After I gave birth the first time, I swore I would never have another kid. Repeated this daily to Hubs. Sorry, this baby factory has been permanently shut down. Out of order. I was too young. It was horribly traumatic and painful. And I stuck with that story for several years. Shannon was beautiful, smart, precocious. Pretty much a perfect kid.

Shannon, 8 months, 1971…

A few years later, just as suddenly every baby I came across was cute again. What was going on? The last month of my pregnancy, which lasted so much longer than a month was slowly forgotten. Ditto for the painful labor. I think God slowly makes you forget all the painful stuff involved with childbearing or none of us would ever have more than one kid. Seriously. One kid per woman. China would not ever have had to restrict family size if women all recalled our last month of pregnancy and giving birth.

Newborn Joshua in New Vienna, 1975…

I thought I might be ready to have another child. But how do you divide your love with this awesome little person who’s already been in your life for years? Would I be able to love another baby like I loved Shannon? Am I the only one who had these thoughts before my second pregnancy? Truth be told I was a little worried. I already loved Joshua, but would it turn out to be equally? Another thing God took care of without even asking. Much like the Grinch, my heart just expanded. There was more than enough love to go around. Oh-self-doubting-Duh-Neese. The same held true after another 4-1/2 years when Adam joined our merry band of misfits. My heart just grew another size.

Adam, Spencer Iowa, 1980…

Twenty years later Shannon became a mom. To the exquisite Ariana in 1991. When you think having a kid is extraordinary (and it is) try expressing your feelings for the first time you hold your kid’s kid. Breathtaking, fragile, miraculous and fulfilling don’t even come close. But there’s some different feelings too. When you’re a mom you worry about illness and accidents as your babies grow, but you don’t dwell constantly on those things. Another God thing, because you would be so consumed with scary scenarios you couldn’t function on a daily basis. I found myself worrying much more about Ari than I ever did about Shannon, Joshua or Adam. That’s grandma worry instead of mom worry. Danger Will Robinson danger, er I mean grandma.

Ariana, 9 months, 1991…

I see this at work too. Everyone I work with in the infant room is younger than me. Some decades, some pretty close to my age. I have the tendency to scamper, scoop up and move a baby to a safer spot much more than anyone else. Often after my day off, someone will say, you should have seen what Lily was trying to do yesterday. One of us mentioned, “Denise would be having a heart attack over that one!” Although I don’t really see myself as a worrisome person, my worry boundary level is much higher than everyone else’s. Keeps me on my toes for sure. The joys of Grandma-hood. I should rap that.

Landon 9 months, 2001…

Along the years, 3 more amazing grandchildren joined us. Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) in 2000, Peyton in 2004 and Graham in 2009. Twenty five years have flown by since Ari, and that’s the only and best way to describe it. Flown past. You could slow that part down just a bit God. How the heck did Ari get to be 25? Remains a mystery. Ari and (her) Josh came over on a warm summer weekend last year to tell us they were expecting. Couple of breaths later I realize that would make my young-ish daughter Shannon a GRANDMA AND ME A GREAT-GRANDMA. Oh my stars. That seems too young for both of us. It was quite surreal for a few weeks.

Peyton 9 months, 2005…

Ari put this app on her phone. A backdrop where she’d stand sideways in front of a wall, smiling. A cute little saying next to her might announce, I’m 13 weeks and the baby is the size of a walnut. Later on, a lemon, grapefruit, cantaloupe, honeydew, summer squash. Finally a watermelon, which is exactly how she looked. Her face still thin, legs and arms too, but her belly absolutely looked like a watermelon was just languishing right there in her middle. She could no sit or sleep comfortably and hadn’t seen her cute feet in days.

Graham 9 months, 2010…

When Ari was born there were quite a few similarities to her having a baby this week. Her uncles Josh and Adam were 16 and 12 when she was born. Twenty-five years later, Ari’s sibs, Uncle Landon is 16 and Aunt Peyton is 12. My Mom had a girl first. Me too, so did Shannon. I knew right away that Ari was having a girl. I would have easily wagered a few bucks that her baby would also be born in the month of December, and on an even date. And she should have been. Due on January 3rd, you could easily understand baby girl’s dilemma. “No, sorry Mommy, I’m unable to proceed with the birthing process. I’m already too big and very comfy right here, so please just continue eating and I’ll be fine & dandy. You and daddy can meet me later. OK?” Ari probably should have had a C-section. Hindsight, good birth control for the future.

A fun weekly update showing the growing signs of Jovi, 2016..

After being induced a week after her due date, enduring a ‘quick’ 24 hours of miserable labor, baby girl made her whopping debut. In this corner, weighing in at 9 pounds, 1 ounce, the lovely yet formidable, Jovi Marie. Ari finally a new mommy, said, “thanks for not waiting any longer Jovi or gaining another ounce.”

A tuckered out Jovi right after being born, 1-11-16…

She wasn’t born on an even, low date of the month either. Jovi joins her daddy, aunts Peyton and Sarah with the uneven dates of 15, 7 and now two 11’s. Although we love them all, I’ll be working out equations until my head spins trying to make this work.

One happy family! Josh, Ari & Jovi Marie…

Great-grandpa and I were not at the hospital when Jovi was born. We thought about going after 16 hours of labor, but Ari was still stuck, dilated to only 4. Plus there were several more important people with her for support. So we waited, worrying and praying everything would be OK.

So much love and emotion. Jovi and Mommy, 1-11-17…

John and I first met Jovi when she’d been on earth for about 12 hours. So hard to put into words. If you can imagine the joy of holding your newborn, multiply several times. Here’s this tiny, exquisite person. Filling out a newborn sleeper perfectly. My kid’s, kid’s kid. As she squirmed, squeaked, frowned and slept contentedly, this is what ran through my head.

Jovi and her great-grandma-me! 1-12-17

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace, of doubt in my mind.
I’m in love, I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

Shannon Marie (Gi-gi) with Jovi Marie, 1-12-17…

The Monkees, 1966 (an awesome year BTW)

Jovi & great grandpa John cuddling, 1-12-17…

Welcome to our family, Jovi Marie. I hope you know how much you are loved and adored…

Jovi = perfection, thanks so much God…

There was a short time frame in my life when I thought I was invincible. I don’t mean those teenage years when you think nothing bad can ever happen. I knew better, having lost my only brother when he was 12. No, this short segment of time actually felt like 2 minutes, but it was more like 5 years. I’m here to tell you the sad tale about a gal who thought she had talent. Me.

No fireplace mantle. Bought a curtain rod and hung our stockings on the sliders…

My 5 year stint in infamy started around 1980. My wonderful sister-in-law Elly was more than handy, she was talented and crafty. And really, really into Christmas. Every December she painted her huge dining room window in a different religious Christmas setting. Hark the herald angels sing, the manger scene, Mary and Joseph with Jesus. You get the picture. Ha-ha-a pun. Wish I had one to show you. I think Elly painted the scene backwards so the window looked best to those walking or driving past her house. Amazing. People in Spencer looked forward to what she would paint every Advent. Elly had craft and talent oozing from her pores. My pores have always been clogged.

Elly set the bar unbelievably high. We lived in Spencer from 1977 until 1982, so I was aware of her gifts and my lack there of. She made me a bisque Nativity Set for Christmas in 1979 by hand. I might have given her a set of dish towels. Cringe. Part of it was she was crafty and enjoyed it. Part of it was she really thought a lot of our whole family. Since she’s 18 years older than her baby brother (my Hubs) we didn’t know her and Dewey very well when we got married. But that changed dramatically when we moved to the same town they lived in, Spencer. Their 4 kids were mostly grown, married and having babies of their own by then. Our warm relationship was part-friendship, part antique collectors and maybe a little-mother-son-daughter-thing. Our kids knew Elly and Dewey as aunt and uncle, but really considered them more like another set of grandparents. This closeness lasted long after we moved away.

The following year in 1980, Elly made me a Christmas tree skirt. Woman!! A kit she bought, cutting out different colored stamped felt pieces. Sewing them to the circle skirt. With sequins and pom poms. I was humbled by her talents and great gifts. I needed to up my game and do something awesome for her for a change. Except for those damn plugged pores which enveloped my whole body. I was hopeless. And clogged up.

Nevertheless, I bought a tree skirt kit right after Christmas that year. Probably because Sernett’s had them on clearance. I was determined to make Elly something handmade which conveyed how much she meant to me and prove it was possible to unclog my clumsy-no-talent-pores. The skirt took me the better (ha-who-am-I-trying-to-kid-MISERABLE) part of 1981 (that whole year still gives me the willies) but I got-r-done. And the skirt turned out quite nice. But something happened to me during the process. Even though it was torture, I actually thought I could do crafty projects. As if.

Another friend living in Spencer named Shari, was more artsy-fartsy than Elly. Maybe I ran around with them to keep myself humble. Now I was eating humble pie on a regular basis. Shari convinced me our Christmas tree needed more homemade ornaments. (Just kill me now). She brought over little patterns of semi-easy (but 10 on the difficulty scale for this putz). I bought pieces of felt, cutting out tiny shapes, glueing and sewing eyes, ears and mouths. I didn’t realize there were stores full of craft and sewing needs in the world. When the directions called for a bit of stuffing in the snowman or bear’s belly, I had no idea what to use. I finally ran to the dryer and pulled out the full lint trap. Ta-da, stuffing. It was at this time that I should have realized crafts and Neese had no business doing business together. But foolishly thought I had morphed into a crafty person. Indeed.

The snowman and teddy bear I struggled to make with dryer lint 1980..,

Sadly we moved from Spencer so my two encouraging mentors were no longer available for their uplifting chats. I was on my own in the craft world, which really ended being a form of Dante’s hell. I got the crazy notion our whole family needed handmade felt Christmas stockings. And we numbered 5. Might as well have been 19 & Counting Duggars (without all their weird shit). I bought 5 stocking kits at the end of the year clearance sale. Giving me plenty of time, about 8 weeks each to finish them before December 1st, the following year. Piece of cake. Not.

