My Mom was a clothes horse. She could still out-shop me when she was in her late ’60’s. She loved clothes, enjoyed wearing nice things and always looked really put together. She preferred shirt-jacks and blazers and most of her blouses had a bow at the neckline. Mom wore dresses until the mid-70’s when Hillary introduced pantsuits to the world. She might have owned a dress or 2 after that, but Mom had found her comfortable nitch, and rarely strayed from her usual ironed slacks (in every color imaginable plus multiples of white), a loose fitting jacket or blazer (she always thought her butt was big, it never was).

Great aunt Lena, Mom w/bow & loose jacket and Uncle Floyd…

When I was in school, it became important to Mom that I dress nice, and I did. Most of my clothes were not bought though, but hand tailored. That sounds ritzy but it wasn’t. Mom knew a gal who lived across the street from the First Reformed Church in Rock Valley. (I believe she was a stay at home mom with several children. She had an enormous amount of sewing talent. Think this was her way of working from home and helping the family budget) Her name was Mrs. Van Holland. (No first name that I can recall. Rock Valley women usually went by Mrs. So & So. I vetoed that option day 1 of marriage to Hubs).

One of my many hand knit sweaters from Mom…

Mom would get an idea about an outfit for me. Most of her ideas revolved around whatever fabulous sweater she was knitting for me at the time. She might want a pleated skirt to complete my ensemble. Mom got on a shorts kick for a couple of years while I was in high school. Not for her, I never saw in her in a pair of shorts, though I do believe she owned a pair of culottes. Notice I said she got on a kick, not me. Most of this was Mom’s doing. Dead of winter in northwest Iowa, 20 below or worse and that crazy Gerritson girl came to school wearing shorts. Oh Neese. They were bermuda length, always wool, fully lined (thanks Mrs. Van Holland for lining those itchy things). Actually, probably warmer than skirts. Knee socks were popular, so basically only my knees were exposed and showing. Mom also had a thing for orange, her favorite color. She knit me this orange mini skirt. As I remember it was pretty darn short even though we were coming to the age of hot pants and really mini-skirts.

But I’ve never been on the cutting edge as far as fashion is concerned. I guess I’m slow to accept new things. By the time I’m ready to embrace something different, it’s been out of style for a year-minimum. Sometimes I’ve never been on board for what is perfectly accepted apparel. Here’s a great example. I love jeans, always have. Mom never owned a pair of blue jeans or a t-shirt. Different era. I still prefer jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. This is a casual outfit, no matter how dressy the jeans or top. Why would anyone wear high heels when you’re wearing jeans? Makes no sense and I think it looks dorky and dumb. Tennis shoes, flats, boots, sandals go with jeans, not high heels.

Even my saddle shoes matched…

I don’t like to be the center of attention. Makes me uncomfortable. Stands to reason I would never lean towards outlandish or fad clothes. I don’t want to spend money on a seasonal trend, say a jacket sporting some weird trim or odd shaped sleeves that surely will be out of style in 6 months. Just not me. My grandson Landon mentioned he liked the t-shirt I was wearing recently. Plain, gray Nike swoosh. Landon will be 17 in a couple months. My Nike t-shirt is older than him by a couple years. And still one of my favorites.

2001 with Landon. My Nike t-shirt is several years old already…

So last fall I was in JC Penney looking for work clothes. I buy easy care clothes for the daycare. I get drooled on, snotted on, spit on, pooped on, spit-up on, peed on, and baby food-ed on by those lovable little rascals. Everyday. Everything needs to be washed after my 6 hour shift, including me. And we’re only allowed to wear jeans on Friday. That’s if we pay for that privilege. Boo-hiss. I don’t mind paying, in fact I’d give a buck a day to wear jeans everyday. I’ve never owned so many non-jeans clothes in my life! Anyway, I found a couple of tops that were wash & wear and was ready to check out when I noticed some clearance jean capris. A dark blue pair just past my knee with a cuff. And several holes-on purpose-all over. Cute. But too young. Should be worn by gals much younger than-this-then-soon-to-be-great-grandma. Hmmmmm. Tried them on. Fit nice. Cute. Hmmmmmm. Five bucks. Sold. I’ll just wear them around the house, and if somebody sees me, they certainly will think I came by those holes the old fashioned way, hard work and wearing them for 20 years like my Nike t-shirt.

What was I thinking?

I haven’t worn slacks with a pattern since the wacky 70’s. I don’t know if it’s becauseI think they make my butt look huge, or that I’m just too much of a chicken. To wear printed pants. That’s just plain crazy right? So this loner-introvert bought a pair of herringbone print slacks (on clearance, duh) for work this winter. They hung neatly in my work closet while my I gathered courage to actually sport them for a day being peed, pooped, well you know what happens to me at work. The slacks are kind of loud, not exactly fushia, maybe cranberry and black. No one noticed. Maybe a few of the babies. They’re all into textures and colors and seemed to like my loud pants just fine.

Since it was October when I shelled out that enormous wad on beat-up capris, I didn’t give much thought to them over the winter. In May when it was time to change my dreary winter closet to spring/summer duds, I spotted them again. Didn’t feel foolish or flamboyant when I wore them either. Until Ari came over to pick up Jovi. As she was heading out the door said, “cute capri’s gram.” Oh-boy, a sure sign they’re too young for this great-grandma.

Kerrie, Kelli, Shannon w/hot-pants-mama-me, Christmas 1971…

I was not done with impromtu/foolish purchases just yet. Wandering around the aisles of my favorite department/grocery store Meijer this spring, checking out the clearance racks. My weakness, jeans. Something called boyfriend jeans. Kinda baggy through the legs, with a cuff. If they really are supposed to be your boyfriend’s jeans, that’s the way they should fit I guess. No boyfriend around, but dang if those jeans weren’t sporting similar holes, rips, frayed spots, and something that definitely looked like a patch. Cute though. Hmmmm. Fit cute. Hmmmmm. $2.80. Sold.

Let this be a warning to anyone (of a certain age) considering a similar purchase. These holy jeans and capris can be deadly. Here’s the scoop. Gospel truth. It’s a few weekends ago, and my goal for the day is finishing a story for my blog. Don’t think I’m leaving the house, so it’s a safe bet the boyfriend jeans will be seen by no one other than the Hubs. I lounge around in sweats, reading the paper and finally decide I’d better shower or the day will slip away.

Grab my $2.80 jeans, a comfy t-shirt and head to the bathroom. Shower, dry off, and ready for clothes. Undies, check, shirt, check and now for the new jeans. Got my left leg in, (remember they’re kinda baggy) and I’m sliding my right leg through when my big toe hooks that darling, on purpose knee hole. (Due to my profound hearing loss and Meniere’s Disease, my balance is dicey at best). I start to lose that delicate balance, yet somehow manage to catch myself before flailing into our new glass shower doors. I miss a perfect 10 face plant by an inch above the water level of the toliet. My right arm hits the rim pretty hard causing my head to bounce back up. Gulp. Close, but no I didn’t gulp any water. Still don’t know how I managed not to get seriously hurt. I must have had my dumb foot going through sideways instead of straight up and down. My 3 dollar jeans almost cost some new teeth and a pretty smashed up face. Lesson learned. This old gal will be making no new fashion statements (no matter what the bargain price) anytime soon…

Obviously I need to sit when pulling these on..

Hopefully, sometime far into into the future it’ll read something like this:

1. She was a big chicken.
2. She tried hard, but fell short frequently.
3. If cotton candy was involved, she could out-eat a dozen kids-put together.
4. She dearly loved and was enormously proud of her family.
5. She would love the chance to make just one more list…

One of my favorite treats…

Did you guess this might be me? It was the cotton candy that gave me away, right? Maybe an adequate description on my headstone? It’s a bit wordy, so might not fly. Not exactly normal mainstream epitaph. Then again, not much about this wife, mom, grandma, and great grandma has ever been normal. As you can see, I’m not a risk-taker, but clearly a list-maker. Neese-no-taka-risks-but-maka-lists.

Reading list in order of a series of books I need to catch up on…

This story is about number 5. I don’t remember when it started, though I’m sure one of my kids, or Hubs would testify under oath, “she drove us nuts with her crazy lists. She’s made them forever. About anything and everything” Which is true enough. I don’t remember a time in my life when I was list-free. My life revolves around lists. No, I don’t have post it notes evenly spaced covering an entire wall in the spare bedroom. And no, I’m not gonna prove that to you. But if I want to accomplish future tasks, recall things that tend to slip from my small brain, rest assured, it was written down somewhere beforehand. Just the way stuff gets done in my world.

Possible story for my blog in the future. List this list for 6 months…

I think I’m an orderly person. And I don’t like to forget things. Lists help keep my strange little life sane. My world is better when I’m organized. Anything concerning a grocery run, general errands, upcoming events, Hubs-to-do, due dates for bills, or blog post ideas. I make lists for all of the above and so much more. It’s rare for me to forget a list as I’m heading out the door though it does happen on occasion. I’m more inclined to misplace a list somewhere in the house after I’ve written it. Might be something obscure like the probability of what canned goods I’ll be working on during the next 6 weeks. Why make a list about something so bizarre? I’ve no idea, yet I’m compelled to do exactly that on a regular basis.

