I’ll be the first to admit at times I feel sorry for myself. The last couple decades it’s been about my hearing. Or lack of it I guess. 99% of the time it’s because I assume. Too quickly. I misjudge what’s been said. (In my defense this is usually done by someone behind my back-literally! I didn’t catch what was said to me because it’s all mumble-jumble when the person is not facing me. And I always answer wrong or say something totally inappropriate, trying to guess what was aimed for my ears-and missed rather miserably). 

I do feel sorry for myself at times. Lame I know, trying to change my ways…

When this happens, the person frequently repeats their comment. Often times quite fast. If I still don’t understand or look at them with a huge blank stare (that’s where the ‘duh’ from Duh-Neese comes in) on my face, I can see their patience has run its course. They turn away with a ‘never mind’ and I’m excluded. Whether it was important or not. At first I feel a hot flash of anger, which quickly turns into unworthiness. For this particular conversation, joke, or comment, I’m simply not worth the effort. Holy shit, you can’t believe how bad this makes me feel. Thin skinned I guess. Like I can help my deafness. Think I asked for this? Not hardly. When I start feeling negative about myself, God always comes through for me. With a gentle slap to the side of my head. A wake up call. To give my life perspective. Again. 

I’ll just call her ‘Sue’. We met 20 years ago through a mutual acquaintance. A few years older than me, she sure didn’t look or act it. Slim, blond, athletic and smart as a whip. A college graduate with a money-business-stuff-degree. We saw each other socially occasionally, but Sue lived in another city, so our friendship was sporadic, but endured. 

I began to notice a slight difference when Sue moved closer and we spent more time together. She just didn’t seem as sharp. It was harder for her to find the right word when we were conversing. Or she asked me the same question within a short time frame. She was retired but still actively played sports, held volunteer positions of importance. But something just wasn’t right. She had a couple of silly fender benders and seemed to have an awful lot of doctor appointments. 

Then we moved to Jackson 2-1/2 years ago, and I was no longer in Sue’s circle. Caught up with fixing our new little crib, plus getting my fabulous part time job, I completely dropped the ball. Saw less of Sue’s posts on Facebook and she never emailed me anymore. Or responded to me when I wished her a happy birthday. Called her a few months ago when I was in the area, but the conversation was disjointed. Wasn’t surprised to hear she’d been in another car accident, had been hurt but doing ok. She had company staying with her, so we made no plans to get together. But in the back of my mind, I knew something was very wrong. And that feeling never went away. I’ve thought of Sue a lot and made the decision to stop and see how she was doing the next time I was in town-with or without a phone call first.

And then along comes God with that gentle slap along side my head, acutely minimizing my silly disability. Stupid hearing loss. Pffft. Nothing. At all. Not a blip on the radar screen. Inconsequential. I figure it’s been about 2 years since I’ve seen Sue-face-to-face. You could have knocked me over with a feather after I rapped on her door. Stooped over, shuffling slowly towards the door, my heart just sank. Tears formed and I swallowed several times. I hope to God I recovered quickly. Can’t say for sure she knew my name, but there was a flicker of recognition on her beautiful face. “Hi Sue, I hope you remember me, it’s Denise.” “Sure. Sure I do, come in.” 

Miscellaneous small piles of “stuff” were scattered throughout her lovely home. Pictures with and without frames, recent mail just waiting to be put somewhere else. She’d had some work done on the house since I’d last been there and I complimented her great choices on the decor. Her home looked fabulous. I asked her how she was doing, and she said simply, “I don’t even know where to start. It’s such a mess. I feel like I’m in a prison.” I grasped her hand, pulled her to me and gave her a hug, which felt kind of lame. This must be hell on earth. Sue’s own hell on earth. I can’t even imagine. Holy cripes.

From our short visit, I believe Sue is on a huge precipice. She still fully realizes what’s going on with her mental and physical health and knows it’s down hill from here. Hell. She told me she has a guardian who takes care of all her finances. She no longer drives (which didn’t seem to bother her very much but really surprised me) and has several caregivers who attend to her needs and take her to her various appointments. (If I were still around I’d certainly bring her supper a couple times a week and take her for a ride). It gives me a lump every time I think of this savvy businesswoman reduced to this in the prime of her life. Hell.

I told Sue about a story I wrote, highlighting our mutual friend when I first started blogging. She asked me if I would read it to her? She no longer uses her computer. I found the post and read it to her. She nodded several times and smiled. Looked at the pictures and asked where I found them? After I was done reading, she asked if I could send her the story? I sent it to her via message. I was showing her how to find the story on her phone when I noticed she had 6,000 plus emails in her inbox. Over 6,000. Yikes. She’s never noticed. I suggested she ask one of her helpers to get rid of a few thousand of them for her. Don’t know if she’ll remember when they come back though. 

For me, our visit was gut wrenching. I wonder how Sue felt or if my visit bothered her? Sure hope not. She asked me to come back. I keep going over everything we talked about. I’m just sick about what’s happening to her. Hell. Sometimes it takes something significant in your life to serve as a wake up call. This was mine. How very fragile and fleeting good health is (along with piss-poor hearing, annoying at best). How lucky and blessed I really am. And I need to be more grateful, thankful and appreciate what God has given me. I’m gonna try to let those who choose to exclude me from a silly conversation after the fourth try sluice off me like water off a duck. Get thicker skin. Try and curb the negative feelings that accompany those minor details in my life. I have been blessed far more than I deserve. It’s been humbling but exhilarating to realize how very happy my life is. God is good. My blessings keep adding up. I’m still counting. Thanks God…

Words to hold dear…

I love rules! Doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow every one, but as a rule, I love them. Structure. Written documentation. In black & white. Waiting for my ever ready highlight marker. Helps me memorize the rules I deem important enough for instant recall. Where would we be without rules? 

These rules should be required in every little league park in the US. Just substitute your favorite professional team…

The babies. Right now we have 10 full time and 4 part time kids ranging in age from 3 months to 15 months. Don’t let that small 12 month gap fool you. It’s HUGE during the first year of a baby’s life. HUGE. The part-timers come on different days, but overlap on 2 days, giving us 13 babies for two days. Well guess what? That’s against the rules. I won’t state all the licensing code numbers every time I mention a rule because I don’t have them memorized. Yet. When our baby numbers exceed the rules, someone’s gotta go to the next room (ages range from about 1-1/2 to 2-1/2) for the day. It’s usually the oldest child we have who’ll be moving there anyway. They might fuss and sputter a bit initially. Different caregivers, different toddler faces, but it’s not long and soon they don’t want to come back to our room and we’re forgotten. 

Neat little rule that strangely applies to me…

We have an odd age assortment right now, because there’s almost no in-between babies (only one). They’re either 5 months or younger, or 10 months and older. Doesn’t sound like much difference, but you can’t actually have the little ones with the bigger ones yet. One age group is too helpless, the other too curious (about the too helpless ones).

Rules I try to follow for writing…

Another one of the state’s too-numerous-to-count-rules strongly suggests fresh air for all children in daycare. Pretty much any day there’s not a downpour, blizzard, above 90 or a windchill below 20 above. Right. Trying to time this in between bottles, solid foods, diapers, and naps requires a degree in PHD-dom. Invariably, one or 2 children can’t go outdoors for some reason, antibiotics or allergies. At any given time during the day, one or 2 will be sleeping or need to be fed, which usually means about 8 at a time go outdoors leaving me with 4 in our room. 

Another set I’m working on…

One beautiful afternoon recently (a 13 count day, so one of ours was visiting the one year old classroom for the day) Michelle and Marty lugged in 2 dainty strollers. I swear one of our strollers is the size of a railroad car. Bright red and white with shoulder harnesses and hold 6 kids! The other one is just a 2-banger. As soon as the door opens and the babies spot the strollers, all the one year olds walk, crawl, amble, lumber or scoot as fast as their chubby legs will carry them, squealing with delight. (Most everyone wants to go bye-bye. Even on bad weather days when walking our hallways is the only option, the kids are excited. Heck, everyone who encounters a red and white striped stroller loaded with adorable little people goes ga-ga over our babies). My stay-in crew of 4 consisted of 2 four month olds and 2 one year olds. 

One tiny tot was sleeping, one needed to be fed and the 2 big kids were making the rounds, destroying the room (it’s ok really, it’s their job). The amount of time spent outside depends, on average about 20 minutes to a half hour. Not including, slathering them all with Sunscreen, making sure all diapers are changed, finding hats, pacifiers, jackets, shoes, plus getting them all harnessed in and out of the strollers. A time consuming challenge. Before and especially after. 