Each stocking was different. I started on the one I deemed the easiest. But it was also the biggest. Why hadn’t I looked on the package and noticed that one was gigantic? The other 4 were all the same size. Right away, Joshua claims the big one. He thinks more candy and toys will fit in it of course. Smart kid. He was about 9. The kit had all these minuscule parts you have to cut out. Little cheeks, eyeballs, and hands. The parts that didn’t have felt to cut out, you had to stitch in the blushing cheeks or little mouth. Nightmares are easily made of similar things. The pattern on Joshua’s stocking is a little boy and girl coming down the stairs with Santa and his bag of toys at the bottom. The actual stocking had a blue inked pattern where all these tiny parts needed to be sewn. They have to be stitched in exactly the right place or the blue marks show and it looks like ka-ka. Houston, we have ka-ka.

My stitches are big, uneven and blue ink marks are on the side of his face. Sigh…

Remember now, we’ve moved from Spencer to Davenport so I’m not only new in town, I’m alone and 350 miles away. Long distance phone calls are expensive and not to be wasted on silly craft projects when one is not crafty. I had already bravely walked into 30 Lanes and gotten on a bowling team and league. These gals would soon become some of my dearest friends (still) and wouldn’t ‘ya know, some of them had the craft gene. One perfectionist named Mary Lou (not to be confused with my bestie, Mary Ellen aka-Fred) noticed Joshua’s stocking, I had barely started on it, but definitely showing some blue ink where there shouldn’t be. She literally gasped and choked. Started clucking her tongue and shaking her head. Not pleased. This would not do. At all. Asked what in the world was I trying to accomplish? Gulping, I tried to explain. Stuck her hand up and out (no explanation can fix this Denise) grabbed all 5 kits as she left my house. (Thank you God).

Hubs and my stocking done professionally by Mary Lou, 1984…

Mary Lou might have finished them the following day by the end of business. Oh I jest, but they did not take her very long, maybe a month, tops. You did see ‘perfectionist’ by her name, right? I don’t remember what all I did for Mary Lou. Gave her some money and did some baking (take that Mary Lou, she didn’t really like cooking or baking, yay me) for the next few months. And my family had some exquisite Christmas stockings. I did manage to add each name on the tops of their own stocking, using leftover sequins. I think Shannon might have helped me with one or 2. And the small bubble burst and I realized no more crafts cause I just wasn’t capable. My little world was happy until there was no cute stocking for the very exquisite Ariana. My first grandchild. I had heart palpitations for 6 months after she was born, worrying about her lack of a Christmas stocking. While I hemmed and hawed on this new (wonderful) dilemma I got her a store bought stocking and hung my head in shame.

Lame store bought cheap stockings while I figured out who could make me more…

Another move and we’re in North Muskegon. I started working in the kitchen at McDonald’s. Great job, best boss. Ever. Not too long after I started, Mark the owner hired a gal my age named Carol. She had ‘crafty’ tattooed on her forehead, so spotting her was easy. Ari was now about 5 (yes, 5 years of shame for her lame stocking). I bought a cute stocking kit for her and Carol whipped up that puppy in nothing flat. Raggedy Ann and Andy, both with orange hair. Too stinking adorable. A couple years later, Shannon married Tracey, so Carol stitched one for him. Two years later, Landon (come on say it with me, “Drew to the rest of the world”) made his basketball appearance and Carol made a stocking for him. And yes, the name Landon will forever be on his stocking.

After a few years, I left McDonald’s and Carol moved. We would have a short respite until our little ballerina Peyton danced her way into my life. I was without a crafty person again. Dang it, how can it be so hard to keep these peeps in my ordinary life? At the time I was Parish Visitor and thought maybe one of my ‘gals’ could make a stocking. Now it’s been 20 years since I first bought felt stocking kits. The ones Carol made looked nothing like the ones from the mid-’80’s. Bling. They have sequins up the wa-zoo, and the patterns are so detailed. Not an inch on the stocking is without some decoration. Some of my little ladies could have done it a decade before but not anymore.

I had a part-time job cooking 2 nights a week at an assisted living facility. I use the term ‘cooking’ loosely but that’s a blog for another day. I asked around and a co-worker offered to make a stocking for 40 bucks with the promise it would be done by Christmas Eve. Oh boy. Why didn’t I ask for references? She stopped me in the hallway a couple days before Christmas. “I’m not going to be done with the stocking. It’s so hard. Everything takes too long. Sorry.”

My beautiful fairy ballerina, Peyton, 12, 2016…

About 6 weeks later, the gal at work handed me a bag. I gave her the money and eagerly reached for the stocking. There are not words to describe what was in front of me. I just stood there and cried. Out of frustration and anger. Let me show you a Christmas ornament that Ari made in Montessori preschool when she was 3. Yes, 3. The little beige doodle bug shows more talent than my ruined 15 dollar kit plus the money I just doled out. I honestly don’t know how anyone could hand that monstrosity to me. I would have lied and said my house burned down. Sorry I’m homeless. I threw it back in the bag and begged God that John would forget about the stocking and not ask to see it. Wrong. Sorry God, no more frivolous praying for dumb stuff. He (John not God, though God for sure was dumbstruck about the stocking too).

Top left center, beige doodle bug ornament made with more expertise by Ari, 3, 1994..;

Back to the drawing board. I had recently bought an old handmade quilt top. Why, I haven’t a clue. My friend had inherited it and didn’t want it. The quilt top was twin size, made of small squares of very loud 1940-ish cotton. I wanted to have it finished, but the right way. Of course I was having trouble finding the right person for this job. Everyone who looked at the quilt top wanted to do 2 things. Machine quilt it and fold all the darling zig-zag edge pieces down. Ugh. No, I waited because it would have been hand quilted had it been finished 60 years ago. And the most unique part of the quilt top was the edge. An amazing talented gal named Sue from my church came to my rescue. She belongs to at least one quilt club, maybe several. Her work is unbelievable. I literally drool when I see her quilts. Which ticks her off because of the dry cleaning bill. Sue finished my quilt perfectly, hand quilting it and leaving the cute edges.

Neat quilt that Sue completed. The bottom black edge is the cutest part, 2009…

Light bulb revelation. Maybe Sue was the crafty person missing in my life. She was!! I brought over a couple stocking kits and the pitifully sad sack stocking (so Sue would feel sorry for me). After her disbelief mumbling about the hack job, she squealed “Ohh, this looks like fun.” (Are you for real?) For the most part (except for the quilt and Christmas tree skirts later) Sue refused monetary payment. Lucky for this loser, she didn’t enjoy cooking and seemed to like mine. And loved my canned goods. Every time I made something special, I brought over a meal, a basket, or dessert to Sue’s and Bill’s house. Sue made Peyton’s, Graham’s, Sarah’s, and Erica’s stockings. Then she whipped up 4 Christmas tree skirts one year for Shannon, Joshua, Adam and Ari’s big gift.

To be on the safe side Sue stitched 2 spare Christmas stockings for our family, which continues to grow. Thanks God. Those two have been languishing in my antique blanket chest. I got them out hoping Ari might become a new mommy by Christmas. But our little baby girl was not quite ready to celebrate Christmas with us in 2016. Graham, grandpa and I got into a heated discussion about which stocking was perfect for her of the 2, so I invited Ari over to choose. (Ha-she chose the one I picked out. Maybe not as much ‘bling’ but it’s a little snow angel. Duh, easy choice) Then I tucked it back in the blanket chest and will stitch her little sequin name for 2017. I offered to stitch Josh’s name on the blingy one this Christmas. “Not yet gram. Wait until he proposes!” Smart girl. Gotcha….

For Josh if he ever proposes…

It all started at The Canary, a bar in North Muskegon. Unlikely location for this non-drinker, as I’ve been in the joint maybe 3 times in the 20 plus years we lived there. It was Hubs. He’d stop after work for a beer a couple times a week, along with the cronies he’d meet there. Shooting the shit about everything from work, hunting, guns, to cars and on certain rare (I hope) occasions, his better half-me.

The Canary Bar, North Muskegon…

His name was Ken. I guess you’d call him a fringe friend. Ken was at The Canary on a regular basis. I don’t really know how ‘bar talk’ works. A group of guys sitting in the general vicinity of each other, joining in conversations now and then. So that’s how Hubs met Ken. I really don’t remember meeting him the first time. Most likely John came home with stories about this guy or that couple, so by the time I actually met Ken, it felt like I already knew him.

Something Hubs might bring to The Canary. Salsa & chips to share…

John would occasionally bring canned goods to the bar to share. Sometimes our super hot pickled asparagus. He would open a quart and pass it around, accepting the ‘oohs and ahhs’ on my behalf. Other times I’d pack a box with a couple dozen jars of miscellaneous canned goods, pickles, beets and jams. The guys who happened to be there that day would divide the jars up and take home. Ken admired me (not in a weird way) I guess from the things John said (they never mentioned anything derogatory to my face) over the years. My job as Parish Visitor, visiting the elderly, homebound people from the church. I always brought folks some baked or canned goodies. That wasn’t part of my job, it was just part of me. I couldn’t visit anyone without bringing them something to eat.

My usual basket of goodies when I went visiting…

Several years ago, Ken called and asked if he could buy and bring over the fixings for a Thanksgiving dinner. Would I see that a needy family get his and Karen’s gift? No problem. I’d relay the offer to our pastor. If no one in our congregation needed the meal, he’d pass the offer to an appropriate agency. I’d get the food box from Ken, bring it to church a few days before Thanksgiving. The pastor would do the rest. I never knew where it went, but think I received a thank you a couple of times, and passed that along to Ken, who seemed somewhat embarrassed. Every year until we moved Ken did this good deed.