The reason a list might go missing in this house is caused by a fetish of mine. Tablets. Not like my iPad. Tiny free mini pads from hotels where we’ve stayed. Geez, they’re like crack. My heart rate is accelerating already just talking the little buggars. As soon as I walk in a hotel room, I snag the petite pad of paper and pen. Stash it in my purse, tearing off one measly sheet (this pains me dearly) on which I write, “thanks for the clean room, have a great day.” Heaven help the misguided cleaning lady if she does not set out replacement pad the following morning when she picks up the money as she spiffs up our room. I wouldn’t say I have hundreds of mini-tablets throughout the house, but that total’s pretty close. Whenever Shannon’s out of town (frequently for Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) basketball tournaments, I can count on receiving all her token tablets. It’s like Christmas. Almost every weekend.

Love, love my stash of tiny tablets…

I have a routine list I’ve been writing which makes my life more manageable. On the top of the sheet pad I write: A week in the life… On it I list the days of the week, chores, cleaning, errands, Landon’s games, Peyton’s dance classes, work, meetings, Jovi, groceries, shopping. Not all things listed will be checked off or completed by the weeks end. They never are. But if I deem it halfway important, it will surely be re-routed on the following week’s scheduled list. Somehow I’ve found ‘dusting the furniture’ can easily be moved from one week to the next with nary a guilty thought. I rarely feel bad about skipping it either. Because my intentions are good and sincere, though it remains one of my least favorite chores.

Sounds like many of these should be on my calendar, but when there’s more than a couple things listed on it per day, my little alloted squares on the calendar gets too crowded and makes me twitchy. Besides, I already have birthdays and important dates I want to remember on the calendar. When planning my week in the life, I tend to bunch stuff together. Why? Basically I’m a lazy slug. If I plan is to run out for an oil change, I’ll get gas, money from the bank, stop at Goodwill for that cheap platter I need, and buy groceries. If this possibly means spending a full day at home instead of running around again, I’m in. Face it, I’m an introverted lazy loner.

A frequent mistake-2 lists on the same sheet, oops…

Not everyone in my world fully appreciates my ability to create these masterpiece award winning lists. Hubs routinely tops my list of non-appreciative folks. He might even go as far as saying he hates, abhors and detests the 2 sentences, starting with the words, “here’s my list” or worse, “let me make a list for you.” This from a man after almost 50 years together is still unable to find a gallon of milk in the fridge. Maybe I need to start a map division for my hopeless, hapless guy. But just hand him any kind of new-fangled gadget. He can draw you blueprints, build machines to make the product, cost out all the parts, determine when the machines will be paid for, start production before the deadline, have the finished products shipped efficiently and as cheaply as possible, and soon be making money. Long before he finds that elusive gallon of milk in the fridge. Dude.

High school buddy Bob Smith, shooting the shit with John, 2016…

I’m never without a running grocery list on my kitchen counter, especially on a canning or baking day. Adding sugar, flour, eggs, baking soda, whatever, whenever I start running low. One of my top pet peeves is running out of anything. Neese, the quantities shopper. My grocery list resembles hieroglyphics. MW means Miracle Whip, AM, Aunt Millies, BC, birthday cards, seedless usually means watermelon or red grapes. I’ve written my list this way for decades. I fully realize one day I could very easily end up in Meijer, staring at my list and not have a freaking clue what any of this gobbledy-gook-gibberish means. And yet it’s written in my own hand. That day would be the time to give my car keys up.

I have begged John to add whatever items he wants, needs, craves or sees we’re running low on to my list. But to no avail. He tends to remind me of what I’ve missed about 24 hours after writing a huge check at the grocery store. (I spend a lot of money on groceries, we rarely eat out, but eat very well at home). Invariably, whatever he needs is something I don’t eat or use, so of no consequence to me. Hubs will say, “hey, I couldn’t shave this morning, out of razors.” Or “could you buy some chunk cheese and Club Crackers again? We’ve been out for months.” (To simply avoid this Hubs, put it on my dang list).

I don’t yell and tell Hubs to get his own shaving cream or whatever because I truly enjoy shopping. Crazy, I know. I can waste more time wandering up and down aisles in Meijer. But only when I’m not in a hurry and they’re not super busy. (Always have to check the end caps for clearance items, these items change frequently). But it does kinda tick me off that Hubs can’t simply put the items he wants or needs ON MY LIST. SOMETIME BEFORE I GO TO THE STORE.

Hubs is not good at making his own lists. Much less following, admiring, appreciating or adhering to mine. Constant supervision and encouragement are needed (often with a gentle nudge from an electric cattle prod) when giving Hubs a list or insisting he make his own before running errands. If I feel further instructions necessary, his brown eyes glaze over and the headlights grow dim. I know he will need some Saturday morning cartoons to decompress before moving forward. Recently however, one of Hubs favorite childhood treats has appeared on my lists. Written in his own hand. And it stinking cracks me up. Almost weekly. OK, he sees my list on the counter everyday, yet somehow this is the only addition he sees fit to add. Walnut Crush? Dude.

Hubs crazy additions to my grocery list. Do you feel my pain?

Although it’s crystal clear my use of constant lists drives everyone around me crazy, the exact same lists continue to keep me sane. I consider this a win-win…

Where it began, I can’t begin to knowing,
But then I know it’s growing strong.
Was in the spring, then spring became the summer,
Who’d believed you come along. Sweet Caroline. By Neil Diamond.

I know, another yawner…

This song! This verse! It explains everything I need to say. How does Neil continue to fulfill my blogging needs? Taking you back to June 2014. I was full of discord. Retired, bored, twitchy, frustrated. I hesitantly embarked on an experiment. Under the tutelage from my long-lost childhood friend, Marlys Kempema Keatley, and after copious instructions from her concerning starting a simple blog. I had just purchased a new mini-iPad with the most memory, most storage, packed in this cute little red leather Michael Kors case (love Michael Kors, but the iPad case was a huge disappointment, leather cracked within a month). Marlys helped me pick out the blog background, layout, and decide on a name for it, Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town. Basically, this was a short trial run on blogging. I thought by the end of 2014, I’d be out of words and stories. Nothing more to say.

But once I got over the jitters and started telling my story, my head filled up faster than it was emptying. Every time my brain got near the one quarter full mark, and I’d think my blog had run it’s course, weird stuff would happen. Or an old memory would pop in my head out of nowhere. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine after 3 years, there would still be stuff I wanted to say. Maybe not worthwhile stuff, but that’s never stopped me before has it?

I remember how fast & furious the words were in the beginning. Like I couldn’t get the stories out of my head fast enough. Now more than 160 stories later, they’ve slowed down some, but I’m not ready to call it quits. Been pondering when to make a book out of my stories since I finished writing the first few posts. Just gonna be one copy for me. Gotta have my life (the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between) in print to lug around for my stint in the nursing home in a 20 years. First I thought certainly after 50 posts, then 100. Now I’m kinda afraid when I finally decide to publish, I’ll post an amazing story, AND IT WON’T BE IN THE BOOK! Probably what keeps me writing. Waiting for that one great story. Ha. Foolish little Iowa girl.

I wanted to acknowledge what I consider an accomplishment for this ne’er-do-well. Do I regret any of my stories? Not really, though there’s probably a dozen I’m not very proud of. Most should have been left unwritten and stuck in my head for as long as I continue to breathe. There are a few stories I’m satisfied with, maybe even a little proud of. The rest, just a mish-mash of the mundane life of Neese. But I’m still glad they’re written down. When I was visiting Josh a couple of weeks ago, he mentioned something from a recent post. I was surprised he had read it.

OK, I’m done tooting-my-own-little-out-of-tune-horn-with-the-ill-fitting-and-inappropriate-mouth-piece. First a couple of short subjects that need to be aired but are not worthy of their own full story. You remember my friend Rosemary? She passed away at age 46 from breast cancer in 2010. She had a great job, terrific boyfriend, and had just finished building a fabulous new home near Lake Michigan. I’ve blogged about her a couple of times. We were quite close. I was like a mother figure to her. Rosemary was quite a bit younger than me and had lost her own mom when she was in her mid-20’s. Her mom was in her mid-40’s when she too passed away from breast cancer. Tough. Anyway, Rosemary’s brother Brian gave me quite a few of Rosemary’s possesions after she passed away, which I cherish. Probably none more than her coffee mug. I’ve used it and her little Fiesta sugar bowl every day for almost 7 years. I’m so careful with it. Never put it in the sink, but leave it on the counter until I’m ready to wash it for tomorrow’s cup of joe. One day this week as I picked it up from my soapy sink, I noticed a big chip on the rim. I’m just sick about it. Still using it, but my days with Rosemary’s beautiful coffee mug are numbered. Sorry Rosemary.

Only word that sums it up: shit…

This one has bothered me since we bought our first VCR in the mid 1980’s. We were totally smitten with the thing. Joined a club at a movie rental store, think we got a discount after a certain number of rentals. Maybe 2 billion. Which we hit after the first month. Everytime we started a movie and they got to the disclosure parts. It wasn’t the one stating, “copy this you could go to federal prison.” That’s pirating or something. Yikes. No the one that’s tormented me for over 30 years comes after that I think. “This movie has been modified from its original version. It has been formatted to fit your screen.” Do you know how many TV’s we’ve had since 1985? I would cautiously say at least 8. How the heck do they know all my TV sizes? Feels like Big Brother is watching me a little too close. Gives me the creeps. Stop spying on me in my house. Freak.