A good set to reflect on occasionally…

So I was at the halfway mark of going solo. The sleeping baby woke and was sitting near me, watching the one year olds cruising from one shelf to the next, freeing every toy from it. They’re actually experts in this department. The fourth baby was ready for her bottle when a dad of one of our babies walked in. I said hi, he’s outside right now. Wasn’t why he was here, just bringing his son some extra food. He left and a couple minutes later the recess crowd started coming back in. And they were not full of unbridled joy. Weirdest thing. Happy as a pig in mud one minute and deflated, defeated, hot, cranky, hungry, and angry the next. I didn’t realize how closely the babies keep track of our big board. Big board has everyone’s individual name, next diaper change and most importantly, next bottle or food time written on it. Glancing at it, then at the clock they start by screwing up their little faces, going into a scowl that’s almost cute. For about 2 seconds. “Hey there slacker worker, I’m now 20 minutes late for my snack/bottle/diaper. What gives? Don’t think you can just rock your way out of this one. I. Am. Ticked. Tired. Hungry. And you’re gonna hear about it.” 

I. Love. This. One. It’s so me…

I can only remember one other time during my 2-1/2 years in the infant room that rivaled the next 20 minutes. Chaos ensued. (Think: the riots of the late ‘60’s). It started as a lulling crescendo into a category 5 hurricane in less than 2 minutes. I was in the baby section with 4 little ones, feeding one of them. The other 3 were complaining. But holy man, in the play area of the big section of our room was a virtual unison chorus of 8 unhappy voices demanding their needs be met. Me first. Food, diapers, naps all needed immediately. Can’t remember that many of our babies crying at the same time. Suddenly the adjoining door opens and I think, thank you God, someone’s coming into help for 15 minutes. Au contraire. Instead a voice politely asks, “can you take back Owen?” (Are you kidding me?) “No, we still have 12.” “But we just saw one of your dads park his truck.” (You watch the parking lot? Really?) “He was just bringing in some bottles,” I said as pleasantly as I could muster. Click went the door to their room. Over the roar I glanced at Marty and Michelle with a ‘can you believe what just happened?’ I totally thought they were gonna take one or 2 of our kids for a few minutes, not ask us to take another one in this chaotic environment. Oh well. 

Wasn’t but 15 minutes later when soggy diapers had been changed, a couple of tiny ones were sound asleep in their cribs, 3 bigger kids were in high chairs, happily and hungrily munching on their snacks, drinking greedily from their sippy cups. Ah, peace was restored. (Peace might be a slight stretch, but there are times when our room is pretty quiet. And yes, those 23 second increments, once or twice a week are always well documented and looked back with much fondness-when time allows). For the most part though, there is a quite a price to pay when we take the babies out for recess. All for those pesky rules I love so much…

Our clean dish drying mat. Comes out of the dryer with 40 Velcro bibs attached. Often the way I feel when I’m done working for the day…

My spring objective was to visit Iowa during May. Before Iowa’s insufferable heat and humidity arrived for a couple months. Before I started canning anything. Best laid plans. Nuts. Just couldn’t follow through. I blame Hubs. It’s the easy way out. His fault. It’s not like a brand new health issue hit him. He’s been hurting pretty bad for a couple years. So much he actually saw an orthopedic specialist 6 months ago. To John’s surprise (and mine) his x-rays showed nice cartilage around his hip.

Bridge overlooking Davenport and the ball diamond i used to frequent with Mary Ellen…

Huh? Then what’s causing all his pain? We now believe it started decades ago, about a year after we moved to North Muskegon. Joshua was finishing his freshman year of college, Adam was a sophomore in high school. First time living on a lake. Ah, the good life. Oh, please. John immediately bought a decent sized fishing boat, quickly followed by a bigger boat (few feet longer, so more area to cover when throwing our money away), plus a little fishing boat for the boys to use as long as they didn’t take it out on Lake Michigan, which was a couple miles away via boat. In case our new dock didn’t have enough shit now attached to both sides, Hubs bought 2 used Sea Do’s. (Just kill me now I thought as I watched them from the safety of my deck). The boys did some crazy stunts with those Sea Do’s. Trying to see how high they could make it ‘jump’ in the air when they hit a wave. Which John just had to try. Hubs, in his mid-40’s was pretty good at keeping up with the boys. But as he descended from his heaven bound water leap, he landed very wrong and his right hip has periodically given him pain ever since.

Not crowded yet, but the dock was soon packed with boy toys, ugh…

That was probably 1995. Doc thinks it’s arthritis and said if it got any worse, John could try a cortisone injection which should relieve much of the pain for months. And the pain has gotten steadily worse. Kitchen chairs, the car, bleachers bother him a lot, so he ends up standing much of the time. The more Iowa plans we (I) made, the louder the complaints. With about 10 days before we were scheduled to leave, I’d had about enough. He was not looking forward to sitting in the car for the better part of 2 days and it showed. “You know it’s not too late to postpone our trip,” I suggested. “Why not call the doctor and make an appointment to get the cortisone shot. See if that helps?” He agreed. So I let the relatives know and he cancelled our hotels, (not an easy task these days. I don’t remember them giving you such a hard time to cancel a reservation, but yikes they got kind of nasty about it) and made an appointment at the hospital to get the injection.

Hubs in the boat, brother Les doling out advice, 1996…

But I had already made plans to spend a couple days in Davenport. So while Hubs was resting his recently injected hip at home, I zipped across Michigan, a tiny bit of Indiana, all of Illinois to The mighty Mississippi for the weekend. In search of my favorite card game with some of my best friends.

Initially, I taught the group how to play well over 30 years ago. These gals have now made it their life mission that I not forget how to play double deck Euchre. There were 4 of us who were ADDICTED to that game for years. Two of us still play. My bestie, Mary Ellen passed away 5 years ago. I still get a lump when I think of her, we had such a great friendship. Our other constant card player has some serious health issues and hasn’t played for the last 2 or 3 years. That gives me a lump too. Mary Ellen’s cousin Betty was always one of our first phone calls when someone was gonna miss one of our marathon card parties, so she’s now slid into a starting position. Plus a new recruit/rookie (one of Betty’s Bridge playing friends, Connie has answered the call as our 4th since Pat can no longer play).

Our playing nights of 7 pm to 2 or 3 am have long passed us by. Now we start after lunch, play for awhile, stop and eat, play some more, graze again. We talk more, have more potty breaks, and constantly forget who’s turn it is to deal. And for the last couple years we’ve had a running argument. Betty doesn’t remember a couple of rules we instituted from the very beginning. But Jeanne and I both remember.

Double Deck Euchre

1. It’s always been a quarter a game, dime a bump, another dime if the loser is still in the hole when the game is over. 
2. If you go set on a hand, the team that set you gets credit for the tricks they pulled to set you. Example: I bid 6 Diamonds, but only take 5 tricks. My opposition gets credit for 3 tricks, plus I go down 6 points. 
3. If you’re ballsy enough to bid a 7-14 or 8-16 and make the bid, you’re  both paid a quarter on the spot by the other team. 

We’ve used these rules since 1985. I don’t care what Hoyle, the Internet or Wikipedia says, this is the way we’ve always played. Deal with it. Just deal-period, it’s your turn. I think. We always have a great time catching up with each other’s lives. Every time I hug them goodbye, I wonder if this will be the last time we’ll get together. You just never know what will happen in another year’s time. None of us is getting any younger, and I’ve always been the baby of the group. When Hubs is along, we stay in a hotel, ride past familiar landmarks, eat at our favorite spots if they still exist. Not the case since I’m alone, Jeanne invited me to stay with her. She had a bouquet of one of my favorite flowers, Lily’s of the Valley in my room when I arrived. They smelled so good. She’s a very thoughtful hostess.

Lily’s of the Valley to greet me in the guest room at Jeanne’s….

She hauled my sorry butt all over the Quad Cities, weaving our way back and forth across several bridges between Iowa and Illinois. Northpark Mall, a sports/fitness store called Athletic Endeavor because I was shopping for a new pair of Keens. And I could not be in the Quad Cities without a stop at Isabel Bloom. I spotted a new angel I really, really wanted, but could not fathom where she could call home in my house. There’s just not a spot for her. Most of my Isabel’s are larger statues and our house is no longer large. So I held onto my seldom used common sense for 5 minutes and bought a small butterfly. That was all.

New Isabel Bloom Butterfly…

Time spent went lickety-split, soon it was Sunday morning and I was ready to head back to Michigan. After I got home I thought of something Jeanne and I had talked about. How good a cup of tea tastes in the afternoon when it’s cold. I haven’t used a tea pot for years though. After my friend Rosemary passed away, she left me, I guess you would call it a hot water pot. An electric kettle. I had never heard of such a thing, yet I’ve used it constantly since I got it. It has a small coil in the bottom which heats up water fast and hot. During the winter when I get home from work John has already started the kettle for a cup of tea or my weird blend of Cinnamon-hot-chocolate-with-a-dash-of-instant-coffee.

My new Keens…

But that kettle gets used more often while I’m canning. It’s like having an extra burner on the stove. A constant source of boiling water to help keep my jars piping hot. Maybe Jeanne would like an electric kettle. A small way to thank her for the hospitality and driving me around for my mini-shopping spree. My goal was Bed, Bath & Beyond, but I only made it to Meijer, which had 4 different models to choose from. (Here I thought I knew every single product and where they’re located in that store, yet had never spotted electric kettles. Well color me embarrassed). I picked one, brought it home to wrap and take back to Meijer to mail. (I literally don’t know where the post office is in Jackson. And I hope I never have to learn. I buy stamps and mail all packages at the Meijer courtesy counter. Until a couple of days ago with the electric kettle under my arm).

