hill scene with those stunning contrasting colors. I felt really good. 

The skyline before…

I’ve never been one to watch TV, especially during the day, so I was just ready to head upstairs when Hubs called me from work. It was right before 9. “Turn on the TV, a plane just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. How could they get so far off course?” I sat down at the kitchen table, clicked on the news and watched, horrified as the second plane crashed. Dumbfounded, it just seemed surreal. Mesmerized, I wanted to stop watching before I got sick, but was unable to pull my eyes from the TV. Or stop crying. OK, there’s definitely a loss of life through a few floors, but I honestly felt this was as bad as it was gonna get. Then John called back. “I think the whole building might come down!” I couldn’t come to terms with that. “I don’t think so, the damage looks to be on a few floors.” “Denise, do you know how hot jet fuel burns? It’s gonna melt the steel holding that building up.” The engineer was right.

Horrifying, 9-11-2001…

This still was not the worst. The news started covering the Pentagon crash, then the Pennsylvania crash. Thousands of people running away from the Towers, (as the first responders still continued to run into the buildings) covered with blood, ash in the smoke filled streets. But I will never forget watching in horror as people on the top floors-started jumping. Quite honestly, I could not believe what I was seeing. My mind simply couldn’t comprehend or refuse to accept this was their decision. At first I thought, why are they throwing stuff out the window? Just head down the stairs, you’re wasting valuable time. But they knew they weren’t going to make it out. As a psychologist would explain a few hours later, “this was the last decision these people could make on their own terms. Would you rather have fire and smoke consume you, or come to terms with your own impending death and decide how to end your life?” What an awful tragedy for America. Unbelievable how much some people, cultures, and religions hate us. I always thought we were the good guys and the world loved us. We help everyone. Naive Neese. More countries hate us than love us. Sad. 

There are no words…

Two things stand out in the days that followed. First thing happened the very next day, Wednesday the 12th. All the local churches were opening their doors for anyone to pray. For the victims, our country. Seeking solace through God. I drove to the closest church, got out of the car the same time as the pastor. I said something about needing some quiet time with God because I couldn’t understand or accept. He said, “this is our fault. America asked for this because we didn’t side with Palestine.” To me, this was as unbelievable as the folks I watched jump to their death the day before. And so began my disdain for organized religion.

Second thing happened a few days later. Muskegon had just built a beautiful mall about 10 miles away. I thought I was ready. Hopped on 31 south, got off on the exit and down a couple blocks to the stoplight. There was a Perkins Restaurant at the stoplight across from the mall. In Perkins parking lot was a humongous American flag, rippling in the breeze. Still flying at half mast. I couldn’t pull my eyes from that beautiful flag, commemorating all those lives lost. And here I was, trying to get on with my life. Pulled into the parking lot sobbing, turned around and drove home. Filled with guilt for wanting my regular life back when I hadn’t lost anything but my insensitive naiveté. No, I was not ready. I’ll never forget… 

We all remember…

Change is inevitable. Virtually impossible to cruise through life and not be affected by what happens to us, around us, or to those we love. How we respond to the good, the bad and ugly in life can help or hinder who we eventually become. Still, the older I get, the more I resist change. I tend to like things the way they are or used to be. 

3 year old Neese, busy making mud pies…

Even after I hit 40, I never gave a passing thought about the actual physical changes my body would experience as I aged. I watched my parents age, but their physical limitations never smacked me upside the head. Wearing blinders to avoid the inevitable. When I style my wet hair (using the word ‘style’ loosely as I really don’t have a style) my raised arm resembles a flag waving gently in the breeze. Or that my right hand would turn into some kind of gargoyle since the first of 2018. Stop growing extra bone, hand. Just stop. My younger Neese never realized age spots, wrinkly skin, and thinning gray hair (yeah, unable to face that one yet) would make an entrance and stay (uninvited) forever. While these minor changes are unsightly, even more disconcerting are actual changes which test my perseverance. My muscles are weaker, my vision’s fuzzy, my wrists, knees and shoulders snap, crackle and pop with any movement. And I certainly didn’t realize most of my hearing would disappear, only to be left with more noise than when I could hear. 

Graduation with Joshua, my early 40’s, no glasses or hearing aid-yet…

I wasn’t always like this. I remember how I used to be. Not trying to recapture my youth, I’m happy where I’m at. It’s only been 2 decades since I’ve become an introvert. No denying how drastic that change feels at times. When I remember the young Neese, I recall being quite social. Never the ‘belle of the ball’ but occasionally quick witted, rather outgoing, certainly outspoken, sometimes kinda funny, often smug and always sarcastic (ok, tiny pieces of old Neese remain-my sarcasm button is in relatively good shape and still under warranty) who wasn’t afraid of being front and center to get attention or a laugh. I was rarely subdued. Or quiet.

Never coy about being front and center then…

Maybe my slow conversion to aloneness started much earlier. Perhaps being a stay at a home mom (which I wouldn’t trade) for 20 years, (without a car) changed me. Lived in a variety of small towns, rarely staying long enough to get established. Spent everyday-all day with my kids. Since I’ve been such an advocate on spacing children (I’m a firm believer in spacing children at least 3 years apart. Goodness you already have a baby/toddler who’s now learning to walk, talk, pick out weird outfits, use the potty and move to a big bed. Why would you want to set him back a year by bringing another baby into his world)? However, maybe this is the single disadvantage of spacing. Geez, I had a baby/toddler/preschooler in our house for 15 years. Just get one kid ready for kindergarten and pop out another newborn. No, I wouldn’t change that either, though I strongly believe being alone all those years may have stymied my social skills. 