How about a little Jovi tale? Little peanut is 5 months old already. She absolutely cannot get any cuter. So last week was probably Hubs last regular day to watch his favorite great-granddaughter, although he and Shannon may share her on Friday’s this fall. Ari is out of school for the summer, and after Labor Day, Jovi will come to daycare 4 days a week. I was working that day and got home about 1:30. Jovi and grandpa had a splendid day so far, but she was delighted to see her great-grandma walk in. John hasn’t attempted to feed her solids yet and she was nearing her threshold of tolerance. I got her oatmeal ready and she yummed her way through that lickety-split. Then we made a tour of the house. She loves walking through each room, stopping, me swaying just a bit while she observes everything in her line of vision. Mirrors are right at the top of her favorites, and we have a ton of mirrors. It’s not that I enjoy seeing me, but most of our antique furniture have mirrors on top. Jovi does not mind that the mirrors are far less than perfect. They’re very old and she seems to appreciate that resilvering would take away from their value and charm. (She’s very bright). After completing the tour (yes, even the bathroom, big mirror and no distortions cause it’s brand new) Jovi is thinking a bottle is in order. We get comfy, she scarfs a gallon (slight exaggeration, only slight though), burps like sailor, and toots for 34 seconds. (She’s quite at ease in our house and does not put on airs-well except for all that air-tooting).

Jovi, happy to spend the day at our house…

Her head is under my chin, her butt on my belly when I notice a bright green stain on my fushia blouse. Goodness, that was no toot, that was the real deal. Do you know how many diapers I change at work everyday? I should wear a counter for a couple days to be sure, but I would guess between 8 and 12 on my shift. One third to half of them poopy. Doesn’t bother me at all and trust me I’ve uncovered some doozies. I yell at John to bring some paper towels to the spare bedroom. We keep a beach towel, wipes, diapers in there for Jovi. He lays the paper towels down on the towel and I ease Jovi down. My shirt is a mess. I wipe off as much as I can, take it off, put on my nearby trusty flannel and see about cleaning up the poopster.

Doesn’t look that bad, just oozing out of one side of her chubby leg. Grab a handful of wipes and a new diaper. With my left hand I secure her kicking legs by her little feet. She’s having a good time, throwing her arms around, squealing with delight. About what, I’m not sure. I start wiping away. It’s just SO green. One more wipey ought to do it, and I’m 99% done when out shoots a green geyser that covers my hand. Completely engulfs my whole hand. Gosh that’s warm. And gross. And yet such a pretty shade of green. I yell at Hubs, “more paper towels please. Now please!” John comes sprinting through the hallway, stops dead in his tracks when he sees my hand (looks like it belongs to the Hulk at this point). He tosses the towels, (better than his cookies I guess) says, “man I’d be so sick if you weren’t here right now.” Meanwhile the most beautiful baby is the world is still throwing her arms around and gurgling, something she does when she’s really happy. Like purring. John’s now gagging, I’m giggling and Jovi thinks our strange antics are still worth gurgling about. Had it not been the most beautiful, precious little girl in the world, last Thursday just might been described as shitty…

Jovi on my lap wearing WHITE shorts, minus anything green…

I’m a jumble of conflicting emotions. Something’s been brewing for a long time and may have finally peaked. It has not made me feel better or given me any satisfaction however. I will likely find a plateau and remain there until I croak. Sounds rather dubious, but it’s not. Part of my story, so here goes.

Yeah, this is about the time it started…

My feelings/wide spectrum of emotions-warmth-yearning-guilt-euphoria-nostalgic-sadness-love-acceptance started 50 years ago in my mid-teens. I chalked it up to normal teenage-girl-hood. By 1970, these feelings were safely stashed away. Kicked to the curb. I was after all, a happily married woman. To Hubs. More importantly, I was with child, soon to be a first time mom. I had enough on my plate, no time for far-reaching, fantasy daydreams.

I have never really been attached to the TV. Do I watch it? I do. Could I live without it? I believe so. There are a few programs I enjoy. But they have never been as important to me as music. Listening to music that moves me and my soul in all different ways. Hearing a song from my past, remembering where I was, what was happening in my life. Sometimes accompanied by remembering certain smells. I do have some goofy songs by current hip-hop artists which keep my feet (and big ass) moving when I walk. Hymns that cause a lump in my throat and make me cry every time I see them in the hymn book. Yes, music has been an important part of my life.

Mommy & Shannon bath time, Hinton, Iowa 1973…

Until I lost a big share of my hearing about 20 years ago, I had the radio on constantly. Would not drive anywhere unless my favorite station was playing loud and clear. I listened to the top hits until Shannon was in high school during the mid/late 80’s. It suddenly hit me. I wasn’t enjoying the artists/songs like I used to. The search was on for the stations that played the songs I grew up loving. Music from the mid-60’s to the late 70’s. I was chided, scolded, tormented, and teased by my kids. When they were in the car they constantly begged me to change the station. New rule. My car, my gas, my insurance, guess who gets to pick the radio station? Me. Little shits.

The Beatles, Dave Clark 5, Buckinghams, Simon & Garfunkel, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Rolling Stones, Beach Boys, Kinks, The Doors, Animals, Monkees, Mamas & the Papas, The Hollies. I could go on but now you have the general idea of my tastes in music. In my humble opinion, The Beatles were the best band ever and made the biggest impact in the music world. Hands down. As much as I have always loved their music, or how stinking cute I thought Paul was, The Beatles pale considerably to the number 1 music love of my life.

It finally occured how much this unrequited love interest of mine really meant to me. A weird TV show, ‘Fantasy Island’ premiered in the late 70’s. “Ze plane, ze plane.” By now, John and I were about to become a family of 5. I was nearing my 30th birthday. No longer a love sick silly girl. But whenever I watched Fantasy Island, I knew in my heart what my own fantasy was, and freely told everyone. I wanted to be on a desert island. For my own personal concert. One fan. Me. One-super-hot-songwriter-singer-serenading-me. Neil. Diamond.

At this age, the kids drove me crazy with the car radio…

I’ve no clue why I fell so hard for Neil. A possibility perhaps, his personal, touching, written lyrics. Or one could assume, it’s his heartfelt, unforgettable accompanying music. Probably a mixture of both, making instant connections with millions of fans. Neil, one-of-a-kind-sexy-voiced-rocker-crooner-ballad-singer. As an extra added bonus, his incredible drop dead gorgeous good looks. Other than that, there was nothing really special about the man. He had me at Solitary Man. (Which I thought meant he would never marry because I was his number 1 love (whom he would never meet because I was getting married to another. Now that’s been a bitter pill to swallow. He’s on wifey number 3, the two-timing, I mean three-timing scoundrel). Then again, maybe he’s just never been satisfied because he couldn’t have ME! My story. Sticking to it.

Play Me… Neil Diamond
You are the sun, I am the moon,
You are the words, I am the tune
Play me.

Neil starred in a movie called The Jazz Singer, in 1980. He plays a Jewish Cantor, struggling with his marriage and religion while being pulled into the secular world, writing music and performing. While the movie was not a blockbuster, (though it remains one of my favorites) the movie soundtrack got rave reviews. Love on the Rocks, and America were 2 of the hits. When I got one of Diamond’s later CD’s as a gift, I got into huge trouble. At the time I was driving a ’92 DeVille with a Bose stereo system. Blew out one of the speakers learning the words to Neil’s new songs. Hubs was not at all pleased. Maybe jealous? Or he thought singing at the top of my lungs (along with Neil) inappropriate behavior while driving a Caddy. Whatever.

Concert stage at The Palace for Neil Diamond, 6-2-17

Until this week, I laid eyes on my main (secret-but pretty much everyone knew) squeeze twice. First near Chicago around 1985 when we were living in Davenport. Neil was in his mid-40’s. His concert garb was brightly colored beaded, sequined shirts. And he wore them well. Very well. The second time I saw him in concert was about 10 years later in Grand Rapids, with Hubs about 1997. I immediately noticed my feelings for my favorite singer had not diminshed one whit. His concert was even better than the first time. It wasn’t long after hearing Neil in Grand Rapids, I started going deaf. The decade (not the day for me the music died). Instead of listening constantly to an oldies station, the radio now remains off.

Beautiful Noise…. Neil Diamond
It’s a beautiful noise
And it’s a sound that I love
And it fits me as well
As a hand in a glove
Yes it does, yes it does.

Months ago I noticed Neil was going on his 50th anniversary tour (in the music business) and stopping in Detroit. I just had to see him again. One more time. My concert buddy, fabulous-daughter-in-law Erica graciously agreed to go with. She’s a music freak. And she would pick out where to sit, buy the tickets and let me know how much I owed her. Not to be. Turns out Erica was going to Japan for 2 weeks for Nissan. Figured we’d just forget about Neil (as if). But Erica, being the thoughtful soul she is, didn’t tell me there would be no concert date. Instead she enlisted (blackmail or old-fashioned arm twisting was more than likely involved) a co-worker/good friend of hers, Jeff Van Wormer to drag this old lady to one of the few concerts he probably didn’t care if he attended or not. Jeff is cut from the same freaky music cloth as E. Erica also arranged for my granddaughter Ariana to take her place at the concert with me. Poor Jeff. He was such a good sport. If Ari wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of watching a 75 year old man sing his heart out for 2 solid hours, she hid it very well. I saw no time checking, impatience or eye-rolling from her or Jeff throughout the night.