The water kettle, coffee mug (which I just broke) and sugar bowl from Rosemary…

“Anything liquid, hazardous, glass, delicate,” he queried? “Nope, it’s just a kettle,” I said as he hauled it to the scale for weight and measurements. “Well, it’s just a tad too big for general delivery, so it has to go priority,” he continued, “that will be $10.18.” Using my awful hearing loss like a badge of honor now I said, “What? Are you freaking kidding me? That’s about half of what I paid for the thing. It weighs nothing. I need another price option.” “Sorry ma’am.” “Well, I’m not paying over ten dollars to mail this. I’ve changed my mind. This box has books, so I want it to go media mail.” “Umm, ma’am I can’t do that, you already said it was a kettle.” “Ok, fine,” I said as I grabbed the box and stomped out of my favorite store. Livid.

Set the box back in my Jeep and drove home. Plotting my next move. Next day I had to pick up Peyton at school on the other side of Jackson. After work I dinked around town for an hour, then headed to the other Meijer store closer to Peyton’s school. Walked up to the courtesy counter, kettle box under my arm. Plopped it on the counter, cautiously checking my surroundings like nervous Nelly. (I had thoughts of the courtesy counter dude from east side Meijer calling west side Meijer yesterday with my description. “Be on the lookout for an old lady trying to disguise a box with a water kettle as media mail. Call the FBI, CIA or the postal police immediately. She’s the very reason we lost 3 billion last quarter. Got to set an example, here and now. Get a warrant for her arrest.” “It’s books,” I fudged with a shaky voice. “My friend and I exchange paperbacks,“ I stammered. (Geez, that was lame. Forgot the cardinal rule when lying. KISS, which stands for Keep It Simple Stupid). “That will be $3.68,” she said with a smile. Handed her a 5 spot. Gulp. Done…

Until a few years ago, my fascination with movies (and celebrities) ran rampant. I just slowly lost interest for a variety of reasons. My hearing loss was a biggie. Many theaters offer headphones, which I’ve used for years. But even with the headphones, I struggle with dialogue. Anyone speaking with an accent, a soft or intimate conversation, or the most annoying, LOUD background music just drowns out and muddles all the voices for me.

Snuck out to a movie (horror flick) by myself. I’m still traumatized, 1962…

I’ve loved movies since I was a kid, but going to them was strongly discouraged. Ah, there’s part of the pull. Never been a fan of horror movies though. Got cured of that when I snuck into our local theater, The Orpheum when Dad was working overtime and I was 11. Didn’t realize what the movie was about (but strangely couldn’t make myself walk out either) and it haunts me to this day. When I got a little older and Mom and Dad couldn’t control my every move, much of my free time (and money) was spent going to movies.

There were some fabulous, fancy theaters in Sioux Falls and Sioux City in my heyday. Winding staircases about 12 feet wide (Hubs always preferred the balcony when we were on a date-no need for further explanation). But there was one more funky option for us when we wanted to go to the movies back in the day. The Drive In movie. What a concept! Probably not the best deterrent for an unwanted pregnancy however. Basically it just a cleared, fenced field of several acres, usually a few miles out of town. A gigantic white screen was the main focal point. Long rows of graveled, slightly elevated surface, evenly spaced with metal fence posts and a heavy alien like box hanging on each side of the post. You cozied your ginormous 1950’s-1970’s vehicle so this metal box was fairly close to the driver’s window. This was your modern day surround sound. Actually the sound was brutally shitty, but we loved it. Out in the middle of a field, pitch black, steamed up windows, what’s not to love if you’re a teen in lust, I mean love?

Might have been heading to The Wigwam after supper. John & I, 1965…

There was a small building in the middle of all these rows, with an office and space for running the film, restrooms, plus a good sized area selling concessions. Start times depended on the month. June and July it was still pretty light out until after 9 pm. The closest Drive In for kids living around Rock Valley was in Hawarden, about 30 miles away. It was called The Wigwam. I believe there was a midweek special (maybe Tuesday’s) where a carload of kids (or a whole family-but none of us were thinking about families just yet-at least not intentionally) could get in for a dollar. No, not a dollar a piece. A dollar a carload. I kid you not. What a cheap night of fun! We were young, carefree (and sometimes careless). This entertainment was a big part of my youth.

Hubs just told me about a night at The Wigwam (minus-me-his-long-standing-suffering-better-half). He had borrowed his brother Arlyn’s 1959 Thunderbird and had a couple of guys with him on the way to Hawarden. Another Rock Valley rabble rouser zipped past him doing about 100 mph. Gulp. And gave John and his buddies the finger. Instead of realizing they were telling him he was indeed number 1, Hubs took offense. Floored the T-bird and passed the dudes who had issued the errant finger. This was done on 2 lane hi-ways. There was some pushing and shoving when they all got parked, but it went no further. How did any of these yahoos survive their stupid youth decisions? Grace of God. Life wasn’t idyllic, but we had it pretty good.

A vivid memory from The Wigwam. John and I were on a double date. This was after he had worked for a farmer for about 10 hours that day, baling hay. Brutal work in Iowa’s 90 degree hot, humid summer days. His hands always fascinated me (and made me rather sick) after he was done working. From the tips of his fingers to almost his elbows were covered with slivers of hay. Some infected from his hard work. In the middle of the movie, John starts snoring. Instead of trying to get to second base, he was out like a light. I was mortified.

After Hubs got his whopper of a 90 cc Bridgestone motorcycle in 1965 (aww) we often rode it to the Wigwam. John would snap a blanket in back where I sat, and we’d park all the way in the back and lay on the blanket. As long as you were in the general vicinity of a noisy receptor, you could make out the dialogue. (I don’t remember complaining about the hard gravel surface either. Hmmm). By this time we were no longer really, truly interested in what was happening on the screen. One night another couple from Rock Valley begged us to change places with them. Their car for our blanket sprawled in the back 40. Nope.

So many changes were in store for us. Just a couple years later we were married. Yet the lowly Drive In movie would still play a part in our lives. The rules of entertainment would change however. Radically. No more spur of the moment, hop in the car, let’s eat out, and see a flick. We had no money. And now we were a family of 3. We made our own entertainment. If there was any discretionary money, we could buy a six pack (for the guys), make a dessert (for all of us), put on a pot of coffee and have another couple over for a rousing night of Pinochle. The kids were always included because none of us could afford a babysitter except for very special occasions.

Yup, Shannon was busy reviewing The Godfather with her friends, 1972…

We were living in Sioux City, the year was either fall of ‘72, or spring of ‘73. Our precocious daughter Shannon was about 2. Hubs and I were itching to see the latest movie catching all the Oscar buzz. We discussed it for days. Explaining in detail what was expected of our very bright little girl. We were going to a movie-together at the Gordon Twin Drive In. In our 1972 Chevy Vega, which was a hatchback. So we could lay down the back seat, spread blankets and pillows, bringing along enough stuffed animals we barely had room to squeeze in. But it was all for Shannon. So she could sleep comfortably while we watched a grownup movie. Shannon promised she would eat her snack and go right to sleep. She lied.

All was going pretty well, considering it was kind of loud in the car with the speaker hanging on the window. But it was very late, Shannon was quiet and we thought she was asleep. The movie we were watching? The Godfather. At one crucial point during the movie, the studio mogul had refused to give a small movie part to one of the mobster’s relatives. Movie boss’ decision was about to be swayed the other way as he woke up in bed screaming. When to our delight we hear this tiny voice from the backseat, “why is there a horsey in bed with that man?” Ok, we’re done here. Let’s go home.

When we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jackson still had a Drive In movie. It only stayed open a couple of years after that, but we took the kids several times. Still an inexpensive form of entertainment. I’d pop a couple of huge brown grocery bags full of popcorn at home. By the time we were ready to leave, there would be melted butter stains all over the bags. Yum. Take a cooler full of pop, and John would stop on his way home from work to pick up some candy. Now the movies at the Drive In were all about comfort. Off with the bra, on with the sweats and I was ready to go. The kids brought along sleeping bags, chairs and were in and out of the van a dozen times before they ever started showing the previews. Mind you, we were now in the eastern time zone, so the movie didn’t start until almost 10:30. Ugh. Any thoughts about smooching our way through the movie-not gonna happen with this brood.

Joshua & Adam ready to go to another movie, 1986…

After we moved to Muskegon in 1994, lo and behold, another Drive In movie complex. Four screens, all showing double features. Yikes, you didn’t get out until after 2 am. Not long after we moved there were some articles in the Chronicle saying the Getty Street Drive In was going to close and a sale was pending for the land. There was such an uproar from the people, the owner changed his mind. Twenty years later, it’s still open every summer. When the grands would visit during the summer, (each one always stayed separately), top of our ‘to do’ was a trip to the Drive In. (A day at Lake Michigan’s beach was right there too). It was the kid’s choice for the movies. Still made the popcorn and brought our own pop and treats too. And lost the bra before we left home. Good times.