Much of the bar conversations involved old cars. This is in Le Mars, Iowa, the day John (with Les) bought our 1964 Corvette, 1992…

The same year the food gift box tradition started, Ken had called me in October. “Hey Denise, would you like some of our grapes? It’s been a bumper crop. We have way too many.” Though I never worked with grapes before, I blurted out, “wow, sure Ken, thanks!” Oh my goodness, what had I done? When I walked out the front door the next morning for my walk, there on the deck were 2 bushels of grapes. Unless you’re a canner or winemaker, you have no idea how many fricking grapes that is. Got out my trusty canning books to learn the art of making grape jelly. Although I got Ken’s grapes every year for a good decade, they were never again placed at my feet, on the front porch, so to speak. Ken would call John, ask to speak to me, tell me the grapes were ready anytime in the next few days. “Better bring a couple of boxes and scissors along when you come to pick grapes.” Some years there were tons, other years the crop was lean for one reason or another. Since I keep a journal of my canning exploits, I believe that first year yielded 500 ounces, about 4 gallons. Yes, that’s 4 gallons of grape juice. Way to break me in Ken. During that winter and spring, I never left the house without a few jars of grape jelly to give away. Bumper crop indeed.

The lowly little Concord grape…

About the cheapest product (ok, not counting Ramen Noodles) in the grocery store is grape jelly. A staple for school lunches across America. Since the grapes were free, I could compete. I still needed boatloads of sugar, pectin, jars and lids. But I never realized how much work is involved with grapes. Ken’s grapes were a little different too. He actually grew 3 varieties. The Concord accounted for about 90%, but there was a reddish grape and a green grape in the mix. I am convinced that’s what made my grape jelly so stinking good. Just added a little zip with those 2 other grape varieties. But grapes are messy. You’ve got to wash, de-stem, and smash them, keeping the skins and seeds. Throw them in a huge pot with a bit of water and simmer for a few minutes. The house smells incredible at this point. But the work has just begun.

Concords before I start working on them…

After simmering, the grapes are now juice, but still have all the seeds, some pulp and skins in the pot. Carefully I ladle this hot mess in a colander covered with a damp, doubled cheesecloth. You have to be patient here because this step can’t be rushed. I don’t want to squeeze the grapes or force the juice through the cheesecloth too fast. This makes my jelly cloudy. There goes competing with the grocery store. After a couple hours of dripping juice, I toss the skins and pulp. But I’m still not ready for jelly. I must be out of my freaking mind. Sigh. I pour this beautiful purple juice in plastic jugs and plop them in the fridge overnight. The simple grape produces something after they’ve been cooked. Just my luck. Why not? It’s called a tartrate crystal. Actually pretty but another way to ruin the looks of my jelly (or wine I think). The crystals look like maroon sequins. They adhere to the sides and bottom of the plastic jugs. So I carefully pour (again) the cold juice through another damp cheesecloth, leaving the empty jugs holding the sequin crystals. I know, isn’t it easier to spend $1.99 on 2 pounds of Welch’s? Maybe, but I’m convinced my jelly has superior taste. And I love to can. Yeah, there’s that.

Such a slow process for one of the easiest things I can…

When Ken started giving me grapes, Landon was 6 or 7, Peyton was about 3 and in Montessori preschool. The kids thought it would be fun to come over and make grape jelly with grandma. Shannon brought some fancy shaped jelly jars for their teacher’s Christmas gifts. Landon and Peyton were not content to just help with jelly part. To them, the real fun was in the smashing part. So they’d come for the weekend because we had to wait for the tartrate crystals to form overnight, then rid the juice of those little buggars before we could start making jelly.

Cute jar of grape jelly…

Picture, if you will, (I sound like Rod Serling don’t I?) 2 kids, 2 step-stools, 2 potato mashers, 2 tubs of sticky purple grapes. Landon and Peyton each wore old t-shirts over their clothes as the grape juice squirted. I mean squirted like a super water gun on steroids. Everywhere. Really. Each year they came to make jelly, there were grape stains. ON MY KITCHEN CEILING. I kid you not. Still some of my best memories and times with those 2. Luckily they grew weary of the smashing part after a few minutes. Shannon and I would finish, cook, strain and clean up the kitchen. Landon and Peyton would watch a movie with grandpa. Usually, Shannon and I would make a dozen apple pies to split after the kids went to bed. The next day we’d make a couple batches of jelly. I’d wait to can the rest after they went back to Jackson. Landon and I would studiously go over the steps of jelly making, so he could convince his teacher he made the jelly himself as a gift for her. That little family tradition lasted about 5 happy years. I really miss making jelly with them. Hadn’t thought about that for years. Change. Everything always changes.

Peyton 3, Ari 15, Landon 7, the era of family jelly making…

Funny how I never equated Ken, the fringe friend, good hearted, grape guy with the impact he had on my life, (and the grandkids). How Ken probably overheard a simple conversation about John’s-elderly-visiting-canning-wife and was compelled to get involved and offer his own gifts. Ken called and asked me if I wanted his grapes last year. But we had just moved here and still had boxes everywhere. So I apologized and sadly declined. This is the first year I’ve ever had to buy grapes to make jelly. Ouch. Not sure I’m competitive with Meijer prices anymore. But it was fun and I’d like to think my grape jelly is still better than store bought. Thanks for all those years of grapes, Ken. And the marvelous memories, my fringe friend…

The dastardly tartrate crystals…

Just a titch over a year. Wow, it’s gone really fast. I equate the 3 years prior like an uncomfortable, never ending 9th month of pregnancy. With the baby still snuggly inside and perched on your bladder. Kneading their tiny toes in it from all angles. Just testing your mettle to see if you could make it to the bathroom in time. Honing their skills with sharp elbows, knees, and feet, trying to earn a black belt in karate before the day of their birth. That one month lasts exactly 1,453 days. Hubs and I were so anxious to be gone from Muskegon. I feel kinda bad about that. We lived there for 21 years, but were ready to move after 18 years. For reasons I still don’t understand, we were literally stuck in North Muskegon for another 3 years. A dead zone.

Wish my belly would have looked this good for any of my 3 pregnancies. As if. Where are the stretch marks?

Nobody’s fault. We just couldn’t get out of Muskegon. We had a lovely home with a lovely yard, on a lovely lake. That I grew to dislike. Which is the part that makes me feel bad. That home was part of us for the biggest chunk of our marriage so far. Adam was a sophomore when we moved, Josh was at Michigan State, Shannon was in her mid-20’s. A single mom to toddler Ari, they came often to visit on the weekends. But none of the kids ever felt that real tug of attachment to our lake house. That part of family life in a home with 3 growing children belonged to Spencer, Davenport and Jackson. That’s where we made the scratch marks on the doorways to show how much each of them had grown during the previous year. Heck, everyone but Adam was done growing by the time we called North Muskegon home. Ok, tiny fib. Fess up time. I wasn’t finished growing outwards, but I was done with the upwards part. Sigh.

We did little else but drive across the state for one reason or another. Oh we wanted to do the things the drive required. Watch a middle school basketball game of Landon’s. Accept the invitation from Peyton to enjoy a program for (name a holiday). And we watched our youngest grandson, Graham, then a toddler at least once a month, sometimes every other week. Plus visits to Josh and Erica in Detroit or spend time with our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. But all these dear family members lived between 150 and 175 miles east of us. Every one of them.

Graham 3, ready for trick or treating, 2012…

I want to be able to look back, and reminisce about the years in North Muskegon without these negative feelings I still have about living there. Waiting for that stuff to pass. We had some great years there, but by the time Uber-realtor Mary finally hooked up the SOLD sign, we were so far past being weepy or sad about leaving. We just wanted to get the heck out of Dodge. My hope is after awhile the memories I conjure up will be of more happy times. Family get togethers, working at McDonald’s, visiting the elderly and enjoying our nice lake home. But those warm fuzzy feelings haven’t hit me yet. Still, better than lamenting an unwanted move and being miserable about it.

Which brings me to the present and our little house. I guess the reason the year went so darn fast is because we didn’t stop working on the joint for 2 minutes. Just so much to do, before and after we moved in. We knew several years ago if and when we ever moved, we were gonna do a smaller house on one level. I really wanted a condo but Hubs was not yet ready to give up all that fun stuff I call yard work. Crazy goofball. Well, if it was going to be a house, then the yard had to be smaller and easier to take care of. Living on a lake was quite a bit of work. In and out with the dock every spring and fall, upkeep on the sea wall, hard water rust stains, sprinkler heads needing to be replaced. Constant care to maintain green grass (John is anal about his lawn with nary a weed) on 4 inches of topsoil over sand, sand and more sand. With just as many spiders as grains of sand. The spiders never bothered me too much as long as they were smalller than the bottom of my shoe. Once in a while it was hard to tell as they often wrapped all 8 adorable legs around the sides of my shoe as I squished them hard enough to crack the cement driveway.

Steel toed shoes were a must when the spiders threatened to over power me…

So we bought a small ranch in a quiet neighborhood just east of Jackson. It’s very close to where we wanted to be. I would have preferred to be another 15-20 miles east, but I swear every mile east from here is another 10 grand per hundred square feet. Insane. Ann Arbor is one of the most expensive cities to live in or near. We got a lot more house the closer we stayed to Jackson. Since we lived in Jackson from 1987 to 1994 before we moved to North Muskegon, we knew the area and have friends here. It was a good choice and fit.

My little ballerina in the early years. Peyton, 2008…

But it was our second choice. We bid on another house a few miles away first and both really wanted it. It needed about as much work as the one we got. The yard was about twice the size as this place, which made me hesitant for all the work that part would entail. For John. Made it clear decades ago, I don’t do yard work, unless I’m forced. I don’t know how to start the lawn tractor or the snow blower. Never used either one and I’m fine with that. Actually kind of smug about that strange fact. I do a lot of stuff inside the house. If I’m outside, you can safely ascertain, I’m not working.