My Golden Ticket…

It started a couple of days before the concert. This mish-mash of emotions. Although extremely excited, there was almost a feeling of dread. Gone was the heart-throbbing, goofy crush once and for all. And it didn’t feel morbid, but there was some sadness and angst. I just knew this would be the last time. I would never get to watch, listen, sing along, enjoy, reminisce with my dear old friend Neil again. That was the part I was dreading. Not that I had planned on seeing him since the concert 20 years ago. Still, I knew this was gonna be the last time.

Our suite was furnished with great snacks…

Jeff managed to secure a suite for our concert experience. Wow. That’s definitely the way to enjoy a show. The suite was enclosed and could hold 30 people. There were 3 rows of great seats outside the room. And center stage was directly in front of the chair I claimed. Inside, we had our own bathroom, fresh fruit, veggies, chips, dips, popcorn, desserts, and nachos. Plus pop, wine, beer and water. Heaven. I grazed for a solid hour.

Song Sung Blue… Neil Diamond
Song sung blue, everybody knows one
Song sung blue every garden grows one.
Me and you are subject to the blues now and then
But when you take the blues and make a song,
You sing them out again, sing them out again.

The Palace of Auburn Hills was absolutely packed. Even the back of the stage. In a written review the next morning, this was the sentence that stuck with me. ‘Neil Diamond’s been selling out arenas longer than many people reading this review have been alive.’ Neil might have moved a little slower (as do I), maybe played the guitar a bit less than I remember. His songs have always struck a chord (ha-ha, a little guitar humor) with me, but I was completely unprepared and surprised by the tears. For many of his songs, I stood, rocking back and forth, singing every word (that’s a switch in my most recent concert ventures, usually it’s me who doesn’t know many lyrics) with my buddy Neil. For others, I cried through the whole set, song after song. Neil will never realize the impact he’s had on this little Iowa girl’s life for the last half century. But I do. Thanks so much for all the great music Neil. I remain your number 1 fan. Forever in Blue Jeans…

Forever in Blue Jeans… Neil Diamond
Money talks, but it don’t sing and dance, and it don’t walk
And long as I can have you here with me,
I’d much rather be forever in blue jeans.
Honey’s sweet, but it ain’t nothin next to baby’s treat
And if you pardon me, I’d like to say, we’ll do ok
Forever in blue jeans…

Special concert night with Ariana, 2017…

Not every newlywed couple started out like we did decades ago. Some young couples might have been handed keys to a business, deed to a farm or home. I don’t know if that properly prepares you for the rest of your life. Hubs and I had to figure out life the old-fashioned way, the hard way. By ourselves and making a few mistakes along the way. As John’s dad was famous for quoting, “you made your bed, now lie in it.”

Not long after we eloped…

We all bring baggage to a marriage. John and I had dated off and on long enough to know every detail about each other. Ha! Geez, he slept weird (head cupped in his hand with his arm bent, his face moving slowly, almost touching the mattress, then he’d lift his head uppright again. Kinda like one of those goofy birds that swing into a glass of water. Plus he expected me to cook. Holy smokes, what had I gotten into? I had a domineering family with issues, Hubs was generally ignored by his. Still, we dove in, head first and in love. knowing we were a unit. We would have a family and a happy home. Everything else would fall gently into place or land with a clunk.

Our first big clunk was a mountain of debt. Thud, me first. I just bought a car from a young couple in Sioux City. They had one child, were expecting another and about to have their car reposessed. I didn’t even go to the bank, just had my name put on the remainder of their loan. The payments were high for 1969, 80 bucks which would prove difficult. The car was a 1968 blue Mustang hardtop which is the reason the couple needed to sell it. With one kid and another on the way that 2-door would be a pain with 2 kids. That car caused me nothing but grief. Passenger seat broke 20 times but was never recalled. Bam, the seat snaps and suddenly you’re halfway in the backseat with whiplash. Worse, that sucker would not start when the temperature hovered between 25 to 40 degrees. In Iowa, this is about 6 months a year. However I feel awful when I bad-mouth the car. A few months after I bought it, the former owners, now a family of 4 were all killed when their car was hit by a train. Ironically, about a year later I nearly collided with a train in the Mustang at the railroad crossing in Merrill, Iowa. I was about 5 months pregnant with Shannon. Thanks for watching out for me and Shannon that night God.

A twin to my lemon…

But Hubs incurred the bulk of our debt when we started this journey together. He was paying for a car too, a gorgeous 1965 Chevy Impala. He was hard on his car because he loved to drag race on Douglas Street. Along with his payments came speeding tickets and he lost his license. Plus he and a buddy took a trip that summer. Might have started out as an overnight joyride but lasted two weeks. They drove north to Canada, dropped down through Montana to Yellowstone, then the Black Hills. In a Corvair.

Not done with Hubs spending spree. He worked at KTIV, Channel 4 in Sioux City. You’d think he’d be tired of watching TV cause he watched it at work. Yet he’d become a full blown Trekker since that show premiered. As soon as he got a steady paycheck he bought a humongous flat screen. Mind you, colored TV’s were not yet popular but were expensive. And small. John’s big screen was a 13 inch on a wobbly stand. That tiny TV cost $350, which was not paid for when we got hitched.

So I’m earning a whopping $1.60 an hour as a nurse’s aid in Morningside, working full time, taking home 60 bucks a week. John was cranking a check every other week around $235. Two car payments (remember, he couldn’t drive), credit card bill for his vacation, plus our Star Trek TV, rent, groceries and insurance for the car. We were in trouble from the get-go.

Hubs working at Channel 4, 1970…

We were so broke. After paying the bills, we had 5 bucks left for groceries, gas and smokes. It was easy to get discouraged, but we didn’t fight much except about my mom. She was a thorn at times. When Mom came over and wanted something from the fridge, if she spotted beer, she would dump every ounce down the sink without saying a word. This was my fault, I set no boundaries with her. Now John had paid a buck-fifty for that six pack, but until next payday, it was irreplaceable. Mom and John bumped heads until she died.

With less than 6 months of marriage under our belt, we moved from a house on Douglas that was costing us 3 times more for utilities than the rent, to a darling duplex in Leeds. More expensive to rent, but some of the utilities were included. Cute brick one bedroom and as a bonus a fabulous couple living in the other half named Lee and Carolyn. We would soon have more in common than being newlyweds. Both husbands worked nights, while Carolyn and I worked days, thus giving us lots of time in the evenings to bond while anticipating the births of our babies in a few months.

The duplex in Leeds, 1970…

Back to food. We were too dumb to stop smoking so tuna was the only thing we could afford. Usually on sale for 3 cans for a dollar. It was tuna salad/casserole a couple of times a week until I learned how to cook and grocery shop. We couldn’t afford the Sioux City Journal but I read the paper and grocery ads at work. John often worked until the 10 o’clock newscast was over, then I’d pick him up. I noticed a meat sale in the paper, but I was torn. He’d warned me several times not to run around Sioux City at night. Sections of 4th Street were not safe, which was where this meat market was. So I snuck downtown like I was trying to buy drugs. Peeking around, still in my Pony to see if someone was lurking-ready to pounce on this 19-year-old-mother-to-be. I slunk into the store, studied the meat counter in earnest, checked my wallet to make sure I had enough cash. Ordered and paid for what I needed. Stopped and looked cautiously for any lurkers since John warned me they would be waiting.

Hubs loves to grill any kind of meat. The grill we had was a small square on skinny legs that used charcoal briquettes. The cost was under 10 bucks, but we had to budget for it, and it lasted one year because we used it so often. He was an expert at stacking charcoal for what he was cooking. I believe he still misses those old charcoal grills.

I smiled all the way home cause I hadn’t been mugged (or worse). He’s going to be so proud of me. What a great little bargain shopper. It wouldn’t be fancy but it was his favorite food on the grill. A big, fat juicy cheese burger. I got buns, onion, tomato and potatoes. We already had dill pickle and Heinz (a must in this marriage from the ketchup expert, the Hubs. It had to be Heinz). The potatoes were for home made French fries, my contribution to the meal. Next night, Hubs gets out of work after the 6 o’clock news. I’m waiting (in the lemon), ready to cruise home and eat together (not something we got to do very often). The grill is lit, the patties are made, oil is heating for the fries. I start the fries 5 minutes before the burgers. Condiments are ready, there’s pop for me, Old Milwaukee for John. The grill was on the sidewalk close to the side door of our duplex. The fries are cooking and Hubs puts the burgers on the grill, comes back inside for a minute.

Living on love, French fries (and Heinz) that meatless night…

John grabs his beer, slaps me on the butt on his way outside when we hear this incredibly loud- WHAAAAAA-UMMMMPHHH! Flames shoot up the side of the duplex higher than the roof!! Hubs sprints outside, jumps sideways off the cement. There’s not one morsel of ground beef on the grill. What happened to our meat? The smoke is so thick, it’s impossible to see anything but bright red flames. One of the neighbors jogs over to check the status of the roof and asks if he should call the fire department? I assure him with, “No, John’s just grilling!”