I fell kind of bad for kids who don’t get to experience this simple form of entertainment. Family style. Snacks, pillows, mosquito spray, walking in their jammies and flip flops with a parent to go to the bathroom during intermission. No more obnoxious hanging box spewing forth tinny sound. Now when you pay admission, they hand you a small piece of paper. On it is 4 different FM radio stations, each corresponding with which your movie screen choice. I haven’t been to a Drive In movie since 2014. I think Peyton was the last grand visiting that year. I’m bummed. I can’t bear to think our great-granddaughter Jovi will not have fun watching a movie outside, at night. I believe we will have to head to Muskegon next summer and let her enjoy that experience too…

Jovi looks ready for her first Drive In movie experience…

I have strong feelings concerning Mother’s Day. My mother thought it was the most important holiday of the year. Mom’s yearly gauge of validating her life’s work surrounding motherhood. I always bought her something nice, including a box of Fanny May milk chocolate butter creams or Marsh Bars chocked full of pecans. But nothing was as important as getting Mom the right Mother’s Day card. The card had to be perfect. 

This little piggy went to market…

I like Mother’s Day, just not quite at the same level where Mom had it stashed. Does that make me somewhat lackadaisical about the joys of motherhood? I don’t think so and hope not. But as I age (slow down there little doggie) I find myself going to extremes about Mother’s Day-but not my own. Same thing goes about Christmas. I know not why.

I can’t remember trying to document these 2 holidays when my kids were very little. Making some kind of lasting memento to signify their age and size at that very second. But I find myself doing exactly that with the babies at daycare. 

Ho-Ho-Ho…

The past two Christmas’s I’ve taken on the same art project for the babies without really discussing it my coworkers. Any art project in the infant room should be made into a documentary. Or comedy. With a bit of tragedy spun in. It’s a hoot. The kind that makes you want to pull out your hair. Every hair. The thing is, babies aren’t generally very cooperative. Part of it is instinctual when doing anything concerning their hands. They tend to close their fist tight just as you need it open. They pull, push, tug, squeeze, squish, swat, smack, fling, spit, drool, while you’re valiantly trying to get them to just hold their tiny hand still for 3 seconds. That’s not 30 seconds which is a lifetime to them, merely 3. Usually cannot be done. Unless they are asleep. Which I’ve resorted to on several occasions. Sigh. I’m simply trying to get one of their handprint impressions on a slab of soft salt dough. 

I won’t even start this yearly project until December 1st. Oh, I’m itching to get going on it by mid-November since we have between 12 and 16 babies in our room. (A few are part time and come on different days). But for some odd reason I have to be able to say, in my own odd way, this is your baby’s handprint this Christmas. Only time in his life his little hand will be this size. When I type it, it does seem crazy. What’s wrong with me? 

Oh baby…

This is what happened last Christmas. I started our project promptly in early December. Made a big batch of salt dough, brought parchment paper, a straw, rolling pin and some old cookie sheets. Started by writing all their names on a sheet of paper and checking them off as (or if) I got a decent impression of one of their hands. Took the straw and made a hole on top where the ribbon would go to hang the ornament. Wrote their name below each little hand until it was baked. Then I could spray a coat of white on the back, jot their name with a permanent marker, and rest assured parents would get the hand that belonged to their baby. 

Such precious toes…

Even doing hand impressions takes a few days because some babies come on different days. I’d do as many as time allowed or stop in on my day off for an hour. That way there wasn’t as much guilt when one of them started crying. I just kept working on the task at hand. (Ha-ha, my lame impression of a hand joke). A few days into December I had all the little hands at home, baked, spray painted white, labeled and ready to morph into charming Santas. Some of the babies had been in our room most of the year and I worried when they were hung, if the tree would topple over from the weight. Others so tiny, they looked like it couldn’t be from a real hand.

The babies helped with rhyming…

While I was painting (and painting, what a lot of kanooey) I wrote a little poem about tiny hands to copy in their Christmas cards. I was completely done, everyone of them wrapped with a week to spare before they needed to be handed out. I’m kind of proud, they looked really cute. That same week a new exquisite baby girl started in our room. Every time I held her, walked past her or even looked at her, all I could think of was her tiny hand. THAT WAS NOT DOCUMENTED FOR MOM AND DAD ON HER FIRST CHRISTMAS. So much guilt for something so tiny. And I think that was part of the draw. Her hand. So little. Perfect in every way. There simply was not enough time to get it done before our short Christmas break. Or I didn’t make or take the time. But I did manage to get her hand impression. And it was still in the month of December. I brought it home, baked it, took it downstairs to spray paint it white. And there it sat. On top of our water heater. Four long months. More guilt. Just lay it on me baby. 

No one can create a mess quite like me, yeah it’s a gift…

Suddenly Mother’s Day was sneaking up on me. I found a clever art project idea and found enough cheap canvases at a ridiculously low price. I love salt dough, but it’s very time consuming trying to get whatever little baby parts (feet or hands) when one is trying to wrestle with a 20 pound adorable, writhing, snake-baby. The idea is to get a couple prints of their baby toes somewhere in the region of the lower third part of the canvas. The first baby I glopped way too much paint on her foot, blurring one set of toes. Michelle suggested using a foam brush to apply the paint to her toes and part of the pad of her foot. Better, except it must tickle thus there’s some major wiggling, writhing and giggles. Some of the bigger tootsies find 2 spots on the canvas, tiny toes I can plop 3 sets on. At least I can jot their name on the back of the canvas as I do each foot. I lug them all home and devise a plan of exactly how much work I wanna put into this project. 

The idea from a mom on Facebook…

The picture I’m using as a pattern has been done haphazardly. I think I can do better. I wonder where I get this confidence when I’m truthfully the least artsy-fartsy person on staff? In Michigan. Or the Midwest. But it’s my sheer will and determination to design a keepsake that makes me clumsily continue with the project. The idea is their toes will be flower buds, thus I must draw/paint the rest of the flower around their tiny toes. I envision wispy grass on the ground, soft clouds in the sky. Maybe a bird or 2, delightful lettering extolling how much they love their mommy. Oh please. The first couple stems are ramrod straight and resemble a straw. Now I put a slight curve in the stem, and grab a couple different bottles of green to add some shading, which is hilarious to even type because I know not how to shade. As I’m adding different shades of grass so I can let them all dry, I decide to add some leaves to the skinny flowers stems. Oh just stop. Now. All the while my heart is racing just thinking of writing, “Happy Mother’s Day” on each top. The first 2 are disastrous! My letters aren’t spaced well, there’s a definite slant and they look awful. Too late to start over. Apologies to those 2 mommies. 

So ashamed, pitiful. Sorry mommies…

A small lightbulb goes off. Why not just embrace the sorry fact that a perfectly written “Happy Mother’s Day” is not going to become a reality here? So I practice writing (pretty darn close to the way I actually write) letters backwards, not on a straight line and using no capitals. It looks better than the ones I really tried my best on. Sold. John wasn’t, but it was my decision, and the rest (a dozen) were sloppily written with a paint pen, which is a great idea the Hubs suggested. As I’m clicking off canvas after canvas my mind jets downstairs to the petite salt dough ornament waiting for Santa to find his way to her little hand. Perfect timing, the kitchen is a freaking mess. Halloween clearance tablecloth for art projects, Mother’s Day canvases litter the counters, and one more darling little Santa magically appears…

It is what it is…

I was surprised by the lump in my throat. It started forming the closer to Fort Wayne we got. I knew there were going to be lumps this coming year, just didn’t expect it last weekend. Nothing really special about the time or place, yet there it sat. The lump. All weekend.

It’s pretty electric watching him on the court. Landon, 2017…

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has been on a travel basketball league half of his life. He’s always played a click above where he was supposed to. First only age wise. When he was 10, he was on a team of 11 year olds. That’s just always the way he played. It didn’t take watching him very long, although he was younger, he was already better than most. So playing above him made him a better player. He was shooting hoops when he was 2 and Tracey was a coach. He knew how to run the floor when he was 5. And could outshoot much older kids on free throws by the time he was 7. 

Look at how little our favorite hoopster is strutting his stuff, 2007…

But the real basketball competition started when he was in junior high. Not so much playing with the school team, but these travel teams/leagues started in earnest during 7th grade. And there have been some awesome players we’ve watched through the last few years. Landon included. Duh.

Landon showing one of his many trophies, 2011…

We first went to Fort Wayne, Indiana 5 years ago. Not a quick or easy trip when we were living in North Muskegon. Maybe 5 hours of driving. To watch our 11 year old grandson tear up the court. Spiece Fieldhouse sits right off interstate 69. A funky, massive structure honoring basketball in general and Indiana hoops in particular. (That whole state of Indiana is wacko for basketball, think the movie, Hoosiers). Glass framed-used-sweaty-worn-out-uniforms (but famous like Larry Bird) adorn the walls. Men’s basketball shoes from sizes 10 to 20 fill glass display cases in the halls. Lots of quotes and autographs hanging around. Part health-club, part sports arena but we notice very little of that when we show up, along with hundreds of other parents, friends and grands shelling out big bucks to watch teenage boys sweat, jump and score.