Mot my idea of fun times. Back yard with leaves-r-us, 2016…

I liked the layout of the the other ranch better when we were bidding. Since we’ve lived here for a year, I may have changed my mind. The other house had a bigger living room. But no family room. After living in our lake home for 2 decades and virtually using the formal living room only during Christmas season, I thought I was ready to give up that seldom used space. The house we bought has a living room and and a family room. I’m kinda surprised to find myself spending some time each day in the little antique filled living room. I read the morning paper, blog, take a power nap after work in it. After supper I’m in the family room with John. It seems to work for us.

You ever put on an old shirt you wore several years ago? Sometimes it’s kind of an uncomfortable feeling. The back across your shoulder blades seems unusually tight. You keep wanting to pull the sleeves down a little, they’re just not long enough anymore. You tug at the front of the shirt because your unattractive muffin-top shows off the rolls of your belly that you swear weren’t there just a few months ago. That feeling is similar to one I experience once in a while about our house. I’m gonna burst out of this house completely because it’s just not quite big enough. I want the bedroom to be a couple of feet bigger. More walking around room because I’m selfish and have insisted on keeping too many antiques. Plus I’m still missing the one antique I swore would fit at the end of our bed. Well it doesn’t, unless I want to climb over the bed to get out of the door. The kitchen can drive me a bit batty when I’m in the middle of a baking or canning spree. There is literally no more room. I cannot find one square inch to put another baking sheet of cookies or 7 jars from the canner. If the family room was just another 2 foot longer, or wider, the humongous flat screen would appear less domineering (that’s my job). It’s like Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. Busting out of his little Bill Bixby denim shirt.

Hulk-less and not quite so green. Bill Bixby…

But those ‘wearing a shirt that’s too stinking tight’ are rare occasions. For the most part, I smile everyday and thank the good Lord the house in North Muskegon finally sold and we are here. Close to the family. We can watch Peyton in choir, volleyball or ballet. She’s dancing in The Nutcracker in a couple weeks. Enjoy Landon’s sporting events. His first basketball game is in early December. Not to worry, I’ll keep you posted. I’m giddy with anticipation. Or I can hop in the car for 30 minutes and be at Adam, Graham and Sarah’s house. A bit longer and we’re at Josh & Erica’s new place. Here. Right here. It’s a smaller world after all. And I’m loving it…

It was in one of the last boxes from the storage unit Hubs found in the garage. We’re both still missing specific items, neither of which unfortunately, were in this box. Dang. I’ve long been fascinated with old toys ranging from pedal cars to rattles, and have had oodles of miscellaneous toys over the years. But as we’ve moved and downsized, I’ve have gotten rid of most of them. This little cutie was somehow over looked and sat forlornly on the bottom of the box. I was tickled pink to see it again.

To the babies, this is what nightmares are made of. When I sing…

The ‘pie’ was made by Mattel in 1953, so it’s pretty close to my age. When you wind the little crank, black birds pop up through the holes while it plays the tune to the song. You know when you hear a song from your past if you’re in the mall or your car? The melody or lyrics instantly bring you back to the people, times, feelings and emotions, even smells that single tune meant for you at one time. Sometimes a euphoric feeling, while another song may still cause pain after all these years. Well, Sing a Song of Six Pence did none of that. It did however, make me smile. I don’t even remember where or how long ago I bought this little toy. My guess would be a garage sale with my friend Mary Ellen when we lived in Davenport 30 years ago. Might have paid a buck or 2 for it.

Here I am in 1953 with my Dad. Same time as the pie was produced…

I found the Sing a Song of Six Pence pie in the box about 3 months ago. Since that day, the song tune has been popping in and out of my head. That’s 90 days and counting. One might think this is debilitating. Au contraire. The new tune merely plays havoc with the loud noises already in my head. 24/7. A chain saw on one side and a dentist drill on the other. The song has actually been a nice distraction. But I’m not the one who’s really feeling the pain of that monotonous little ditty so much.

I thought ‘my problem’ with said song had something to do with the dinky town of Dyersville, Iowa. I know that’s just weird, right? When John and I drove through Iowa in September, some of our stops were in the surrounding little towns near Dyersville. We lived amongst the Catholics during the mid-70’s. While I was feeling all nostalgic about some of our former residences, Hubs was determined to visit the movie set from Field of Dreams, which is right outside of Dyersville. If you’ve not seen the movie (what’s wrong with you 2 anyway?) it’s really endearing and worth a couple hours of your time. A magical baseball movie. Kevin Costner, Amy Madigan and one of my favorites, Ray Liotta.

Kevin makes the best baseball movies. Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, For Love of the Game…

The flick came out 25 years ago, yet the movie set remains intact and still visited frequently by passersby. The set looks exactly like it did in the movie. It helped that it was early September and the corn was still very tall and green. I could visualize the long line of cars waiting patiently in the dark to move forward during the movie. And I can hear one of the famous quotes from Shoeless Joe Jackson asking, “is this heaven?” Costner’s character, Ray answers, “no, it’s Iowa!” Wow. I bought a commemorative T-shirt after a few minutes of walking around the baseball diamond, and was ready to move on. But John was dinking around. Yak, yak yak with the clerk at the gift shop about the time we graced their fair city. And the crazy brothers Hubs worked for back in the day. Reflecting back, I think some kind of magical spell was cast over me. Heeby-jeebies. Didn’t think about The Field of Dreams or Sing a Song of Six Pence until we got back to Michigan.

The magic of Field of Dreams, 1989…

There are some problems when one is profoundly deaf, but I can’t really blame my singing ability. I don’t know how I ever made the choir in school or church when I was young. OK, the town was very small and being part of both were almost a requirement. There is that. But I’ve never really been been able to carry a tune or harmonize. Usually when one loses their hearing, most of their ability of carrying a tune leaves the building. I’ve heard folks who sang beautiful solos all their life, and have now lost most of their hearing. They can’t carry a tune anymore. I think they’re flat, but not positive. And I’m hearing impaired. Wonder how they sound to normal eared folks?

My Field of Dreams souvenir last month…

But that has not stopped me at work. Might be the reason everyone else is our room is now sporting ear plugs. Just kidding. I like to sing to the babies. A lot. While I’m giving them a bottle, rocking, or walking them to sleep. The trick is to sing quietly enough so the other caregivers can remain sane, yet the baby can hear me. Another problem is the material. We all know the Grimm brother’s fairy tales are usually just that. Pretty grim. So are the silly songs I sing. So now we have a deaf person, singing off tune, and changing the lyrics along the way so not to cause nightmares. (For the babies and my co-workers). Desperate times folks call for desperate measures.

I knew the first verse plus 2 lines of the second to Sing a Song of Six Pence.

“Sing a song of Six Pence, a pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.” (That alone is chilling)

“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.” (they’re alive and still have their innards intact? Blech).

“Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?”

“The king was in the counting house, counting all his money.

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.”

And this is where I got stuck. Could not remember the next 2 lines. So I looked it up. (My eyes, my eyes)

“The maid was in the garden, hanging up the clothes.

When down swooped a raven and bit off her nose!”

Well holy shit, I couldn’t sing it THAT way. So I just changed it to,

“When down swooped a raven and nipped her on the nose.”

My little off-kilter singing repertoire also includes: “You are my Sunshine,” “Jack & Jill went up a Hill,” “It’s me, it’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer!” “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” “Twinkle, twinkle little star,” and the famous, “Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree.” But Sing a Song of Six Pence remains my favorite. (Much to everyone’s chagrin).

Rocking a baby to sleep while singing to them is my absolute favorite part of the day. Luckily for me this happens several times each day. The baby is on their side, sometimes patting me with their arm that’s underneath. (An unbelievable feeling, almost makes me weep). Or looking at me in disbelief and picking at my shirt or face. Probably trying to claw my face or at the very least, close my mouth. And wondering how it’s humanly possible for me to screech like that? (Plus pleading, “Lord, what did I do to deserve this? Seriously God, why me?”) Such babies.

I’ve been rocking babies for 45 years. Rocking Adam in 1979…

Well the little stinkers went rogue this week. Went in cahoots with each other on my day off (probably with the help of several coworkers) and appointed a spokesman who usually speaks total gibberish. Which, until our little talk, consisted of “ga.” He’s a real charmer alright. Dark brown eyes, a smile that lights up a room and a big dimple. Just in case his eyes weren’t enough to make you melt, he sports 6 inch long black eyelashes for good measure. No lie. Yup, I’m a goner. He told me in no uncertain terms, “you have no magical power, when it comes to putting me or my crew to sleep quickly. None of us want to hurt your feelings, but self preservation won over the masses. It’s your off tune voice!” He concluded, “we have adapted rather quickly and now are able to close our eyes, slow our breathing and limit all movement. Pretending to be asleep. For one very simple reason. SO YOU’LL STOP SINGING. FOR ALL THAT IS SACRED AND HOLY. PLEASE. STOP. SINGING. We love you but it’s just too much. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. But please-keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby. Chop, chop”…

It started before I hit 25. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. And I was a sap about it. Easily wooed, and didn’t realize 40 years later, I would still be unable to change my ways. A habit? An addiction? A sick obsession? How could I let this happen? Year after year, decade after decade? I’m a weakling. So easily swayed. I’m embarrassed by my lack of determination. I suck.

 

One of my first attempts at changing my boring hair color. Little did I realize how soon boring brown would become gag-worthy-gray, 1967…

At first I tried cheap imitation cover-ups. Sheesh. So lame. I thought I could break this silly habit anytime I wanted. Criminy, I had the gumption to stop smoking in 1990. Surely this couldn’t be as hard. But it has proven to me over and over that it’s nigh on to impossible for this nilly-willy loser. How difficult could this be? I guess I lack intestinal fortitude.

 

Me sporting a lot of gray at age 26 at Joshua’s 1st birthday, 1976…

 

I was about 26 when it really became noticeable. Shannon was in first grade. Joshua was a year old. I thought I looked pretty good. Finally lost all the baby weight for the second time. But something was different. Looking much older than I should. I was still smoking which didn’t help, and laying out in the sun any time it was between 55 and 70 degrees. I didn’t care if it was December. If it was sunny and over 55, but not hot enough to where I’d actually sweat, I was getting a tan. Yeah, my body. Not so much of a temple back then.