Grabbing the lid of the grill, Hubs tries to fling it on the towering inferno, finally dropping it kitty-corner on top. He narrowed his brown eyes which were also spitting little flames towards me. It was hard to look at him for 2 reasons. I was about to get soundly scolded, but that was minor compared to what I was witnessing. The flames had eliminated most of his hair. He had no arm hair, eyebrows, lashes and I’m pretty sure at least one of his nostrils was completely void. He was hard to look at and he smelled kind of funky. Like singed chicken. I was morbidly drawn and repulsed at the same time. If I smiled, it would surely be for the last time-ever. He said testily, “what did you do?” “Umm last night I went down to the meat market on 4th Street,” I said meekly. “You mean the one spot in this huge city I’ve specifically asked you not to go alone? At night?” “Um, I think you’ve mentioned that part to me,” with an appropriate down-trodden face. “What exactly did you buy? How come the meat literally disappeared? What was this?” (He can be awfully smug sometimes). Now with a dose of defiance I shot back, “it’s just hamburger. I saw the ad in the paper and wanted to surprise you. It was on sale. Only 39 cents a pound.”…

It might be in the water, or even in the air. Maybe random, (doubtful) inherited or a complex part of our own unique DNA. Perhaps I’m putting way too much thought in this, yet somehow equate it with my being born and raised in Iowa. The greatest land with the richest black dirt, countless miles of corn and soybean crops. Hundreds of thousands of hogs making the world a better place so we can enjoy bacon with every meal. The rest of the fields not planted to feed the hungry masses are infused with huge herds of cattle, producing the worlds best beef-bar none. I’m all about the cows.

A housing project on the outskirts of Le Mars, Iowa. Awesome black dirt…

I was a Parish Visitor for 15 years. This job (more of a calling) included visiting the older members of the congregation. Some were still in their own homes, but most had moved to independent, assisted living or were in nursing homes. To help with my vocation, I took all the classes possible to ensure I could spot changes in behavior, physical failings, anything out of the ordinary, depression, change in eating habits, etc.

Several of the classes were on nutrition. A senior, living alone often does not have a very good appetite, sometimes does not recognize thirst, and who really loves or wants to cook for one? As we age, our tastes, habits, and routines change about a lot of things. They might go to bed much later than when they had to be at work by 7 before they retired. Now they’re waking up much later, which might play havoc with their prescriptions and eating habits. Plus they don’t seem to even like the same foods they have all their lives. What’s up with that?

Famous Iowa tradition. The Tavern…

I witnessed this whole food phenomenon with countless number of people I visited and my parents as they got older. The first food group that sort of gets shunned out of their lives is beef. (Hard for this beef fanatic to fathom, but we’ll get to that a bit later). Unless it was a super tender pot roast or something made with hamburger, beef just loses much of its appeal. Part is the taste, but also the texture, the chewy part. Also harder for their digestive system. Usually pork would be next to go, thus leaving chicken, fish and turkey if they craved protein at all. The last taste older folks give up is sweets. Yay! I’m right there with them on this one. And yes, I really am ‘one of them’ at least for sweets.

Crockpot Beef Stew…

All studies show red meat is not very good for us. I can truthfully say, I’ve noticed Hubs lack of bubbling beef enthusiasm lately already. A steak eater since he got his one year molars, we’ve enjoyed steak as part of our menu every week or 2 since we said I do. The last couple years, it’s rare (a bit of steak humor) for John to say, “let’s have steak tonight.” He just doesn’t crave steak like he used to. Yet, I find myself in daily arguments (with myself, it’s not always pretty) I still love and crave red meat. There, I readily admit another one of my many weaknesses and shortcomings. Last week I took out a sirloin for supper. Tossed salad, Texas toast and a pretty good sized hunk of meat for each of us. John had a dozen good sized bites he didn’t finish, unlike my plate which was empty. I did wait to lick the plate clean until I was around the corner. A side note, we’ve gotten just terrible about eating at the table lately. Maybe the last 5 years, the only time we eat at our table was for steak supper, or something that needed cutting or cracking like crab legs. OK the few times we have lobster or crab we still down and sup together at the tabke, but now, even for steak, we take out a cutting board, cut our steak in bite size pieces, then haul ass to the lazy boy chairs. We watch one recorded program while we eat. Not something gross cause well, we’re eating. Then I get up to clean the kitchen, make my lunch for work and do the dishes. I still do not fully understand why we’ve gotten this lazy about sitting by the table.

I use beef brisket for my canned meat a couple months ago…

Although it seems like a decade ago, the reality must be 3 or 4 years ago. Something happened to our cattle herds in the US. A sickness or wasting disease and thousands, maybe millions of the cows had to be destroyed. Causing the price of beef in the grocery store to skyrocket. My go-to bone in or boneless chuck roast that I use for my Vegetable Beef Barley soup, and stew meat which normally runs around $2.29 a pound was now costing over 6 bucks a pound. Outrageous. For soup meat! I fretted and ‘stewed’ over the lack of good old red meat in our freezer. My supply of home canned meat looked pretty meager, and I ran out months ago. For canned meat I buy 2 whole beef briskets which was way too expensive to buy 35 pounds. I trim off all the fat from the brisket, so there’s an awful lot of waste. Since then I’ve bought an occasional roast, stew meat when I was so hungry for comfort food I wanted to cry, but my beef consumption was lower than my mind and body was happy with. Finally a few months ago, beef prices started coming down to a more reasonable rate, making this retired gram a happy cook once again. I canned 20 quarts of spaghetti sauce and sixteen, 24 ounce jars of canned meat. My life and love with beef is good again.

Home canned beef, redskins, green beans, cranberry sauce & GRAVY…

I cook most nights, so every few days I head downstairs to our big meat freezer. It’s not unusual for me to take out 3 or 4 main course packages at a time. A couple of butterfly pork chops for the grill. A package of bite size beef pieces for crock pot beef stew. A package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts (see, I can be good) for Chicken Tortilla soup, and almost always a package of ground round or ground sirloin. Meatloaf, Beef Skillet Fiesta, chile, ground beef-potato casserole, meatballs w/ mashed potatoes, Taverns. Spaghetti, my favorite meal is not included in the aforementioned list because I can my own meat sauce. When I want spaghetti, I just bring up a quart jar. I would eat spaghetti once a week, then eat leftover spaghetti for the next 3 days, Hubs wants it maybe once a month. Sigh, my cross to bear. I routinely hide spaghetti leftovers in the fridge in case the unimaginable happened and John decided to eat some for lunch. Since he’s afflicted with a pitiful illness and cannot spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge, not a lot of thought has to go into my hiding process. Honest, my list of ground beef recipes is huge. I fight the urge not to have beef more than twice a week, because I love it and I am weak. Just when I think my menu is done and somewhat healthy, I remember GRAVY. Umm, hot roast beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and GRAVY. Or pot roast, carrots, potatoes and GRAVY. With a good sized portion of cranberry sauce. I really kind of dread the day (OK, except for the healthier life style and longevity) where a hunk of beef is not my top priority when dwelling on what to make for supper. With some of my lump-free, delicious GRAVY…

My home canned Spaghetti Sauce. My favorite meal…

Twenty-seven years ago. Hubs and I were on the cusp of something huge! Two biggies, actually. We were a few months away from becoming first time grandparents. Yikes, we were young. And we’d been gearing up mentally and emotionally for a difficult moment for months. No years, really. Why May 5? Well, I didn’t know it would be exactly the 5th, but had decided Tareyton’s had ruled this chick’s life long enough. Over half of my life at that point, about 25 years. I’m still convinced I was born to be a smoker.

Exquisite Ariana in 1992…

The 5th dawned like a perfect spring day. I warned John, “this is it!” From my last carton, down to my last pack, I had about 10 cigarettes left. Then we were quitting for good. I was worried about Hubs cough and so sick and tired of listening to him hack 24/7. Only one of us quitting was not the answer if this marriage was to continue on it’s merry path of longevity. I knew to ensure success we had to quit together. I nervously tried to space and enjoy my last day of smoking.

Pretty sure I was the only smoking cheerleader in RV, 1966…

It was odd the different way we smoked. Hubs was a nervous or unaware smoker. If he finished his meal before anyone else, he thought nothing of lighting up at the table. And he was not loyal to any brand. If he stopped at a store for smokes and they were out of what ever brand he was laying claim to that week, he’d just ask the clerk to hand him a pack of anything. No loyalty what-so-ever. He’d switch from Marlboro to some weird off brand menthol and not think anything of it. What kind of dedicated smoker does that? Freak. Where the heck were his taste buds? Probably dead or smoldering in purgatory after smoking 3 packs a day. Plus he smoked weird. He might be working on a project in the garage and light up a cigarette, only to realize he already had one lit and half gone in the ashtray. Me, on the other hand was more, this is my relaxation time. I made it a point to sit down somewhere, take a load off for ten minutes. And I was true to my brand of Tareyton’s until the day I quit. (I rarely ran out of cigarettes. If a 3 day blizzard was in the forecast 6 months down the pike, I was prepared. With enough Tareyton’s and food in the house for a small army. Although I’d happily cook and share any and all food, just try and snag one of my Tareyton’s and you’d likely be missing several digits off that offensive hand. If for some reason I was running low, I would have stopped at a dozen stores looking for my brand, rather than buy another. There was no switching brands gene in me. Hokey pete, I’d rather fight than switch.