New team and number this summer. Same great shooter….

My only complaint. The cost. I know it’s expensive to host one of these tournaments. Eight courts, games from 8 a.m. until 9 or 10 at night. Just think of the number of refs needed for 3 days of hoops. Scorekeepers, supervisors, maintenance, gals who run the concessions, complaint department, T-shirt/sports paraphernalia shop. I get it. Still. We see one game on Friday night. Ten bucks a piece. Saturday it’s 15 bucks each for the day, which is usually worthwhile because Landon’s team is good. They’re scheduled for 2 games, but because they win them both have to play another 2. My butt is sore from the bleachers but I get my money’s worth. Sunday is another 10 dollars each but as long as they win, they keep playing. Landon’s team wins the first one, then loses in the semifinals. They’re done this weekend.

What I’d like to see is a senior special for 20 bucks. I almost went up to the main desk to complain. (The ticket gals are sick of seeing me walk up and give them my spiel for 5 years in a row now). But then Landon introduced me to the owner. I wanted a T-shirt like Landon wears for warmups, but didn’t see one at the kiosk or pro shop. The owner (about the age of Joshua, our middle kid) said they were out of long sleeves but thought he might have some short sleeved ones in the office. (Might have helped that Landon now plays for the Indy Heat Gym Rats from Spiece Field House, so he’s on the owner’s home team). Yeah, there’s that. Owner didn’t ask our names, where he could find us later, or if he would even recognize this retired couple 2 minutes later. He knew exactly where we’d be. Watching Landon’s next game. He saunters up right before the game starts, hands John 8 Nike, Indy Heat Gym Rats T-shirts in various sizes and colors. Smiles and says, “here ‘ya go, enjoy them.” Are you kidding me? Damn. He just had to be so stinking nice.

The Spiece Fieldhouse owner with the cool shirt giveaways…

Last summer I blogged about a weekend in Fort Wayne at Spiece Fieldhouse. Landon wasn’t even supposed to be there. His travel league team had committed to a tourney in Florida, so Shannon and Tracey decided to make it a family vacation. Rented a house for the week. At the last minute, Landon’s lame-ass coach at the time nixed flying to Florida and said they were going to drive to Fort Wayne instead. The Lowder’s, minus Landon went on the vacation and we got to tag along with Landon for the weekend. It turned out to be one of our most memorable weekends and Landon’s best basketball ever. (I seriously thought it was a conspiracy. Something about an easy going weekend with the grandparents, no high expectations. And he did it all. Just sayin). He had a superb tournament, scoring 29 points in the first half of a game, winning the 3 point shootout in his age division. Then his team went on to win the whole tourney. 

It’s going to be strange not going to tournaments here…

This season is different for Landon. New team, several different players, new coach (thank heavens). Which in turn means learning all new plays, signals, teammate’s personalities etc. Since he’s the new kid on the block he’s been playing catch-up for a month. This Fort Wayne Run N Slam tourney certainly wasn’t the best he’s ever played, but he did have his moments. During the first game Sunday morning against a tough Chicago team, the score was tied with 4 minutes left. Landon zipped off 9 quick points to ensure the win, putting them in the quarterfinals. Can’t keep a great player (even if he’s new to the team) down for long.

So this lump I carried around all weekend. Why? Probably the last time Landon will play at Spiece. I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I’m comfortable at Spiece. I like watching him play there. I know my way around town. Sort of. I don’t want this part of Landon’s basketball to be over yet. 

Winning the 3 point contest last July. And he gave me the trophy…

There’s a couple more tournaments in May, then AAU takes off the month of June for individual high school things. July, they’re back on the court, hot and heavy. Flitting all over the country, Virginia, Nevada, too far for us. 

There will be no more AAU basketball for Landon after July because his  junior year is the last time he can play. This winter will be his last for Pioneer high school basketball, and time for serious decision making on which college basketball scholarship to accept. (We’re hoping for several more than the 5 he has now). Seems like I just started watching him play. How can this part be almost over? I’m not ready. I mean, I’m really not ready. I’m gonna be a mess during basketball season this winter. More lumps to get used to. Sweet and precious but a little painful too…

My new favorite team shirt, thanks to the owner…

Most of them have been on the fringe. My fringe. Almost out of my peripheral vision, but still there. Definitely, still there. People I know, but not real well, or haven’t been very close to. Sometimes, barely an acquaintance, friend or family member of a friend. Now someone from my outer edge-not often thought about-fringe friends just sprang back to the forefront. Which flooded my head with another fringe friend from way back. Here’s the story on 2 of my peripheral vision friends.

One of my besties, Jeanne from Davenport, mid-80’s, at a state bowling tourney…

I always tended to be skeptical when a young couple joined our church. Terrible to even think like that or admit it, but I did. Often. Our congregation was ancient when we started attending in 2004, and we were considered fairly young members. I was in my early 50’s. But this stunning couple. Wow. Her name was Brittany. She was a beautiful blonde. His name was Brandon. He was tall, shy and fair-haired. They were engaged to be married at Central. Thus the skepticism. I believe if you wanted to get married at Central but were not members, the cost for having your wedding there was astronomical. A mere pittance if you belonged. A few times a year, a young couple would join our church right before they uttered their vows, never to be seen at Central again. My former church, built around 1930 has a breathtaking sanctuary. Young traditional couples sought to start their married life saying their vows at Central. Memorable.

You can easily see why wedding vow pictures would be awesome at Central…

But Brittany and Brandon proved me wrong. I’m surprised I ever crossed paths with them really. My job as Parish Visitor was tending to the needs of the elderly from our congregation. Mostly those who could no longer make it to weekly services. Their hunger for news from the church and conversations (about almost anything) was palpable whenever I knocked on their door, or walked into the care facility where they now lived. And that’s how our paths crossed. Brittany was studying to become an RN, and worked at a local nursing home while going to school. A couple of our congregation members now lived there so I visited every couple weeks. I’d run into Brittany every once in a while. After she and Brandon were married they continued to make Central their house of worship. A while later they had a baby girl followed by a boy (both with unusual names) a couple years later. Brittany got her RN degree and changed jobs.

If you’ve kept up with my blog, this is the approximate time I became disillusioned with organized religion in general and everything surrounding the Methodist Church. It wasn’t pretty. Still working on that little issue. Getting right with God. (Thanks for your patience God). Now, on with the story. It’s safe to say, I have not given Brittany, Brandon or their kids much thought since I retired from Parish Visiting in 2013.

Impressive house of worship…

Until recently. We moved 160 miles southeast of Muskegon in 2015. Our local newspaper is part of a conglomerate which allows me to keep tabs on Muskegon’s news, which I do a couple times a week. Scanning the Muskegon Chronicle, I started reading a story about a young couple. Oh, oh, don’t like where this is heading. Brittany had filed for divorce from Brandon earlier this year. She was out with a male hospital coworker on a Friday night when she was confronted by Brandon in a parking lot in downtown Muskegon. Brandon started shooting, killing Brittany instantly, then shooting the guy Brittany was with. Brandon drove off to a secluded spot near where he and Brittney lived and killed himself. A couple days later the other young man, Tommy died. Brittany was 28, Brandon, 34. Leaving 2 kids under 10 without parents. Although I have trouble bringing up many conversations with Brandon, this has not been the issue with Brittany. She has haunted my thoughts for 2 weeks. I feel so bad about her tragic death and for her kids. My hope is because she wasn’t even 30, Brittany’s mom is young enough to raise her kids. And I’m stunned, just stunned that I knew another fringe friend who was killed by another person. Never in my life did I imagine I would know people who were intentionally killed by someone else. Who would think of such a thing? Blows me away.

The other fringe friend happened while I was living in Davenport over 30 years ago. Remember while we lived there, 2 people were brutally murdered (separate and different cases) that I knew. It was my story called, Murder she Wrote. But this peripheral friend was not murdered. I honestly can’t remember her real name, which is beyond pitiful. But everyone called her Beanie.

I was on 3 bowling leagues at the time. Two were morning leagues, more to hone your bowling skills. There was no prize money. We only paid for our bowling, so the cost was minimal. But that third league was a serious group of women bowlers. This bowling alley was fantastic. It had 64 lanes-filled to the brim-every night. Our league started about 6, and there was no dinking around because the place had another 3 or 4 leagues starting around 8:30. I vaguely remember our league had about 12 teams with 5 gals on each team. Man were they competitive. I was a pretty good bowler, though certainly not the top bowler on my team, let alone the whole league. I was probably carrying an average in the low 160’s, but there were SEVERAL gals on our league who would be devastated if they ever bowled a game in that minuscule 160 range.