 

The only thing brown is my skin. Hair is really gray at age 33…

 

Seemed like overnight I noticed some gray hair. Actually a lot of gray hair. More than a fair amount on anyone under 30. What to do, what to do? They probably have some fancy name for this procedure these days, but back in the mid-70’s, it was called ‘frosting.’ A dye kit you bought at the store. It came with a rain cap thingy. You put the rain cap on your head, then placed your entire trust in a very good friend. My friend for the job was Jeanene. The rain cap had tiny holes all over it. Wasn’t flawed, it was supposed to have holes. Small holes. It was up to Jeanene to take the razor sharp edge of the accompanying crochet hook and poke my head through some or all of the holes. Give my hair a good twist and pull it through those itty-bitty openings. When Jeanene decided she had just the right amount of my hair painfully yanked through seemingly hundreds of these little hell-holes, the real fun began. She was gonna dye all those little tufts of hair. Yellow. Buttercup yellow. The logic behind this madness is that all my gray hair would no longer be noticeable because it was carefully, seamlessly swirled with my own medium, mundane, cruddy brown hair. Truthfully, Jeanene strayed off the reservation by a few thousand strands when pulling my hair through. Too much. Way too much. Must have been about 75% of my hair sticking through those holes.

 

Yup, just a little bit overboard with the lemon yellow. With the bed and on my hair, 1976…

 

Got to give a shout out to Hubs on this one. He never laughed, commented, or refused to walk beside me in the ensuing months. But it was my observant daughter Shannon who pulled no punches on my botched frosted hair job. She never said anything. Heck, she might have thought mommy looked nice. It was close to Mother’s Day and her class was given an assignment to draw a picture of mommy on their own homemade Mother’s Day card. Which she did with the precision of a brain surgeon. I guess there was no mud-puddle shade of brown in her box of crayons. Maybe because the school year was almost over. Whatever the reason, Shannon chose the darkest shade of black for my hair on my picture that year. She got the taxicab yellow spot on. I would sincerely give a hundred dollars to find that card with my picture on it. We have searched high and low, but I think it might have self-destructed after a few years. I’ll give my best description so you can visualize exactly what I looked like. Since Shannon was only 6, I sort of looked like a stick mom. But the hair said it all. Bangs, and 2 perfect (I do mean perfect) sides to my hair. The best checkerboard ever drawn. Black and bright canary yellow in perfect alternating squares. Just freaking awesome. Wish my hair had really looked that good. Sigh.

 

Hideous, but both kids still loved their mommy, 1976…

 

Since I’ve always worn my hair rather short, it really didn’t take many months before the botched frosted look was gone. But my gray hair was back with a vengeance. I blamed Adam for years. He hadn’t exactly been planned. Kind of a hard pregnancy and he was breech to boot. I had a tough time getting him here safely. I think we both were mighty close to not making it, period. And I didn’t bounce back in 6 weeks. Or 6 months. We’re forever grateful we both came through it ok. But it took a toll.

 

By the time I was 31 my hair was about 50-50, gray and brown. So I started having a rinse applied about every 6 weeks. It was expensive, at least to me. I think it was 11 dollars a pop. Yikes. The rinse looked great though. Covered the gray but kept my own natural blah brown. But my gray hair seemed to have a mind of its own. Strong willed. The more gray I got, the coarser my hair became. It was like a horsetail. After a couple years, my 6 week rinse lasted about a week. All my gray hair would be back, poking up every which way again. My hairdresser finally suggested I either let nature takes its course, or start using permanent hair color dye. And so it began. I decided to ditch the beauty shop and learn how to do this snow job myself every few weeks. An older gal named Jenny who I bowled with at the time suggested a medium brown in L’Oréal (as Cybil Shepherd convinced me, I was, after all, worth it). One would think with this much practice, I would become somewhat of an expert in my monthly ritual of hair dyeing. Over the years though, I can’t count how many times I’ve been in Dorothy’s chair getting my hair cut when she’d start cracking up. “Hey, you missed a spot back here about the size of Delaware!” She was my hairdresser for over 20 years and always a smart ass. Sill miss her since I’ve moved. Haven’t had a good cut either. Or a great reaction to my last dyeing attempt.

 

Pretty much salt and pepper by my early 30’s. with Mary Jane and Jeannie Lawrence at Mag’s in the mid-70’s…

 

That friends, was 30 years ago. I’ve experienced so many milestones since then. I thought, when I hit 40, I’m done dyeing my hair. Nope. OK, when I turn 45. Nada. Same came and went when I turned 50, 60 and the biggie last year, 65. Surely I’ll have a hankering to finally go gray. But I’m not ready. I wanna be ready, but I’m not. I admire gals who have beautiful gray hair. I want to emulate them. But I cannot. Not yet. Done blaming Adam. Now I blame me, the quantities buyer. I hardly ever run out of anything. If I feel like baking 40 dozen cookies, or a dozen pies on any given day, I can be semi-sure I have all the necessary ingredients to get the job done without a trip to the grocery store. I do likewise with toilet paper, paper towels, shampoo, eggs. Doesn’t matter, I just don’t run out of stuff. I was the same way when I smoked. I always bought smokes by the carton and would get twitchy when I was down to a couple of packs. Would if we lost power and I couldn’t get the garage door up? In 20 plus years of smoking, I don’t believe I ever ran out of Tareyton’s. John on the other hand, ran out daily. And then would try to mooch some of my smokes to get through the evening. Which he hated but was too lazy to go out or quantity buy like me. Loser.

 

Even worse. Quickly growing gray and my first and only adult perm accentuated the gray, 1978…

 

Over the years of at-home-dye-jobs, I’ve lightened up considerably. Experts say as you age, if you color your hair, you need ‘go lighter.’ Darker shades make you look harsh. Since I’m so up to date on this stuff, every decade or so I’ve gone a shade lighter. Thus I have enough #7 Dark Blonde L’Oréal to keep my gray away through 2017. Why can’t I just make up my mind, bite the bullet and let my hair grow out naturally? How many 65 year old women still have brown hair without help from a bottle? Part of me says it’s simply change. I don’t do well with change. I start hyperventilating just thinking about noticeably gray hair growing out on the crown of my head.

Yikes! Blond can be harsh too. With Josh in 1993…

 

I’m a lot of things. A sarcastic, selfish loner. But I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly vain. I don’t like to dress up or wear much makeup. Pretty sure I look my age and try to act accordingly. Most of the time. (Although I did just buy a pair of denim capris WITH A HOLE ALREADY IN THEM! For shame, I know I’m too old for that shit. But they are cute, fit nice and were on clearance for 5 bucks). I’ll probably only wear them around the house and if anyone should see me in them next summer will assume I got the hole the old fashioned way. Through years of wear and tear). So the problem remains. When will I ever be ready to stop this vicious cycle and let my hair grow out the way God intended?

 

I’ve been given the bird hundreds of times. This is a good one and the hair shade I’m still using, 2013…

 

I used to visit a gal who’s husband was declining. When she was young her hair had been jet black, and she just never changed the color. In her early 80’s, she was advised to let her hair grow out. She did. And looked simply stunning when she walked into church. But while she was in the growing out process, she was almost a recluse. Rarely went out and never without a hat. She did let me in the house to visit, but I don’t think very many people saw her those few winter months as her hair grew out. Hate to say, I can kind of see me doing that. When I decide it’s the right time to flaunt my 50 shades of gray…

Wow, she’s about the age when I started this madness!!

 

 

How is it possible this happened so long ago? Fifty-eight years to be exact. October 11, 1958. The day my brother died. Doesn’t seem possible. Larry was a happy-go-lucky kid whose death left a gaping hole in my life and my family’s. I was 7 and thought my memories of that tragic day were clear and concise. But 2 years ago when I started writing ‘Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town’ about my life, kids from Rock Valley who are a little older than me have offered their perspective of what happened that fateful day. I’m learning more stories about Larry. Although some new knowledge may be painful at times, ANY tidbits about Larry’s life or the day of his death are welcomed and truly appreciated.

 

Me & Larry in 1954…

 

I guess first were the ramifications of his death. Not just our immediate family, but the whole town of Rock Valley. A small rural, predominantly Dutch farming community of about 1,600 folks. No internet, Facebook or cellphones, but I imagine the gruesome news of his death traveled quickly. Twelve year old kid riding a bike, killed when struck by a car on Hiway 18 on a beautiful Saturday morning. I don’t know if Mom and Dad were trying to protect me, or it was too difficult to talk about, but I remember talking very little about the details of the actual accident. I had to get my version somewhere after it happened. Assume it was from my parents. Too late to ask them now. I was wrong about some things and clueless about others. Then again I was only 7, and remain rather clueless to this day.

 

Larry 6, by the playhouse Dad built when we lived on the west side of Rock Valley, 1952…

 

My first big misconception was about fault. Yes, it was an accident, but I was always led to believe it was the driver’s fault. That stretch of Hi Way 18 going through our little town had a lip (kind of like a small curb) on both sides. Larry was riding on the shoulder, and I was told the car’s tire caught that weird lip, causing the car to swerve up over that curb. Hitting Larry on his bike.

 

Larry 11, Denise 6 and Spitzy the dog, 1957…

 

I never knew until a few months ago that our family doctor was driving on Hi way 18 that day too. Stopped just a few cars behind Larry’s accident. Doc Hegg was returning from seeing patients in a nearby town because Rock Valley did not yet have a hospital. He jumped out of his car, ran to see what happened and if he could help. But there was nothing Doc could do but pronounce Larry dead. He had been killed instantly.

 

Larry 5-1/2, Mom 24, me 8 months, 1951…

 

Since Larry was 12 when he died, the kids who were closer to his age or a bit older heard more about the accident than I ever did. Recently, more than once I’ve been told it was Larry’s blue jean’s cuff that got caught in the bicycle chain, causing Larry to swerve in the path of the car. Throughout my life we always talked a lot about Larry, but some of the details I’ve heard in the last couple of years never came up with Mom or Dad. Did they assume I knew everything about the accident or that it really didn’t make a difference in the scheme of things? It was a horrific accident and Larry died as a result. Period.