Might have packed on a few pounds, 1997…

I don’t believe we even had a cordless phone yet. Plus my hearing was still spot on and I loved yakking on the phone. If the phone rang, I always wanted to be ready for a possible half hour conversation. Since I was born wearing a flannel shirt, I always kept my pack of Tareyton’s in my pocket. I’d tap my pocket as the phone was ringing to make sure my BFF (Tareyton is better-charcoal is why. I was a big supporter of the coal industry) were where they’re supposed to be for a possible long-haul call. My left boob suffered immeasureably after I quit smoking, getting smacked where my trusty pack of Tareyton’s resided for years. I should have bought a boob-pocket-protector.

We can smile again, 2000…

I calculated I would run out of Tareyton’s around supper time. Didn’t think about John’s numbers, but he sure was smoking a lot that day. Why? Because he cheated. He always smoked 3 cigarettes to my one. He knew he was gonna run out way before me so he snuck to the gas station. What a low down, lousy thing to do. I was so ticked, I could have popped him one in the nose when I realized he had bought another pack. Still, Hubs with a whole pack and me down to my last 5, we ended up running out about the same time. You seeing what I’ve had to deal with for 47 years?

Lip balm folks, not a Tareyton, 2003…

Some form of hell was in store for this mostly happily married couple after our last meal without a smoke for dessert. We were insufferable to each other for a big share of 1990. Insomnia was the worst side effect for me. It lasted for months. It was truly amazing however, how fast my sense of smell returned. Considering I never knew it was gone in the first place. It was like getting a dog’s sensitive nose for the first month. I could smell someone 4 houses away fart and tell you exactly what they had eaten. Kinda gross really. Not the best conversation starter at the block party either that summer. Neighbors all thought I was stalking them because I knew what they ate and if they were gassy, when I hadn’t seen them for 2 weeks. Along with my super sensitive sniffer, my lackluster taste buds started multiplying like backyard bunnies.

Not missing all those cartons of smokes much…

Yowsa, food tasted good after I quit. Everything tasted so good. And I ate it all. All the time. I don’t know if Hubs taste buds were on the same page as mine, although he ate with the same gusto as me. Since he had been a different smoker, he was a different quitter too. He needed something to do after he quit. Kind of a nervous quirk. Chewing gum became his drug of choice. I guess I should be happy he wasn’t chewing tobacco. You know the term ‘hangry?’ I think it’s when you’re hungry and angry at the same time. Or being hungry makes you angry. That was Hubs after he quit. He was hungry like me all the time, but angry too because he couldn’t smoke. He chewed gum (with gusto and very angrily) until the inside of his cheeks looked like raw hamburger. It would take months to break that nasty, painful habit. He even chewed gum when he drank a beer. Yuk. But he never had trouble sleeping at night like I did. So we both gained some unwanted pounds, me about 40 over the next 2 years. Took about that long for John to get rid of his horrible cough too. Still, one of the best things we ever did for ourselves and each other. Never realized how hard quitting would be for either of us. Just don’t see the ramifications when you’re young and dumb and start those deadly, expensive habits.

The year after we quit, we bought a hot tub with the money we would have spent on smokes as a bonus for a job well done. Finally. And we still celebrate our extra anniversary by going out for supper. That date has always been bittersweet for me. One of my dearest friends, Mary Ellen’s birthday was May 5. I did my very best to sweet talk, beg, cajole, tease, and plead with her to stop smoking. But she was never able to give up her life long addiction to smoking and died from lung related issues 4 years ago. I’d like to think she’d be very proud I’ve never fallen off the wagon since quitting that beautiful spring day in early May, 1990. Sadly, Mary Ellen, (biggest diehard Cub fan ever) never had the chance to watch our beloved Cubs win the World Series last November. I’m sure she watched it on the big screen with The Man upstairs. In the smoking section of course…

Mary Ellen about 1990…

I never realized the numerous changes that’s occured in child rearing until I started working in a daycare in 2016. Mind you, I’ve not given birth in closer to 4 decades than I’d like to admit. But still. Some things you know will just NEVER change. Until they’re seen as hopelessly outdated, antiquated and obsolete.

Let’s start with under shirts. As babies, Shannon and Joshua wore 2 different kinds. One was a pullover. All babies hate having anything pulled over their head. The other type was more expensive but easier to use and baby-friendly. It resembled a vest, but with short sleeves. There were usually 3 snaps, one underneath to help keep the shirt in place. Plus 2 with the material that overlapped the bottom snap. Dang that’s hard to explain. Harder to visulize I’m sure. Sorry. Baby under (t) shirts came in a wide range of colors and fabrics, as long as they were white. And cotton. Back in pre-historic times, ALL babies/toddlers/pre-schoolers/elementary kids/even bigger ones wore undershirts at least 6 or 8 months a year growing up in Iowa. Until they hit puberty. Or got their period.

With the modern invention of the onesie, mom’s all over the world now had time for another load of laundry, or whip up an extra course for their supper menu every day. Why? Because 47 minutes per day were saved by not having to tuck babies t-shirts in 153 times! Imagine, a t-shirt that stayed neat and tucked in by itself. Without velcro attached to their hides. I jest. Velcro had not yet been invented. We were still losing 38 minutes re-tying shoes 72 times. More on that in a minute. Adam, my last baby wore onesies. I could not believe how convenient and cute they were. And they came in pastel colors. Mint green, soft yellow, baby blue. Why? Because pregnant women didn’t know if they were having a boy or girl until those little parts were displayed and announced by the doctor. Your layette consisted of pastel, gender friendly one piece sleepers if you had a shower before the baby was born. While you were in the hospital after giving birth, that’s when you got girl or boy clothes. Nursery’s were usually done in soft pastels too.

Under shirts/onesies must not be considered a necessity anymore. Very few babies at daycare wear them, even during the winter. Just doesn’t seem right. I lay a baby down on the changing table (plastic covered foam), unsnap, unzip or tug down their sweats, skinny jeans (so cute) or sleeper. A little gasp escapes me when I spot their bare belly. Don’t they get the shivers? If wearing a shirt and knit pants, the crawler’s bellies are actually cold to the touch because their tummy is on the bare floor much of the time. The other extreme is what I nicknamed double onesie kids. Self-explanatory, they might have a long-sleeved onesie under a long-sleeved onsie. But most wear a sleeper, or just knit shirt and pants. And a diaper, maybe socks in the younger babies sleeper feet.

There once was a woman/wife/mom with no name (seriously), who never got credit for a pretty fantastic invention. Let’s call her Patience. She was going about her daily chores (cooking/cleaning/laundry/kiddos) when her (pretty famous) husband waltzes in through the door of the tent. “I’m almost done with the boat. The planer broke so the floor boards are full of splinters. Don’t tell me to buy a new one, there’s no time and I’m flat broke. Cost of living, inflation, the exorbitant cost of new power tools, everything’s so expensive. By the way, we have to be ready to go in a couple of days.” This little conversation almost made Patience lose hers. Not one to give Hubby any lip, Patience pondered what on earth she should do. Stuck on a boat for several months-with her flock of kids-(Hubs was not high on birth control either) and those bare little tootsies on that rough floor.

That night a bulb went off as she drifted to sleep. In the morning Patience put everything, packing food and clothes, forwarding their mail on the back burner. She now had one (sole) purpose. Inventing white leather high-top baby shoes before breaking that bottle of champange on the bow of boat. Using only the best leather, she fashioned each one of her kids under 5 custom white high-tops. FYI, 2 of her children would become rather well known in their own rights. Shem joined a vaudeville act after adding a ‘p’ (after his dear mum) at the end of his name. Middle kid started ‘acting out’ in high school, but in a positive light and was deemed ‘the class clown’ or Ham. Patience used white leather because cheap white shoe polish was readily available and she signed an exclusive deal for 20% of the profits for 99 years). Patience was very proud of herself. She wanted to gloat/mass market/advertise/patent (oh good heavens, another light bulb-‘patent’ leather shoes for the Sabbath) but now she was seriously behind with her chores and the clock was ticking. OK, sundial. Whatever.

The skies were definitely clouding up. A frown crossed her brow and she bit her lower lip, deep in thought. Something was troubling Patience. What was it? Bingo. The animals. That’s it! Why did I make the bottoms of the shoes leather? I should have used something grippy like a Vibram sole. Shoot, no time to invent that before the floodgates open. The kids will surely slip and slide through all the pig-horse-cow-zebra-antelope-lion-unicorn-bear-pigeon (I’m gonna stop here, you know where this is going) poop. Another time-sucking trip to Walgreens for stupid white tape that hold bandages in place for big boo-boos. Patience carefully placed white tape strips on the bottoms of her dozen pair of assorted sized white high-top shoes. There, that ought to do it. From what I’ve learned reading this interesting piece of history, Patience’ husband was very impressed with her cleverness. Her hand stitching would have won a blue ribbon at the fair, except for the Weather Channel’s (on the 8’s) forboding indication of impending rain. Heavy at times. And now you Noah the rest of the story.

This was a tried and true tradition for thousands of years. As a new mom, I never gave baby shoes a second thought. Everybody knew when your baby wore white high-tops for the first couple of years, they would certainly be less likely to suffer from foot issues as adults. Duh. Now just a few decades later, white high-tops are not what’s used to help babies master the art of walking. Glimmer, glitz, sparkles, velcro, and Nike are all the rage to adorn your babies feet.