One of our yearly state bowling tourneys, Pat, Jeanne, Marilyn, me and Dee…

Beanie was on a team in our league. And to be truthful, I coveted absolutely everything about her. I was in my mid-30’s at the time and I think she was a little younger. Let me just put out there a few things about Beanie that I still think about. She was adorable. Petite with curly medium brown hair, I felt like an Amazon thug (or slug) next to her. I was insanely jealous of her team, which makes no sense. (I loved my team. Some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Mary Lou, Pat, Mary Ellen, Jeanne and me). But Beanie bowled with her mom. The relationship between my Mom and I was tenuous at best and it was almost painful to watch how easily and happy Beanie and her mom were bowling together every week. I think there might have been another sister on their team too. Geez. Beanie was an extraordinary bowler. That tiny gal could zip that dang 15 pound bowling ball down the lane with such precision. (Why couldn’t I throw a nice hook like that? No, my stinking straight ball looked like I belonged in a junior league). I was totally smitten, yet intimidated by everything-Beanie.

Beanie was married and had 2 kids, one of each, maybe 8 and 5. One spring day I opened the Quad City Times and there’s a picture of Beanie. First picture was when she was little and won the best Easter bonnet in the Easter parade at her elementary school. Twenty some years later, Beanie’s daughter won the same contest at the same school. So cute. Still, kinda envious. I remember being at Beanie’s house once. She had a Tupperware party for me. Her house was cute, kids were adorable, her pumpkin dessert, delicious. There was nothing in which Beanie didn’t excel.

It might have taken me a few Tuesday’s at bowling to realize Beanie was missing from her team. Their team had a sub every week. Soon, her mom wasn’t showing up either. News trickled our way that Beanie was sick. Very sick. I think it was leukemia. Within a matter of months, Beanie was gone. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought she had EVERYTHING. Where was I during this fog which lasted a few years? Being a normal, HEALTHY wife/mom/bowler/friend. Busy coveting what I thought I didn’t have. No wonder God personally wrote, ‘Denise, thou shalt not covet’ to clue me in. Finally. I had envied everything about Beanie.

Brittany and Brandon got married right here a few years ago…

For over 30 years, I still reminisce about the five year period when Beanie’s and my life intertwined. Sporadically and mostly from afar. Maybe, “coveted everything about her” might have been a tad over the top. Beanie’s young life, snuffed out just when her light was shining so bright you needed to wear shades in her presence. What is it about some people? That special ‘thing’ they possess? How can some people have such an enormous affect on someone they barely know? Thirty years after the fact. I don’t have a clue. But I’m glad Beanie and Brittany were in my life, at least for a little while. Fringe friends. So close to the edge peripherally, but still there. Hanging on. Forever in my mind. And heart…

I’ve had a pretty isolated life, having lived in only 2 of our 50 great states so far-Iowa and Michigan. It’s not as though we didn’t have chances for change during our decades of married life, though it seems we were never very willing to take a big risk either. We wanted to live South Dakota or Minnesota early on, but timing, job opportunities, or commitments were never quite right.

Joshua obviously loved winter a lot more than me, 1980…

I can’t ever remember liking winter, even as a kid. I didn’t like ice skating, wearing skirts to school when it was 30 below (actual temperature, not wind chill) or hiking to Benson’s Hill to sled. Why did I not suggest, insist or beg early in our marriage that we move on some place with a kinder climate than the Midwest? We always seriously looked right in our own neighborhood, or backyard, never thinking or daring to escape the evil clutches of winter.

Could have a lot to do with my parents. Ties that bind and all that. Seems like I tried to escape their sometimes suffocating grip on my life, only to remain relatively close for decades. Guilt? Perhaps. Queen of guilt, my title-worn proudly.

Iowa knows how to do snow! Dad on the plow, 1962….

And when we finally made a fairly big move, 750 miles east to Michigan, we thought it would be for 3 to 5 years. And what did we have planned after that? We assumed we’d move right back to Iowa. Maybe this mentality had more to do with my small closed mind than actually staying close to my folks. Don’t know.

What I do know is that after 67 years of life, I’m typing on my little iPad on a Sunday in my favorite chair. It’s late April and the furnace is running. My fingers are cold and my feet are freezing. Ugh.

We all know when March 20 came and went a month ago, there was a lack of noticeable change in the weather. Who’s the dipstick in charge of stating spring starts on 3-20-18? Clearly we were in for at least another month of winter’s nasty grasp? It’s not like this year is unusual. This is the way the Midwest’s weather works. I think I have a better understanding of when seasons change. Or really should.

Oh the incredible smell of these little flowers…

Let’s just start with spring. I think we all want the same thing with spring. Days with temperatures in the 60’s. Lots of sunshine with the promise of blooming flowers. Gentle rains, longer days, less darkness. (BTW, since I’m now in charge, that whole daylight savings crap is out the window. No one walks to school anymore. Kiddos are on the school bus or in mom’s BMW, waiting to be dropped off. Farmer’s don’t need that extra hour during our endless winter. I go to work in the dark, so should you).

So when exactly do we get this fabulous season called Spring? With a stretch it might be the month of May. Let me just call it. Spring will last the entire month of May, and have some near perfect weather.

How about our favorite season? Summer. When is summer-really? The months included (not nearly long enough, but I am trying to realistic) are June, July and August. No room for debate. It is what it is. We kindly and respectfully ask for low humidity (Mother Nature always gets a chuckle out of my yearly request) temps in the 70’s and 80’s, never reaching higher than 90-ever. Thanks. If you must, this temperature range can be encouraged to stay in use the entire month of September without complaints from anyone on earth. Promise.

Graham and Adam enjoying summer a couple years ago…

Fall. Autumn sounds better though, don’t you think? Spectacular colors through the season. But fall is in a definite spiral downward. Temperatures cool off, we get some wind so the leaves start tumbling down from trees and flying through the air. I like fall, though I’m not crazy when all the trees are bare and brown. I’m giving the months of September, October and November to the season called Fall.

Fall colors in all their splendor, but winter’s looming ever closer…

So far I’ve got one measly month for Spring, but a month of fantastic weather. Lots of blooming flowers, including 2 of my favorites, Lily’s of the Valley and Lilacs. Three gorgeous months of Summer with abundant sunshine, and just the right amount of rain during the cool of the night, maybe with some rolling thunder included. The perfect weather for the mighty Midwest to grow enough crops to feed the world. But free of tornadoes, floods, and drought. Fall, our cool down season to dry the crops and harvest them from the fields.

Breathtaking beauty of an Iowa field…

But that leaves 5 months unaccounted for. 5. Really. Five. I’m not unreasonable. OK we may need a bit of winter. But. December, January, February, March and April. How can 5 months possibly last this long every year? (Oh I would love, absolutely love to give the month of April to Spring. This might be a deal breaker). But back to the dead zone. Winter. Winter is a time for cleansing. Done with floaty stuff flying through the air for everyone with allergy issues. Let’s give folks a break with all their allergy medications. A time for plants, trees and animals to go dormant for a spell. (I’ve never thought of it before, but maybe I need a dormant time every year too). Not only is winter way too long, the severity it needs to thrive and be happy is just horrendous. Is it really necessary for the temperature to dip below zero? Ever? I should say, certainty not. We do need our quota of snow. I can do a little snow now and then. How about a couple inches, maybe let it hang around for a day or 2, but then the temps should spike up into the 40’s for a week with some sunshine to give everyone a renewed outlook on life again. Isn’t that why God made Canada and regions further north? They get the bulk of the snow, then during spring thaw it flows down to soak the ground, and fill our rivers for the rest of us. Sounds about right doesn’t it?

So how did I get so smart where our weather’s concerned? Well, my yearly life is divided up in segments which make my seasons. It’s Hubs fault really. He’s told me for half a century my internal thermostat is broken. My temperature gauge is faulty. Not nearly as off kilter as it used to be when we first got hitched. A dedicated Tareyton smoker, my fingernails were often tinged blue and my feet were just crunchy little icicles, begging for a thaw. He once told me in all seriousness, “if my feet get cold when I’m hunting, I just think about warming my toes up. The blood starts flowing and in a couple minutes, I can feel the difference. Nice and warm. How come you can’t do that?” Oh pleassssseeeee.

Yes, I’ve been covered in flannel most of my life, this one in 1979…

Through the years, I’ve grown adept with what my body lacks in natural heat resources. I learned to compensate for my shortcomings. At least this very small, insignificant, but terribly uncomfortable one. Two f-words. Get your mind out of the gutter. Nothing that bad. Flannel and fleece. See? There are about 45 days a year (last half of July, most of August) where you might not see me wearing an old flannel shirt. I literally live in them, because my arms are always cold. Always. Rotating my stockpile, mostly made up of ghastly plaids. But they get better, softer, more comfortable with every washing. After a couple years, the cuffs start fraying, and the elbows get transparent. If I ever live anywhere but the desert I can safely say, I’ll always be in a flannel shirt. Worn right on top of another shirt.

A lightweight fleece. Can’t be very cold or there’s a need for more layers…

Then there’s my several levels of fleece. I guess they’re really called throws. You ‘throw’ them on whatever’s chilly. For many years my ‘throws’ were hand knit afghans from Mom. Assorted patterns from granny squares to complicated patterns of cables in various colors. I’ve had ‘throws’ in wool, acrylic and cotton, even felt. Some were so thick, heavy and dense they resembled weighted blankets. Couldn’t move your toes at all when you plopped one on. And suddenly fleece was invented. Lightweight and fairly warm. Good for 3 seasons. But not 4. Not nearly warm enough for the dreaded 5 months of winter. Unless you had several. Trying to stay warm without the bulk and weight. The struggle is real. So the seasons of my life are determined by what throw I’m under on any given day.