 

Newborn Denise with big bro Larry 4-1/2 looking on, early 1951…

 

John and I just got back from a trip back to northwest Iowa. We meandered slowly once we crossed the mighty Mississippi heading west. Stopped at several spots we lived during our first 20 years of marriage. It was fun, and brought back many fond memories for both of us. Once we got to northwest Iowa there were lots of friends and relatives to visit whom we hadn’t seen in 2 years. The main reason for the trip, however was Hubs’ 50th Class reunion in Rock Valley. I can’t say I knew everyone in town when I was in high school. But I can say with certainty I knew everyone in high school. Freshman through seniors. During the mid to late 60’s the grades at Rock Valley Community were quite small. Maybe 50 kids in each class. Everybody knew everyone else. You might have your own little clique, but you knew every single person in high school. By name. Where they lived. Who was dating and who just broke up. Rumors about a new couple going steady. Who was getting to second base. Who was suspected of buying condoms at a gas station in Hudson, South Dakota. (Back in the Stone Age there were no handy vending machines or schools doling out free contraceptives or condoms for a quarter. You had to ask the pharmacist or a clerk in gas station. Yikes. Out of town so you wouldn’t be seen by someone you knew. Or so I’ve heard. Ok, back to my story. Don’t want my pristine reputation sullied after all these years. Stop laughing. Please). Thus, when it was time for the reunion, I was looking forward to seeing everyone too. These guys were three grades ahead of me and totally cool while I was a no name dork. Scratch that. I think everyone knew this dork’s name too.

 

Larry about 5, 1951…

 

Hubs reunion was celebrated on 2 nights. There were some folks who came Friday night but had commitments on Saturday or the other way around. Most folks traveling though went to both events like we did. The first night was hard for me because it was held in the basement of a local restaurant. Low ceilings, lots of bodies, loud conversations, laughter and guffaws. Made it very tough for me to hear much. There were several classmates attending for the first time in 50 years! I recognized and could name about 80% of them right off the bat, without glancing at their name tags. Quite a few didn’t recognize me at all. I refer you back to ‘no name dork’ who was 3 years younger. Or I look like an old hag. That’s probably it. Don’t know, didn’t ask. Since it wasn’t my class, I took a lot of pictures, kept my name tag on, and said hi to almost everyone.

 

Dad 34, me 8 mon. Larry 5, 1951…

 

So there’s this guy from John’s class named Jack. I hadn’t seen him in decades. He stopped to say hello, then mentioned cryptically, ‘I need to tell you a story when things settle down before you leave this weekend.’ Wondered what that was about, but didn’t think too much about it. Jack was busy making the rounds through 30 plus classmates, spouses and a couple of teachers. Some of whom we would not see again on Saturday.

 

Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

 

Saturday night was better for this deaf gal. Bigger room, higher ceilings, room to mill about. No one asked who I was (ok, I was wearing tag again, now including my maiden name). I teased them right back saying I would always be younger than any of them. Ha! Jack walked over to our table. I’m quite certain he was squatting in between us. Sure couldn’t tease him about that as I’ve been unable to perform that little feat of magic for the past decade. He said, “I gotta tell you a story about your brother Larry.” That was a surprise because Jack and John’s class were 2 years younger than Larry’s. Although in a small town, boys around Larry’s age of 12 at the time often played together. Jack continued, “this happened right before Larry died. I had a crummy bike. It was blue, had a basket and even worse, it was a girls bike. Larry had a cool Schwinn, and it was a boy’s bike. Larry asked if I wanted to trade bikes with him? For keeps. Larry wanted me to give him 10 dollars for his Schwinn, plus my old blue girl’s bike. Larry said he wanted my bike for his little sister Denise. I couldn’t believe my luck. An almost new Schwinn for my old bike and 10 bucks? Sweet. This was just a few days before the accident. I’ve always felt guilty about that trade. And I thought you should know.”

 

Larry Wayne, 1949…

 

 

I was thunderstruck. Why would Larry ever do that? I don’t remember getting the old blue girls bike, but since I was only 7, I was probably just learning how to ride. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever wondering what happened to Larry’s bike after he died. Did they know about the trade? Doubt it. Think they would have been upset about it. What I do remember with clarity is the morning of the accident. I was watching Saturday morning cartoons when I noticed Larry riding down our driveway. On my bike. I ran outside as he was heading east on 15th Street. “Why are you taking my bike?” Still pedaling, he turned around and said, “I’m going to grandpa Gerritson’s. I’m borrowing your bike cause I need to use the basket. I’ll give you a dime when I get home and bring you a surprise from town, ok?” Last words Larry ever said to me. He never made it home that day. The first responders found ‘my surprise’ in the ditch by Larry and my crumpled bike that morning. A caramel apple. My payment from him for using my bike. Didn’t realize he didn’t have a bike of his own anymore when he used mine that morning. To this day, I still can’t eat caramel apples.

 

Dad, Larry & Mom in 1957…

 

Another little snippet about the last days of my brother’s life. Huge. Really. Huge. How can I ever thank Jack enough for telling me that story? And let him know he need NEVER feel guilty about that trade. Ever. It was God’s call for Larry to go to heaven that October morning. I want Jack to know much this story means to the little kid sister, nicknamed Neese. Whose big brother sacrificed so much on a lousy trade. What 12 year old boy with cool wheels would give that up? Well, he was my brother and his name was Larry…

 

Larry’s last school picture. Love and miss you still…

 

 

 

Through 47 years of wedded bliss, we’ve belonged to some amazing church congregations. The first was a Reformed church in Sioux City. It was the one dating back the farthest, yet I remember the pastor’s name. Something I can’t seem to retrieve of very many preachers after him. Perhaps because Shannon was instrumental into getting our name well known to the rest of the congregation. She was a little stinker who loved attention, and was not shy how she got it.

 

You can just see the mischief in her beautiful little mug. Shannon, 1973…

His name was Rev. Wallinga. He had an unusual voice and red hair. I remember very clearly the Sunday morning when our precocious 2 year old Shannon did not return from the children’s sermon. We fretted in our seats as Rev. Wallinga prepared us for a spiritual experience, only to have him bend over, reach under his pulpit and come up holding our toddler. Embarrassed beyond words, I shoved Hubs in the general direction to claim her. A couple weeks later, she would bypass her hiding place under the pulpit, instead stopping at the piano and plunked out a few bars. This time it was me who had to go get her. She was having a good time because folks were laughing at her shenanigans. Everybody but mommy and daddy.

 

Ready for church with Shannon, 1973…

 

A few years later, we were part of a fantastic church in Spencer, Iowa. We had some great friends and connections, and were sorry when we had to move to eastern Iowa. Again. Finding a church in a new city was not easy. And this move was very different for us. Not a town like Spencer with 10,000 people, but a humongous, bustling city of Davenport with 100,000 folks. The search was on. I’m surprised we even tried this church the first time.

 

Hope Reformed in Spencer, Iowa…

 

 

It was a seed church. Helped or sponsored by the Reformed Church of America. Started in 1978, we missed being charter members by a few years. We started attending in 1982 or ’83. Right off the bat, it was established by the small congregation that John & Denise were an oddity in Christ’s Family Church. Why? Because we were still married. To each other. With 3 children who all claimed both of us as parents. And we were just starting our 14th year together. Most of the members were singles or divorced. Wow, this was a huge change from small town Reformed churches we were used to. Welcome to a big city congregation.

 

Joshua 9, Shannon 14, Bix & Adam 5, 1985…

 

Christ’s Family didn’t have a building yet. Every Sunday morning we met in the conference room of the Holiday Inn in Bettendorf, just a couple miles from where we lived. Although the location was unusual to the young couple from Rock Valley, who had always worshipped in very traditional sanctuaries, we adapted. I honestly can’t remember what they did for Sunday school. We only used one big conference room that I recall. The floor was covered with very loud carpet of browns and oranges. No pews of course, but black straight chairs set up in rows.

 

Christ’s Family Church had purchased land out in the boonies. The sign announcing the building site could be seen from the interstate. But it was out in the middle of nowhere. We broke ground and a new church facility was under way. As it got closer to completion, there were concerns about how to furnish the insides with all the necessary furniture because we were very short on funds.

 

We attended through most of their early days…

 

My Dad actually came to the rescue. I mentioned to my folks we had nothing for the sanctuary. Dad remembered hearing about a church remodel going on in Orange City, about 30 miles from Rock Valley. (Another very Dutch community). He did the leg work, found the church which indeed was getting new pulpit furniture. I don’t know if there’s a term for this stuff or not, so it’s just pulpit furniture to me. He looked at the pieces and called me back. They were all in decent shape, but old, and needed some work. The best part. They were free. John and I talked to our minister. I believe his name was Al, asking if he was interested? To sweeten the deal, Hubs and I offered to drive across Iowa, pick up the pieces, and drag them back to Davenport. Then refinish them. What were we thinking? We might have been a little crazy back then. The answer from Al was a resounding “yes, can you have them back here, completely redone in time for the building dedication?” “Umm, sure we can,” we managed weakly. Gulp.