If the babies wear shoes at all. Most don’t. They do wear socks which stay on for about 10 seconds. Lots of problems with babies and their socks. It seems to be their yummiest chew toy. They all like to chew on their own or other baby’s socks. This is a favorite baby past time. We pick up wet, soggy socks off the floor constantly. Plunk them on a heat register to dry, then they’re hard as little bricks from the spit. For the older babies, slipping their socks off helps with self-preservation. As they develop and start trying new things, pulling themselves up, standing, (or clinging to your leg when you’re standing, holding someone, my fave) or start walking around furniture, it’s down right dangerous when they’re wearing socks. Socks cause more slips, slides, spills and splits than you can imagine. Everyday.

The safety of infants is tatamount these days. It’s not that we didn’t care deeply for our children, but raising them was a little more loosey-goosey. Hubs and I were just talking about a trip we took to Minneapolis in 1979. We went with John’s sister Elly and her husband Dewey to antique and see a Viking’s game. Shannon 8, Joshua 4-1/2 stayed with my folks, but Adam was 6 weeks old. And the only baby I nursed. So leaving him was out of the question. Dewey drove a 1972 Chevy Caprice station wagon which is the approximate size of the house we now own. We put our bassinet in the back of the station wagon and Adam slept in it. All the way from Iowa to Minnesota. On his belly. Oh boy. Adam’s our only kid who had a car seat (and I use that term loosely). It reminded me of one of those old time carnival rides. Remember the swing ride? Like a safety swing at the park with a bar across your middle, a rod in between your legs so he wouldn’t slide out. And it had 2 big u-shaped hooks that went over the seat. Of course it went in the middle of the front seat. How else could you keep an eye on him or take him out to feed or change him while Hubs was tooling down the road at 60 or 70? I didn’t think we took any big chances with our kids when they were small. But they rode bikes, skate boards, and roller skates without helmets or pads. They rode in our cars and trucks unemcumbered by any safety measures. Sometimes laying in the back window or the bed of the truck. Amazingly, all three lived through their perilous childhoods and continue to thrive…

For your daily smile. Jovi, 4 months at bath time, just because…

Hubs handed me a purse-sized calendar he got in the mail a few days ago. “You want this or I’m pitching it?” Although I have calendars on my iPhone and iPad, there’s something about glancing at a whole month’s worth of days at one time. On real paper. Like books and magazines, the way God intended. Yes, I’m hopelessly out of touch. Guess I prefer it that way. A FB friend recently put up a thorny post about waiting behind someone in line who was using a debit card. One of the comments was, “I was just behind someone WHO WROTE A CHECK! Are we back in the stone age?” Yup, I still write checks.

Antiquated and obsolete and still used by me…

I might have blushed (in shame) as I was reading his post. It got worse. His next comment was something like, “let me guess, it was a senior citizen?” Geez, guilty as charged. But why do I feel guilt? When reading the news on your tablet noting 42 million people were hacked using their card in Target-what’s the majority of your private information stolen from? Debit cards. Enough on this rant, back to my love of new paper calendars, even if it’s May already.

This free calendar is actually from a worthwhile organization called the DAV, Disabled American Veterans, and I probably should send them a donation. But then I’ll be forever hounded with multiple daily mailings begging for more. Skeptical, callous creature that I am. Calendar oddity # 1, the first month on it is April, 2017. The DAV is up to date on its mailings, I’ll give them that. There’s a row of pretty backyard birds on the bottom of each month, though all the months have the same picture. But it was the small blank rectangular spot randonly placed on each month that caught my eye. And got me reminiscing. On each month’s top were a few words. OK I’m game. Let’s play.

April-“My most memorable childhood friend.” Well, start me off with a no-brainer. Charlene Faye Schelhaas Bay Jackson. What a mouthful! One of the cutest, sweetest, most talented, down-to-earth girls in Rock Valley. She was everything I was not. Coming from a large, happy family. Again, the opposite of me. Normally, I didn’t invite scads of girls to my house. It was just too quiet after Larry died. I preferred going to my friend’s homes because there were sibs, commotion, energy, lots of noisy life. But Char spent quite a bit of time at my house and was included when we went out for supper on Saturday nights, day shopping trips, even vacations. Though their family was much bigger than ours, often times I was included (happily, I’d like to believe) when their family went fishing at Lake Benton, Minnesota. And I was always invited to Char’s house on Sunday nights. There would be about a dozen people around the supper table because Char’s oldest sister, Audrey was married with children and lived a few miles away. I remember Char’s mom, Esther made her mashed potatoes with a mixer, something my Mom never did. Oh, Mom made mashed potatoes, but always used a masher. Just like I do now. But I do remember Esther’s ultra smooth Sunday night potatoes. There wasn’t a lot of dawdling time. The kitchen needed cleaning, dishes had to be done, because we were expected back at church for the evening service. Many of my fondest childhood memories included this wonderful family.

Char, forgotten girl from Canton & me about 1962…

May-“My most memorable time spent with my Mother.” Around 1985 Mom and I went to Chicago for a few days to watch some Cubs games during a long home stand. As I recall, not a cross word was spoken by either of us. Two things instantly popped in my head about the trip. First was a rather foolish decision to ride the El to the end of the line from where we were staying on the Northside, heading south. Way south. At night. We were fine, but it was a little scary at the time. The second was a fabulous afternoon (all Cub games were held in the fabulous afternoons back then) at Wrigley Field. The weather was perfect, the Cubs were winning (think we might have just recently acquired Sandberg, Sutcliffe, Durham, Eckersley, and were almost kinda good). The 2 dudes sitting next to Mom were smoking pot (remember the year here, this was a heinous crime-ha-ha) and she asked me what that funny smell was? OH MY WORD! PRICELESS! She wanted to call the cops. Good times Mom.

Mom looking pretty around 1985…

June-“My favorite summertime memory.” The luxury and blessing of small town living. I could ride my bike anywhere in Rock Valley (except Hi-way 18, where my brother had been struck and killed while riding his bike). That feeling of complete freedom was unsurpassed. Wow.

July-“My favorite place to watch fireworks.” North Muskegon, hands down. We enjoyed the city’s fireworks every 4th of July but for a couple years during the late 90’s, the American Pyrotechnics Association came to town. With a BOOM. We lived on Muskegon Lake. This freaky-lit-up-group would set up on a barge in the lake for several days, right across from our house. Near a park called Heritage Landing. Testing and trying out new complicated pyrotechnic shows. Which we enjoyed. Free. They were supposed to be done by 11 each night, but in the Eastern time zone during July, darkness doesn’t come early, so they always went past the time limit. You’d hear car alarms going off, the windows in our house would shake and rattle. And you’d witness fireworks that made New York envious. The APA wanted to utilize the Muskegon area every year, but the local politicians got involved. One year ‘the city’ wouldn’t issue the APA their needed permit in time, so they went elsewhere and never came back. With them flew hundreds of thousands of dollars in tourist money. So dumb.

Fireworks across Muskegon Lake. See how the lights shimmered right to our backyard…

August-“My favorite way to cool off in the summertime.” The best ‘cee-ment pond’ in the world. The Rock Valley Community Swimming Pool. Doc Hegg was instrumental in city’s process to build a pool, I think it was around 1960. As opposed to the poopy pit (though I remember loving it at the time) we were using. Two diving boards, shallow and deep end, separate baby pool, showers, rental baskets, season pass, snack counter, lifeguards. It was all good. Life guards who seemed to sit so high they almost reached heaven. Once in a while I dared climb the lowest wrung of the life guard’s chair to say ‘hi’ to Tom Manning. He was polite, but really no-nonsense while watching all the patrons in the pool. He was more apt to chat or tease me as he walked when he was done working or on a break.

September-“My most memorable school teacher.” This is a tie. The best teacher was Mrs.Torkelson in junior high (when I still cared about grades). She managed to make the term, ‘conjugating verbs’ fun. Yup, she was a miracle worker. My favorite teacher though was Mrs. Ver Hoef in second grade. Tough year for this little girl after losing Larry. Maybe to her, I was just a kid who needed a bit more attention that year, but to me she was almost a savior. Funny that I should be writing about Myrna on May 2nd. Rock Valley kids celebrated May Day, when about 99% of the population was Dutch. Bringing May Baskets is a Russian tradition but most of Rock Valley’s children in the 50’s and 60’s happily adopted this tradition. May Day of 1959, Mom went out of her way to make and help deliver beautiful, tasty baskets. The object was to deliver by being sneaky. Then you run away without getting caught. Mrs. Ver Hoef ran out of her house, caught me and gave me a big kiss. Highlight of that year.

Myrna Ver Hoef and me in Yuma Arizona, Feb. 2017..

October-“My fondest memory of autumn.” When I was younger, it was going to Halloween parties at school, because they were in the early evening. Bobbing for apples, games with our classmates. After the party, we’d go all over town trick or treating. No pins or razor blades, no x-raying of treats, and most of the treats were homemade. As I got older, it would be the Bonfire, Parade, Homecoming dance and football games.

November-“Favorite place to spend the holidays.” My house, with all the kids and grandkids here for a turkey dinner (Thanksgiving-Christmas-Easter) with all the fixins. Odd as it was, for quite a few years Mom, Dad and I went out for Thanksgiving Dinner in Sioux Falls. And I never thought it was that unusual, but realized not many of the families I knew went to a resataurant for holiday meals.