I even have a fleece for summer. But it’s flannel. Rarely can I sit and watch TV or work on my blog when my bare limbs are exposed. I start shivering after a few minutes. Even if it’s quite hot. My solution was to make (who am I kidding, I mean had one sewn for me) a longish throw, made of flannel to use during the summer. The throw looks terribly out of place during the hot months because the flannel material has little snowmen all over it. It works for me.

Ha-ha, my summer weight flannel throw with snowmen all over it…

Getting back to the endless season of number 4. Shannon found the answer to my problem (and hers). It’s a fleece throw, but it’s really an electric blanket. I want to say the best gift she’s ever given me, but that girl has fabulous taste in gifts for me from Waterford, Llardo, and Baccarat. Still, the heated throw has been one of the best, most practical gifts she’s ever given me. You plug it in and it has a range from simmer to holy hot flash. Amazing. What’s not so great about this fabulous little throw is the fact I’m still using it every night. And it’s late April. Ugh. But inching ever closer to that magical date of May first. Spring. I’m so ready. My one and only month of Spring better be pretty close to stinking perfect….

My electric fleece. Perfect for Michigan (or Iowa) winter nights…

“I’ve been working on the railroad-all the live long day. I’ve been working in the railroad, just to pass the time away. Can’t you?” Wait, sorry bout that. That’s a song I sing to the babies. I’ve been working at Felician Children’s Center for 2 years now. It’s very fulfilling in a hectic, arm-filled, noisy, drool-dripping, fast-paced, soothing, rocking chair way.

Can’t you hear the whistle blowing?

I don’t really know how this came to be, but the staff (meaning the higher ups at work, though probably not as high as the Pope, but then again, maybe) are required to hold 2 hours of instructional staff meetings a month. Since we are open 11-1/2 hours a day, you can guess when this has to occur. On a precious weekend (heaven forbid), during the middle of the night, or right after the last kid leaves the building at 6 pm.

Most often these 2 hour monthly requirements are held on Tuesday nights from 6 to 8, (which can be tricky during Landon’s high school basketball season. I abhor missing any of his games). Though I try not to miss staff meetings either for several reasons. 1. I get paid when I show up. 2. Not surprising, I often learn something. 3. Since several people are just getting off work, there’s usually food involved, which I’m always up for. 4. Biggest incentive though is if you DON’T show up. Within a couple of days after you miss a staff meeting, you’ll be handed a piece of paper with your name in it. Listed on the sheet will be a choice of several online mini classes from some obscure college somewhere. You’re expected to take one of the classes, pass a test to prove you were paying attention, print out the certificate of authenticity (formally notarized-OK a slight exaggeration) and hand it in to Tracy, my boss within a week. Plus, I do not get paid for the time the class took me. Holy moly. I’d rather have a root canal. Thus I haven’t missed many staff meetings.

Usually we have guest speaker, raising our awareness on an issue or teaching different subjects ranging from being an advocate for any of our children, to report any kind of suspected abuse, to CPR, First Aid or what to do during recess with your class when the weather’s bad outside. It’s all good. But. There’s always a but involved. I would venture about 75% of our instructors and subject matter doesn’t really involve much about our babies in the infant room. Take the last class. Please. (Kidding) The focus was teaching young children to recall things they did during their school day or yesterday, and learning how to follow directions when more than one task is required. Our babies aren’t working on either of these just yet. The infant room is really a very small part of our daycare and school (though the best part, for sure), so I realize hiring a speaker for the night should involve as many kids in as many different rooms as possible.

During this class, it was 95 degrees with no air, and a baby had just spit up on me…

When I got an email from Tracy with the weekly schedule about a month ago, it included some upcoming events, it’s safe to say I wasn’t the only worker bee grumbling and crying in my beer (some alcohol humor, I’ve not had a beer since I was a teen-blech) about the mandatory staff meeting on a Saturday morning. Sacrilege. That’s my time. One of the best perks of this job. No nights, no weekends, no holidays. It didn’t help when I saw the subject matter, The Raging Child. Doesn’t sound much like being very helpful in the baby room does it? When our babies start having temper tantrums, they’re usually about to the move to the next room. Head ‘em up, move ‘em out. They normally transition to The Wonderful Ones between 13-17 months.

I had several issues with a weekend staff meeting. It’s also Landon’s first AAU tourney which happened to be about the closest one, mileage wise, this whole season. But Peyton’s spring dance recital is fast approaching, so she cannot miss any of her classes. Simple solution was to have Peyton stay with us, allowing me to attend the (mandatory) staff and have grandpa run Peyton to her class, letting Shannon travel with Tracey (son-in-law) and Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) for Friday night’s game. The rest of us would arrive in time for his mid-afternoon game on Saturday. Sigh. Just not in the cards. By the time I got back to the house around noon Saturday, Shannon was texting me. Grand Rapids (about 85 miles northwest) was having an ice storm and terrible wind gusts, while we continued to get rain, and more rain.

Peyton doing her thing…

We decided to just stay home. Damn. I did get a lot accomplished though. One word: blackberries. Meijer had them on super sale this week and my stash of seedless blackberry jelly is getting precariously low. I stopped at Meijer on the other side of town to buy some, only to find they were completely out. I could get a rain check, but the cashier informed me for 12 measley boxes. What? That’s like one batch of jelly. Geez, I’d be running through the checkout lane several times to get enough rain checks to make it worth my while. Instead, I stomped out of the store to mull over my next move. I know Meijer gets their produce truck about the time I get up, so I stopped at my east side Meijer at 5:15 a.m. the next morning before heading to work. They had just unloaded their truck with a fraction of the amount of berries they’d been expecting. The supplier was having trouble filling Meijer’s full order everyday, but the produce dude wholeheartedly approved my taking what I wanted while they were still on the pallet (less work for him). I grabbed my 50 boxes, smiling all the way to the Jeep.

Number 3 Landon, but we all know he’s really # 1…

In many ways, I hate making seedless anything. It’s the amount of fruit I waste. Still, seedless Blackberry is my second favorite (next to Apricot jam-where I use everything but the pit, so maybe it evens out). After washing and smashing the berries, I simmer them for a few minutes to vigorously encourage them to give up all their dang juice. Then dump this through double cheesecloth (it splashes everywhere, magenta polka dots decorate my kitchen walls) into a colander. And wait. My plan was to keep the juice in the fridge until after work Monday because we’d be out of town. Since I was stuck here anyway, might as well make the jelly. So 30 jars later, the jelly and canning equipment is ready to be hauled back downstairs. Now why was I even telling you this non-essential, boring information? I really wanted to tell you about Dr. Phil.

Yum, Seedless Blackberry Jelly…

I kid you not, his name is Phil. But not the TV Phil. He’s a children’s therapist from Grand Rapids, a few years older than me, semi-retired, who has a theory. Or several. He started his practice in the mid 70’s, then went to work at Headstart 25 years later. During that quarter century he noticed a marked difference in the issues he was treating of these troubled children and their behavior. Instead of children needing therapy because of a divorce, traumatic event or death of a parent or grandparent, Dr. Phil’s theory on this young generation of raging children stems from their lack of attachment. According to him, some parents and their young babies aren’t connecting with that deep bond of affection, trust and love right away. Which is bad for babies, especially as they grow.

Now I don’t agree with Dr. Phil on all of his notions but he was quite compelling, and I thoroughly enjoyed his shortened seminar. (He packed his 6 hour talk into 2-1/2 hours, so we missed some juicy stuff like the terrible 2’s temper tantrums. Dr. Phil apparently loves them, yet we know not why). He was folksy, humorous and kept us pretty much entertained with his stories. Worth every penny and I wish we could have heard more. On a different day. With heat. Our school’s gym furnace automatically turns down the heat after 5 and on weekends, so pretty much anytime we might be having a staff meeting there. I’m always froze by the time I walk out of there.

At our staff retreat last week. Brrr…

I should have bought Dr. Phil’s book that he brought along. (The ever hopeful author) But my PhD clinical psychologist daughter Shannon’s an expert on childhood behaviors, often testifying in court on their behalf or offering a diagnosis and treatment plan. Although Dr. P believes this attachment or lack of it is deeply rooted already by 3 months of age, as far as I can see, all our babies seem well adjusted, loved and cared for at home with mom and dad and in our care. Phil did however validate many things I do as a caregiver that I had never given any thought to before. Holding babies, looking into their eyes while I rock or give them a bottle. Touching their fingers, toes, heads, cheeks. Saying their name often, but not in a condescending way. I love singing that old 60’s song, The Name Game to them. Anyone remember it? “Shirley-Shirley-bo-burley, banana-fana-fo-furley. Fe-fi-mo-murley-Shirley.” The babies love it when I do a bunch of their names while pointing to each one of them. Or simply smiling at them, which makes them smile back, even from across the room, which is priceless. Talking to them while I’m lugging them around. While they know not what I’m saying, they do realize that I’m talking to THEM. Who knew I was doing a couple things right?