 

Christ’s Family with large addition on right…

 

This is about our trip from hell for the heavenly furniture. We were a family of 5, going back home as usual for Christmas. John had a brand new 1984 Chevy S-10 pickup to carry the furniture. But the 5 of us did not fit in his single cab. My set of wheels at the time were dicey at best. John’s best friend Ron, owned a Japanese Mitsubishi Sapporo which had a blown engine. Hubs, being very handy, bought the car for a few bucks and installed a different engine. By himself. Which didn’t quite fit. But it got me and the kids to all the activities they needed to be driven to and fro around Davenport. This trip we needed to have both vehicles. Our drive to northwest Iowa would prove to be a game changer in our marriage. The weather was absolutely horrible. Frigid temps, snow, howling winds and white outs. And this was BC. Before cellphones. John had Joshua, 9 with him in the truck in the lead. I was lagging behind with Shannon 14 and Adam 5. The Sapporo’s defroster was on full blast trying to keep the windshield clear. The wind gusts were nearly successful in blowing us in the ditch on the 2 lane road. My knuckles were white, and I was shaking like a leaf. I kept reminding God we were doing this for Him and the church. It really was a terrible mistake to endanger our family driving in this kind of weather. I prayed most of the way home that we would arrive safe and sound. Instead of the usual 55 mph, we were putzing along about 40. The trip seemed to take forever. It was Christmas Eve Day.

 

Just like our ’78 Sapporo. It had some issues…

 

God saw fit to keep the Van Berkum family, the dicey car and spiffy new truck safe that day. The closer we got to Rock Valley, the easier it was to breathe. We pulled into Jim and Mag’s driveway with time to spare. (My parents didn’t really celebrate Christmas since Larry died, though I did buy them a small artificial tree that Mom put up for several years since our kids were small. Ever since I was a teen dating John, it was always his family who had the big celebration on Christmas Eve). Relaxed while the kids snooped through the presents, shaking this one or guessing what was in that one. Devouring some of grandma Mag’s Christmas goodies as they waited impatiently for all their cousins to arrive. Didn’t happen. One of the brothers called saying the roads were too bad to drive 35 miles. This is a joke, right? We drove through hell for 350 miles, but 35 miles were just too much. I was angry and hurt. We never seemed to be worth the effort sometimes. I looked at Hubs. He looked at me, and in that instant we both knew this was the last year we would be driving home for Christmas. No more trips over ice covered roads. A change was in store. We needed to start our own tradition. When the kids were grown, it was unlikely both sets of grands would still be around. We needed to start our own quirky way of doing Christmas. This was all decided with one phone call, and a look between a husband and wife after 16 years.

 

The weather was perfect as we headed to Orange City to pick up Christ’s Family’s new, old pulpit furniture. The church’s new furniture had been installed, and their cast offs were waiting for us, neatly stored by the door. We were dumbfounded. By the old and the new. The new stuff was awful. What were they thinking? Sharp curves, ultra modern. It honestly looked like laminate glued to particle board. Didn’t fit or look very good in their very traditional sanctuary. The old furniture was a surprise too. Wow. Solid oak, full of curlicues appliqués. Stunning. Whispered to John we’d better get the good stuff out before they came to their senses and changed their minds. Loaded it up, covered it with tarps and we headed back to eastern Iowa.

 

It would be a few months before our church was dedicated, but by the looks of things, this was gonna take us awhile. John and I had refinished many antiques by this time. But it’s always different doing a piece that’s NOT going in your own home. Let’s say a lot less motivational than when I’d find a bargain at a garage sale, then drive Hubs insane until we got it refinished. We had our own method. He’s always been the stripper (don’t go there). His hands never seem to be bothered by that caustic crap. He’s also the repair guru, and the stain guy. But wait. I do have a little part in this assembly line of refinishing antiques. I’m the varnish, tung oil, polyurethane gal. Patience is a virtue during this procedure. John goes too fast and ends up with runs. He just wants to be done.

 

We start on the furniture. No one has seen it but us. I know patina is sacred in the world of antiques, never to be messed with, but that’s never been the way we roll. I’m not bothered if the value is a bit less because it’s been stripped. I want to see the grain POP. And the pulpit furniture had no POP left. Too dark and foreboding. We stripped it and discovered the beautiful oak grain again. Holy Hanna. Just a quick swipe of walnut stain for 3 seconds, then wipe it off and let it dry. Then my job of giving 2 or 3 coats of preservative. The biggest obstacle? Well there were really 2. First the exquisite Communion table. Inscribed on the front, This Do In Remembrance Of Me. About a half an inch deep in the wood. Which needed to be painted in red. Hubs must have bought 5 different reds. Couldn’t find the right color he wanted. I believe he ended up mixing several shades himself to find the perfect oxblood shade. Which was painstakingly applied with a tiny paintbrush. By John with his big hands. He refused to let me help with the painting part. The other problem was were the 2 pulpit chairs, which needed to be recovered. The leather was worn and cracked. And we didn’t know how to reupholster furniture. We asked around and a member of the church said she could do it when we were done refinishing the wood.

 

The pulpit that we refinished in 1985…

 

The congregation was amazed at how beautiful the furniture looked on the stage (is it called a stage in church situations? Maybe holy stage). But from the get-go of this little project, the consensus of the whole congregation was this old furniture would only be used until funds were saved and new furniture could be bought. Fine by us. What’s a couple months work for the Lord anyway?

 

The pulpit chairs, 2016…

 

We just returned home from a trip to Iowa. John had his class reunion and we had lots of relatives to visit. Trying to fit everything in, scheduling before hand was part of the planning. Since I started blogging, this reminiscing thing has hit me hard and often. I think about something in my past, and write a story about it. Sometimes it’s easily forgotten, sometimes I dwell on certain stories. I told Hubs I wanted to take a little nostalgic trip on the way to northwest Iowa. We were stopping in Davenport anyway because I stop and play double deck euchre with my good friends.

 

Basilica St. Francis Xavier, Dyersville, Iowa…

 

I wanted to stop in Dyersville where Joshua was born, and check out the movie set from Field of Dreams, and go through the Basilica of St. Francis Xavier again. A magnificent Catholic Church. Trot to New Vienna where we were the only non Catholics living in the whole town. On to Worthington, the rental house where all the floors were a bit askew. And then one of my favorite stories called The Farm, outside of Cascade. We could not locate the farm house which was a disappointment. The house in Worthington was almost unrecognizable, but we definitely still saw a slight slant. The hospital where Josh came into the world was very new in 1975. Now it’s had about 3 additions. The little yellow ranch in New Vienna now has a brick front, and we only knew it was the right house, by the home that sits behind it.

 

How did I not trip on those bell bottoms? The Cascade farm, 1976…

 

Both of us wanted to drive past Christ’s Family Church. Which is now smack dab in the middle of part residential, part retail area. No longer out in the sticks. The church too has had a big addition. It was early evening, and there were a few cars in the parking lot. A young man got out of his car, so we parked and followed him to the front doors. Which were locked. He was trying to find the gym to play basketball, so we walked along to the side door which was also locked, but there were lights on and activity inside. We knocked. A lady came to the door somewhat warily and asked what we wanted. The ball player was given directions to the other side of the building. We politely ask if we might look inside the sanctuary for a minute. She said, “wait here,” and closed the door. A minute later a guy about our age let us in. We said we had attended in the early days before and while they were building the church. The fond memories we had worshipping with the congregation. And our small part in landing the free pulpit furniture to be used on a temporary basis. He asked where we lived now while he led us up a couple stairways. Walked through the back door of the sanctuary, and flipped on the lights. Holy smoke, this is gonna sound biblical. Not gonna lie, I just stood there and wept. Our beautiful pulpit furniture. Looking exactly like the day we helped haul each piece into the new building, over 30 years ago. I just can’t remember when something like that has affected me so. Maybe the chairs have been reupholstered again, but the pulpit and the Communion Table have not been touched. I ran my hand over all the gorgeous curlicues. John touched the oxblood paint in the lettering. I was literally overcome with emotion. About furniture. Silly. We had often wondered what would have become of the furniture when they were finished with it, and had hoped another seed church would have been the lucky recipient for a spell. We decided those precious pieces couldn’t or shouldn’t ever be cast aside. “This Do In Remebrance Of Me” should always have a church home and never be retired…

 

It was this piece which brought all the tears, 2016…

 

 

 

 

I would say the first 18 years of my life were very sheltered. I was raised in a small, Dutch community in northwest Iowa. Probably calling the whole town of Rock Valley-Dutch-isn’t fair. But a very large percentage of that small town was of Dutch descent. The town boasted a beautiful Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran churches, but were highly outnumbered by the amount of Reformed churches. From what I remember, a Calvin, Christian, First, and a Netherlands for sure. So the Dutch outnumbered all the other nationalities by a long ways.

 

After Sunday night RCYF, the teens marched up to this addition to hear the sermon, mid-1960’s…

I never thought about it when I was young. Kids don’t think like that. It’s just the way I was raised. You don’t wonder, why isn’t there a Synagogue, or a Mosque? But as I got older, I did wonder why all the different versions of Reformed? Was it like 15 Christians fighting with the other 75 in their congregation years ago, getting fed up with some minor detail of their bylaws, then breaking off and starting over with their own little set of rules and beliefs? A couple of the ‘Reformed’ churches pushed their agenda of Christian School education when I was a kid. I don’t know why Mom and Dad didn’t start me off in the local Christian school. They joined the Calvin Christain Reformed when I was about 3. Larry would have been 7, Mona 11. It could have been about money. The folks simply couldn’t afford tuition for 3 kids. Maybe Mona, being the oldest and already attending public school for several years, raised a fuss. But within a few short years of joining Calvin, Larry was dead, Mona was out of school and married. Leaving little Neese the only kid in the church attending public school. Outsider for ever. Had to go to catechism on Tuesday’s after school. Church kids, all from Christian school teased and called me Dennis. Wasn’t very Christian. Begged my folks to switch to a bigger church in town where all my friends went to public school. Mom and Dad caved. I was a brat. Sometimes I feel guilty about this. Calvin was a much smaller, intimate congregation and supported our family with kindness, visits, and food after we lost Larry. Still I was utterly unhappy there. So rather than fight with me, they switched. I was happy. I think they were ok with it too. Dad became very involved, Mom, more of a loner did not. I was part of a huge group of youth and loved it.