December-“My most memorable gift.” Have to say my diamond ring. When Hubs and I eloped (with nary a dime in our pockets) we had pretty plain wedding bands that would serve us for about the first 15 years. All the serpentine was wearing off so we brought them to a jeweler to have redone. He butchered them, so we wore nothing for a few years. Around year 20, John sprung for a nice-little-over-a-carat-brilliant-cut-on-a-wide-band which has served me ever since.

Still like yellow gold, one more telling thing on my advancing age…

January-“My most memorable winter activity.” This is a joke right? Nothing. I repeat, nothing. Winter is about as wonderful, well there is nothing wonderful about winter. I didn’t even like it as a kid. Guess winter blizzards got me out of some days at school. Yeah, there was that.

February-“My most memorable Valentine’s Day.” Oh boy. Not going to be something sappy or very romantic, but it was memorable. The year was about 1999. Hubs had a hundred dollar Christmas gift card burning a hole (in my pocket). Adam was about 20 and had a date, so we brought them along to this fancy restaurant called Rafferty’s. It was right on the water, across the Lake from our house. I had made the reservation weeks ahead of time. It was snowing, cold and windy (surprise-surprise) and Friday or Saturday night if memory serves. Should have known better. John drops us off because he has to park far, far away. The place is packed, people milling around waiting to be seated. After we’re seated, and have perused the menu long enough to memorize it, a waiter takes our order. Our object here is to use up as much of the card as we can. I opt for prime rib, John chose the biggest porterhouse on the menu. What the love birds ordered I haven’t a clue. The place is short on help and long on customers. Our order finally arrives. There’s a slight problem. John’s whopper of a porterhouse has a filet part the size of a DIME. And the steak is much too done for his medium rare tastes. He sends it back, hoping for a normal looking rare steak the next time around. The rest of us have about 3 bites left on our plates when Hubs gets his second porterhouse. This time the dime size filet has disappeared completely. John loses it. Completely. Refuses it, says he doesn’t want anything to eat. The waiter takes the non-porterhouse off our bill and we snake our way through the throng of people. Hubs is furious. Luckily for him, the owner (a real Payne-yup that was his name) is running the register. Payne gets an earful on his slow service, less than quality meat, over-booking and possibly the bad weather. Payne too has had his fill of unhappy customers and SWEARS at John. A lot. By now, the waiting room and half the restaurant is privy to this sweet evening’s conversation. To top it off, since there was no big-ass expensive porterhouse on the bill, we still have credit. Payne will not give Hubs the leftover 25 plus dollars, instead issues another gift card. John explains it will be a cold day in hell before he ever steps foot in this shithole again. In a huff, he throws the gift card on the floor and stomps on it. I slink out the door, wisely tugging on John’s arm or someone will need the cops or an ambulance. Or both. Adam and his date follow us. But not before Adam retrieves the gift card off the floor. Another free supper for them.

Holly & Adam…

March-“My fondest memory of springtime.” Winter’s over. Thanks God. Crocus, lily’s of the valley are blooming. My legs are getting brown. Fragrant lilacs which remind me of Larry. It’s what I always brought him at the cemetary when we lived in Iowa…

Larry about 3 in 1949…

As a kid, I honestly thought I’d never pray when I grew up. There was no need, and I was already up to my eyeballs in prayers. After we lost Larry, Dad had a transformation. He accepted Jesus as his Savior, and just as suddenly, his, Mom’s and my life changed. Every facet of Dad’s life now included how to better serve the Lord. Reflecting back, it was quite amazing to witness how different Dad patterned his life after giving it to Jesus. Though I was only 8 years old, it was impossible not to notice.

Dad taught Shannon how to pray by age 2, 1972…

One of the most noticeable changes for me was at the supper table. We always ate together and talked about what happened throughout the day, but much of that stopped after Larry died. Small talk seemed unimportant. In their grief, Mom and Dad remained quiet during meals, and it was up to me to keep the conversation going while we ate. But it was the before and after meal time that really took a 180 in our house.

Dad prayed aloud before we ate. After we were through eating, he’d read us a chapter or 2 from the bible, then pray again. This after supper prayer was much like Oral Roberts prayers at one of his healing Revivals during the 60’s. Or the long prayer after the sermon at my Christian Reformed Church as a kid. And I do mean LONG. At our supper table my mind would wander until I heard the words, “this we ask in Jesus’ name, who taught us, Our Father who art in heaven.” And we’d recite the Lord’s prayer together. Back then we always said, “forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors,” like they did in church. The recent churches I’ve attended say, “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Still, doesn’t sound right to me.

I’ve not been a good sleeper for 20 years. If it’s a work day, my phone alarm is set to an oddball time. I like sequential numbers, so if I have to work at 7, the alarm is set for 4:56. If I have to be there at 6:30, I set it for 4:32. I’m weird, you already know that. The point is, my alarm goes off once about once a month. I’m almost always awake before it goes off. As I start rubbing my eyes, I thank God for letting me wake up for another day here on earth. He’s not done with me yet and I’m grateful. Ah, the legs are working fine, no pain in the knee and I gotta pee. More reasons to give thanks. I pad my way into the kitchen, flip on the coffeemaker, stop in the spare bedroom for my work clothes and bath towel. Cautiously move to our beautiful bathroom and close my eyes halfway. No, not prayers this time. My only mistake in our complete bathroom remodel. There’s a pretty light fixture above the medicine cabinet, plus a light/exhaust on the ceiling. Both lights go on with the flip of one switch, the exhaust fan is separate. I should have asked the contractor for separate switches for each light. It’s just way too bright at 5 a.m. It takes me a minute to adjust. My step in shower is awesome and I squeegy every square inch of the tile and shower doors I can reach when I’m done.

Dad & me in our one trip camper, prayers included, 1962…

I may think it’s keen to wake up before the crack of dawn, but I’m not completely sold on the idea of showering, getting dressed and heading out the door before it’s light. I like getting up, but not necessarily having to be anywhere that early. But I like my hours and prefer getting home by 1:30. A quick prayer (grant me patience Lord) before I walk in the infant room. Very little noise (so far), only 1 or 2 tiny tots. Basically, I ooze patience with the babies. Only time I get a little flustered occurs sometime around noon. Most everyone is hungry and hangry. The noise level is up a couple of notches, the 4 high chairs are full, the younger babies all want their bottles RIGHT NOW. Add a blow out diaper, spit up on the floor, a ding on someone’s head from a rattle, and for a couple minutes, the bottle babies have to wait. None of these little stinkers prayed for patience before Mommy lugged them in the door. I asked.

Dad, Mom, me & pregnant Mona in Canton, SD, 1961…

There’s a strange phenomenon that happens almost daily in the baby room. We call it ‘happy hour,’ though no margaritas are served. Bummer. Sometime during the day, when you least expect it, the room goes completely silent. The babies seem to realize this before we do. They glance around a bit befuddled, a tad anxious. Each one looks accusingly at the tot next to them with this, “what’s up with you? Isn’t it your turn to crank up the noise quotient? Hey you, time to take one for the team!” We’ve timed this over a month period and on average, our heavenly quiet time lasts about 28.3 seconds, (every stinking second, very precious), give or take a errant squawk. We never know when this is going to happen, there’s never any warning, and I find myself devastated if it’s after I’ve gone home. How could they betray me like this?

Looking good Dad, 1973…

Just as amazing is how much adult conversation can be squeezed into 28.3 seconds. You’d think we’d enjoy the silence, and we do, but even more rare is conversation that’s not above 3 babies crying. Those are a combination of written notes, sign language, and reading of lips. During happy hour one day last week, I was recalling the month of April last year. I could hardly walk, my left knee had a goose egg size lump, the cause had not been determined. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had pneumonia, a first for me. I believe it took 5 office visits, 4 prescriptions, breathing treatments, and 6 weeks to stop sounding like Myron Floren’s accordion on Lawrence Welk. The cough, even longer. That’s about the sickest I’ve ever been. So a quick prayer of thanks for my good health of late.

Dad reading a story book to Shannon 2, 1972…

We don’t wear street shoes in the infant room. Just not a good idea. Some of the gals go barefoot, most wear socks or slippers. I bought a pair of soft Sketchers and just leave them in the baby room. So my shoes are on the outside by the door, going into the hallway. After I punch out, slip off my room shoes, close the door, my prayer is one of many thanks for a great day with the babies. Nobody got hurt on my watch. A good day indeed.

Dad, Joshua & Shannon in RV, 1976…

We are a family of drivers. John and I not so much anymore, but the rest of the clan spend a good deal of time in their cars. On I 94. Busy, busy with gobs of semi’s. Thoughout the day, I’m asking God for traveling mercies. Next on my list of worries is someone getting seriously ill. Me, Hubs or a family member. Thankfully, we’ve been very blessed with good health. That prayer usually comes before I fall asleep. So this recent acknowledgement of my daily prayers. How often I talk to God. Really kind of blows me away. Pretty sure it has a lot to do with my age and increasing faith and acceptance of what comes next. I hope I’m not judged by the quantity and length of my prayers like Dad’s or I’m royally screwed. But rather, the frequency and sincerity of our short conversations together during the day. Then I’m in like Flint. Sorry God, I believe this might be considered ‘spuuting’ (Dutch slang for making light or fun of religion and God)…