But there’s always room for improvement. Always. So until May’s staff meeting (hope it’s warmer in the gym, plus it should still be light out when we’re released on good behavior), I will ponder the theories of the lesser famous Dr. Phil, while striving to become a better caregiver. Making a positive difference in our babies lives. Each day I’m there. All I can hope and pray for…

Hubs was on his way out of our seldom used front door for the mail when he quipped, “want anything special?” Because it was a Saturday, I was instantly transported back to: pick a year, any year between 1970-1985. And it had to be early spring. Those were the days. Let me explain. From the beginning.

John’s senior prom, 1966. Three more years, we’d be married…

It all started the year we got hitched, 1969. John had bills up the wazoo and I wasn’t much better off. I brought to the marriage table a humongous car payment-80 bucks and change. Hubs had a car payment too, but get this, he couldn’t even drive because he had so many speeding/drag racing tickets, plus he couldn’t afford to carry the insurance. And he’d just taken a trip through Canada with his buddy Rod and racked up 300 plus dollars on his credit card. Probably equivalent to 4 or 5 thousand dollars in credit card debt today. On top of that he had a brand new color TV which was not paid for. Today I would venture these bill amounts totaling around 10-15. Thousand. Dollars. We were in a world of hurt. But in love, and happy eating tuna salad or casserole every night. When we weren’t worrying on how to pay all those outstanding bills.

The family of 3, 1973…

Think Hubs was taking home about 100 bucks a week, me a lot less than that working full time in a nursing home. The list of bills got longer and longer. And we got behinder and behinder. Robbing Peter to pay Paul was the name of the game. Whatever was on the verge of being repossessed, turned off, evicted from, got paid first. That month. Couldn’t worry about the future, we were literally living week to week. Or day to day.

As 1969 closed and 1970 was ushered in there would be new and exciting challenges for Johnny Wayne and Neese. Parenthood was the biggie at the end of 1970, but this mini-miracle/nightmare occurred in early spring. We were filing our first federal tax forms as husband and wife. If I remember right, back then we could write off any and all interest paid from our big stack of bills. Interest on car payments to the credit card. For us, this added up to a small fortune. Since we made squat, when H & R Block figured out our taxes, we would be getting a sizable refund from the government. They explained this was really our money. We let the government use our money throughout the year because we had too much taken out of our weekly pay checks. “Change your deductions, don’t let them use your money all year.” Blah, blah blah. Who could listen to such nonsense, we were gonna be rich. In 8 to 12 weeks. Which always turned out to take longer than all 3 of my pregnancies. Combined.

Adding Joshua, now about a year old in 1976 on the farm…

We’d fastidiously mark the calendar, counting down the days and the weeks, praying the refund (it’s our money, send it back please) would be sitting in the mailbox at the end of 8 weeks. As if. There was no turbo tax, no direct deposit, no e-filing, no swarmy businesses offering to give your refund early in exchange for grabbing your refund check when it arrived. Everything involving the IRS moved at the speed of sloth. All of the forms were written out by hand, and moved through snail mail. You could call an 800 toll free number after 8 weeks to see if your taxes were in the process of being completed. But not before that magical 8 week mark. All of our friends got their refunds in a reasonable amount of time. Why, oh why did it take a lifetime to get ours? We were good people, where’s our money? Remember, it’s really our money. We were politely asking the government to send our refund back to us. In a timely manner. Without grief.

Here’s Adam, age 5 in 1984…

For that first decade and a half of marriage, every single year it was something. Somehow our refund always got delayed instead of arriving early or on time. And there was no one on this earth who needed the money more than J & D. Gospel truth. One year we waited and waited for our refund to show. Again, it’s our money, not like we’re trying to commit a crime here. We’ve happily let you use the money all year, but it’s ours. “We’re broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted.” (a little IRS humor). So send it back. Pretty please. Zip after 8 weeks, nada after 10. We called the toll free number, waiting hours just to hear there was nothing for John and Denise coming our way. They had received no tax filing from us. So we called the tax man. I don’t know if it was H or R, but his last name was definitely Block. They’d look into it and find out what was going on.

After a sleepless week (multiple bill collectors were calling us daily). Some nights after supper I would not answer the phone. There was no such thing as caller ID, no answering machines. Just pissed off worker bees hired to harass people who owed their company money. Namely us. The pain was palpable and excruciating. It’s our freaking money, why have you got in it for us? We’re just a broke young family trying to pay off our stinking bills. Which we could do if you’d send us our own money back. Maybe we really should look at changing our deductions. But then there would never be this big boost to our economy every spring. To spare us from bankruptcy another year. Yes, it was a dilemma.

Newborn Joshua, New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

Houston, we have a problem. One of the tax workers (neither H or R would take responsibility) who had the mundane chore of filling out our paperwork by hand, inadvertently put a Z instead of a V at the beginning of our last name. (Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows our sorrow). John had to fill out an affidavit proving his name was Van Berkum instead of Zan Berkum. It had to be notarized, mailed with exceeding speed because the IRS really cared what happened to us (ha-ha, I jest). While we waited. And waited. Took about 6 months to get our refund. Yikes, it was almost time to file again. Holy cripes. The only thing not repossessed during this lengthy timeframe was Shannon. This may be a slight exaggeration.

Through it all, we’ve made it work, 1977…

Although I’ve never felt the rush drug addicts claim come from a snort of coke, the euphoria experienced when that refund check was sitting in our mailbox has not often been duplicated. Oh good heavens, we were rich. Beyond our wildest dreams. Or to the tune of a couple hundred bucks. Just enough to keep the jackals at bay. For now.

It didn’t take us very long before we figured out the IRS sent out massive refund mailings on certain days back in the 1970’s when we lived in Iowa. If you did not get your federal refund on a Saturday or Monday, you were screwed for the whole week. The refund checks arrived only on those 2 days. Now state refunds were another matter. But Iowa’s refund never amounted to much for us, so there wasn’t a lot of excitement surrounding its arrival. Ho-hum.

Daddy and his boys in 1979…

I think our bank was Toy National in Sioux City back then. Giddy, like we were high on something, we’d drive to the bank to cash that whopper of a check. If the check arrived too late on a Saturday, the bank was already closed, then we had to wait until Monday to cash it. A whole weekend filled with dreams and schemes of what could be done with that money under different circumstances. When we finally made it to the bank and cashed that check, there might have been a couple twenty’s but mostly five and ten dollar bills. John would fold the stack in half and stuff them in one of his back pockets of his pants. For the time being, he was about 3 inches taller in the car seat on one side. What a feeling! Sitting in our expensive Mustang (the lemon). We’d just drive around downtown for awhile acting like crazy people. Talk and argue how much we could afford (zilch) to squander before heading back to the bank to deposit the rest, which was never, ever enough. But it was more than enough to pay off that dang Canadian trip, if it was the only outstanding bill we had. Ha. One of 20. So divide and conquer. Pay a little to this bad guy, and a little to that one.

The most decrepit house in Worthington Iowa, 1976…

I’d like to say every penny of every refund went to pay our long overdue bills. But that would be a lie. We always spent a portion on ourselves. Yup, just blew through a portion of the money. One year it was a trip to Omaha. Umm, that was maybe 90 miles away. We had supper at a fancy steak house called Ross’ then we bought a deep fat fryer. What? Like we really needed that. So began our love affair with real French fries cut from fresh potatoes. Needed to buy something for Shannon, who was about 14 months old. We got her a red corduroy one piece outfit. It had an enormous zipper down the front, and snaps along the inside of her legs so I could easily change her diaper. Now why on earth would I remember something like that? Because the first time I put the outfit on Shannon, while I was zipping it up, she put her head down to look at her pretty new clothes, and I got her tender skin caught in the zipper by her neckline. She cried so hard, but not as hard as I did. That’s why I remember that outfit in great detail. Total wad blown was about 30 bucks, more than 10% of our precious refund. We were so young and dumb.

Right before we moved to Michigan, 1986…

This yearly high and low of tax refunds and the length of time endured while we waited lasted half way through the 80’s. Until we moved to Michigan and started making better than decent money in the auto industry. Suddenly, we weren’t cursing when every interest statement, every W-2 form hadn’t arrived by mid January, so we could get filed and start that painful waiting game. Meh, it’s mid-March, time to file again.

So when John said, “want anything special,” as he sprinted (more Hubs humor, he no longer sprints) out for the mail, I said right back, “Yes, I’ll take 2 handwritten letters from dear old friends and our huge federal refund we’ve been anxiously waiting for,” because my mind immediately zoomed back to those early spring weekends during the ‘70’s (as we were wringing our hands and gnashing our teeth). Waiting for the mailman, who walked our route. Praying the Good Lord had encouraged the IRS to be mindful of how hurting this young couple was. Up to week 10 and still counting the days. We continued waiting and waiting…

A better life-Hubs & me in our hot tub, 1992…