This is a spaced family, Shannon 10, Joshua 4-1/2, Adam 3 months, 1979…

No, I began morphing into a loner soon after I started losing my hearing. At least with me, my hearing loss and isolation went hand in hand. Firmly entrenched. The more hearing I lose, the smaller my world becomes. The isolation part is sneaky, subtle and somewhat depressing. It took me years to realize I was now a whole new Neese. Forever different. Not looking for pity. Compared to every other disease or chronic illness, my profound hearing loss doesn’t register a blip on the radar screen. Plus, look at all the folks my age or younger who are no longer with us. Kids (like my brother Larry) who never got the chance to grow up. Young people robbed of discovering true love or the incredible joy of a newborn baby. Nope, my hearing loss is nothing but a major annoyance in my life. A royal pain in the ass. Nothing more. 

This hearing aid is 8 years old. Time to replace, hoping for new technology…

One thing I believe is sorely lacking in the world today is empathy. Empathy is the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. It’s how we understand what others are experiencing-as if we were feeling it ourselves. Wow. Not sympathy, which is feeling sorrow for the hardships someone is going through. Wouldn’t an empathy app make lives better? It would be a roller coaster ride for sure. Emotionally draining, leaving us physically exhausted. So we’ll fix that part by limiting the length of our empathy app to 30 seconds. The knowledge of what others are feeling would linger indefinitely. But my amped empathy app would go one step further. For a few seconds we would literally ‘feel’ what they feel. Physically. 

Wouldn’t this be a godsend when you’ve got appointment with your doctor? “Doc, I hurt my leg 2 weeks ago. This is what I feel with every step.” Or, “I’ve been feeling this unbelievable fatigue for months. It takes everything I have just to get out of bed.”  Doc would literally experience a torn muscle or fibromyalgia coursing through his body. Might help with diagnosing and decisions for treatment and medications. Empathy-the app everyone needs.

Not me, but pretty much my life, yakking on the phone-before deafness…

While I wouldn’t wish my deafness on anyone, I’d like everyone to experience 30 seconds inside my head. Now that’s a scary thought isn’t it? Not the what I’m thinking part of my head, geez you guys are friends. Friends don’t do that to friends. Just briefly visit the noise department on the 5th floor. That’s all. I guarantee you would not go crazy because of time limits. You’ve all watched an old movie where an alien takeover forces everyone to fall to the ground while grabbing their head and covering their ears to help block out the screeching/sonic boom/loud sirens. That’s me. Deaf, but noise filled. This is my world. Welcome to it. 

Niagara Falls. Rushing water sounds fill my head even when I’m not there, too bad…

Little did I know, losing my ability to hear birds sing, crickets chirping and “listen to the rhythm of falling rain, telling me just what a fool I’ve been” would not make my world silent. I got the exact opposite. How is that even possible? When one goes deaf, shouldn’t the silence be deafening? Au contraire. I’ve got more noise in my head than U of M’s Big House-on game day vs. Ohio State. Filled with 100,000 rabid fans sporting maize & blue and scarlet & gray. Ugh. Nasty teams.

This is what TV looked like on every (3) station after midnight…

I can’t determine what you’re saying because of all the noise in my head. Reading your lips works, but I’m still a rookie. And it only works if you’re facing me. This major grievance began the same time I started losing my hearing in my left ear. Subtle and sneaky. The noise is similar to an old time TV station that went off the air. There was this circle sign with an Indian that came on TV when that particular network was done programming for the day, usually midnight. I called it snow. Kind of a loud, static noise. Which now rested comfortably on the top left side of my head. This was still OK because the hearing in my right ear was phenomenal. As long as I could keep this 20 mile an hour wind gust sound/static/snow/water waves on just one side of my head, I was good. 

Niagara Falls Rapids are one of my favorites-except I hear them constantly…

A couple years later the hearing in my right ear started going. Oh hell’s bells. Soon I had dueling banjos in my head. A wind tunnel/waves of water on one side and a revved up chain saw on the other. Awake and trying to function like a normal human during the day seemed to keep the noise decibels within the ‘I’m still sane on the range.’ But oh boy, watch out for nighttime. I was done working, done thinking, bone weary and sleepy. Until my head hit the pillow. 

The more quiet the room, the louder the noise. The noise is actually my brain trying to help me for the sounds my ears no longer hear or recognize. So this wacko brain of mine makes its own noise. Thanks. Loads. Which at times has come temptingly close to driving me over the edge. Because there are no distractions at night, only your thoughts. White noise (fan) helped for a few years when something odd occurred to me. I could no longer hear if the fan was on or off, so that strategy no longer helped keep the monster noises at bay. The irony is Hubs can no longer fall asleep without the fan. Ha-ha, it’s just a laugh a minute here. 

I begged my ENT, (ear, nose, throat doc) if he could eliminate the 24/7 noise in my head? Surgery, cut the nerve or something? Anything? Please, I’m begging you here. No can do, my deaf patient. The noise is constant, though not always the same sounds, loudness or frequency. Varies at times from a dentist drill, to an engine whine, but usually sticks with a noisy gust of wind/water. If I were using my 30 second time limit empathy app, my ENT could accompany me with the duo noise blast inside my head. Hopefully finding a solution to why this deaf person still hears way too much-but not much of substance or value…