 

Calvin Christian Reformed Church, 1950’s…

 

So, this Dutchy little town with all the churches. Each sanctuary filled on Sunday mornings, and most again on Sunday nights. With white folks. No African Americans, no Asians, no Jews, no Muslims. Just white Dutch, white Germans, white English, white Scandinavians. Solid white. Hubs folks got in a fight with Refomed church when he was a baby. John was a surprise to his folks, their 5th child. Money was tight for them and the church wanted more. In the Van Berkum house, there was no more. So they stopped going and changed to the United Methodist who didn’t insist on a set amount each week. Just like my folks but for different reasons. Round robin churches, although some were more strict and their congregants were more loyal. The Netherland’s Reformed Church comes to mind. I viewed them from afar in case their loyalty might be catching. Yikes. They allowed no make up, no TV’s, no car insurance. Double yikes. And 3-a-days on Sunday. One service in Dutch! Didn’t want to get too close to that.

To say my life, my church, my town was somewhat sheltered, isolated, filled with idiosyncrasies. This is not a stretch from my point of view looking back. When John was in junior high, his Sunday school class invited a black pastor to visit from Sioux City, because the kids had never seen a black person. Unbelievable. John remembers asking why the insides of his hands were so light? Yup, we were sheltered. Probably not very healthy.

 

Adore these 2! Tracey and Landon, 2002…

 

A couple of weeks ago something happened to upset this Dutch grandma. Can’t get this conversation out of my head. It’s on a loop and keeps replaying. Did I handle it well? No, I rarely do. One of my good friends just remarked how much she enjoys a good debate on almost any subject. Geez, not me. I don’t want to confront, argue, debate ANYTHING controversial. Totally not me. No matter how strongly I feel about something, I’m just out of my league. Inept, can’t find the right words to justify my feelings. Not something I was born with. I’m better if I can type it out, but after proofreading and changing words around 15 times, I’m still out of my comfort zone. Usually the knowledge I have on the subject in not kept where I can easily retrieve it either. I know how I believe and feel, and am comfortable in my beliefs, but rarely express it.

So I was invited to a potluck picnic. I was kind of excited about going. It was a reunion with the group I went to Italy with this summer. Yeah, yeah, my story is still in the works about Italy. When I try and piece that one together, it still seems surreal and disjointed. It was an over load of constant 2000 year old architecture that’s simply mind boggling. And art. Art up the wazoo. Just can’t wrap my head around it yet. It’s coming. Anyway, Shannon had declined, but I was up for bringing a bowl of potato salad and cupcakes.

I was the first to arrive. The daughter of the hostess came out to greet me and help carry in my food contributions. First, the house. Not too pretentious. A long rambling brick ranch on beautifully manicured grounds. Over looking a small lake. Winding drive with measured street lamps leading up to the house. A long wing off the house looked like a big mess hall of a campground. It held their indoor pool. As I entered the front door, just to the right was a lighted cabinet filled with Lladro statutes. Stunning. I have a half dozen and still feel guilty about their cost. She led me to a 3-season room that faced the lake. A lone gentleman stood as we were introduced. He shook my hand and motioned for me to sit. Asked me where I was from, where I lived, and mentioned he was supposed to be on our trip, but was recovering from recent surgery.

I went through a bit of Neese history. Blah, blah, we moved to Jackson from Iowa in 1987, then North Muskegon in 1994 for 21 years. Had just moved back to Jackson to be closer to all our children and grandchildren. Being polite, he asked where our kids lived? Things went south. It’s easier if I repeat the conversation from here on out. I’ll be me, and we’ll call him: A Pillar of The Community, or A Racist, Bigoted Bastard. Your choice.

 

Shannon & Tracey at Hoover Dam, 2015…

 

Me: “Our oldest daughter, Shannon is a clinical psychologist in Jackson. You might know her or her husband, who’s lived in Jackson most of his life. He graduated and got his master’s degree from the local college.” (Where ARBB donates)

ARBB: “Oh really? Now who is he?”

Me: “Tracey Lowder.”

ARBB: “Tracey Lowder, Tracey Lowder. Did he go to Jackson? Was he an extraordinary basketball player?”

Me: “Yup that’s Tracey. He’s now a principal in Ann Arbor.”

ARBB: “Did you adopt him?”

Me: (trying to not look totally confused) “um no, he’s my son-in-law. Married to my daughter, Shannon.”

ARBB: “Does your daughter look like you?” (His less than tactful way of inquiring if Shannon was white, black or mixed).

Me: (flushed and getting ticked) “Yes she looks like me. She’s married to a black man, Tracey, whom we love dearly. They have children. Who are mixed. I have mixed grandchildren.”

ARBB: (nonplussed) “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going on all over these days.”

I got up from the couch, marched downstairs (ok limped, one step at a time. Damn leg can’t even support me when I’m thoroughly disgusted). Felt sick for the rest of the night. Ate, gathered my stuff, went out to the car and bawled my eyes out. Called Shannon, who was not surprised at all. She caught some racist remarks from his wife on our trip, which I totally missed. Deafness does have it privileges. Who knew? I never even got to our sons Joshua & Adam. ARBB was so hung up envisioning my life with Shannon and Tracey.

 

3 of my 4 exquisite grands. Ariana, Landon & Peyton, 2004…

 

I think this couple feed and nurture each other’s bigotry. What I should have said or done in the moment, I honestly think would have been completely lost on him anyway. But that hasn’t stopped me from feeling like a complete ass and loser over not defending my beloved family better. I suck at picnics. And dealing with racist, bigoted bastards…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m relatively new to Facebook. I freely admit, I didn’t know what a meme was. And was never interested enough to look it up. Until this week. Meme definition: An image, video, piece of text that is copied, (often with slight variations) and spread rapidly by Internet users. I knew there are sites my friends follow, then pick and share on their home page. That’s the stuff I see on my newsfeed. What they currently find interesting, newsworthy, thought provoking, or hilarious on Facebook. I don’t do that.

 

Recently, this one really cracked me up…

Some people follow folksy humor, inspirational quotes or pictures. Animals are very popular with the meme sharing masses. Cute little goats jumping sky high, or an orca whale flying out of the water, narrowly missing someone in a kayak. Yikes. Some friends lean very far left or right and assume their friend’s opinion can be swayed if they put up enough political poop about leftie’s or righty’s. These are my least favorite memes.

 

I keep this meme for Landon. Don’t want the weight of the world on his handsome shoulders during basketball…

 

I do follow several people whom I do not know at all, but very rarely share. I’m possessive like that. A sarcastic humorist named Tracy Lorenz. TC writes hilarious stuff while being a top notch cop for the city of Bangor, Maine. I think that’s Stephen King territory. Watch out TC. Nothing in King’s little kingdom ever sleeps at night. And I follow a lot of photographers. I’m hopeless when it comes to taking pictures, so I really appreciate their level of expertise and admire their work. Clark Little, Jeremy Church, William Reek, Dave Sandford, Jennifer Green, Joe Gee (he-he) to name a few.

 

Nobody does water and waves like Clark Little…

 

So when I rise, while I’m waiting for my coffee and night to become day, I peruse what my Facebook friends have deemed worthy to share on my newsfeed. I absolutely love it when something makes me laugh out loud. Almost as intriguing is something that really makes me think. Or cry. But not gross medical stuff. I have trouble stomaching that stuff and usually whip past those pictures quickly. Sometimes I save funny photos, or thought provoking quotes. Which leads me to one I saw this week. It hit me like I had been punched in the gut. And I felt Cindy’s deep pain.

 

This meme that Cindy posted hit me so painfully hard…

 

My friend Cindy has had a very full plate of late. Diagnosed with breast cancer last December, she’s had surgery and chemo and is doing very well. Just a couple months after she started this journey, her husband Dennis was diagnosed with cancer. When it rains, it pours. I believe he too is doing alright for now. But both their illnesses had nothing to do with the simple meme Cindy shared on her newsfeed. Cindy’s mom, Jean has Alzheimer’s. Up until a couple years ago, Jean was living on her own, in my home town of Rock Valley, Iowa. That proved to be worrisome for Cindy as her mom was getting forgetful and Cindy wasn’t nearby. After weighing their options, Cindy helped get her mom’s house spiffied up, put it on the market, sold it and moved Jean to a care facility near her in South Dakota. Occasionally Cindy posts what’s going on in her mom’s life, pictures of her with the great grandkids, or visiting her sister. I know that Jean’s health has deteriorated and she suffered a broken hip last year. But this simple morning meme on my newsfeed let me know that Cindy is losing her mom.

 

Jeremy Church photo of Lake Michigan in North Muskegon…

 

I saw this when I was a Parish Visitor. I’ll share 2 painful experiences. Funny, this gal’s name was Jean too. She had been happily married well over 50 years. They were an outgoing couple who belonged to a square dance group for decades. But Jean’s husband, Dick was quite confused. They went out less and less. Dick couldn’t really be trusted not to wander off anymore, even at the grocery store. Dick didn’t join Jean and I in the living room while we visited anymore. He might recognize my face from month to month, but as his current memories grew dim, he was unsure of himself and rarely said a word, though he walked through the room now and then. It was really Jean who needed my visit, encouragement and empathy. A caregiver is one of the toughest jobs you’ll ever have. You forsake friends, your health, sleep, social events or having any time to yourself. Whatsoever. Because you’re always on duty. Jean and I often discussed she needed to prepare herself for the day when Dick no longer recognized her. She thought she was ready. She was not. Thanks God, for sending me to their house that day. I knocked, Jean answered and as I stepped inside, she wrapped me in a bear hug and started to cry. I lead her to the couch where we sat side by side, holding hands. She said Dick had gone to bed the night before and she was watching TV in the family room. She had the family room door partially closed so she wouldn’t wake him. He was easily confused, and often got his days and nights mixed up. And he hadn’t been sleeping very well. It wasn’t very late when he put his head through the doorway and asked, “have you seen my wife? I can’t find her.” Even though she knew that day was coming, Jean was devastated. And rightly so. Dick was eating, sleeping, and looked like the guy she knew and loved. But he wasn’t really THERE anymore either.

 

Awesome photographer Dave Sandford catching a wicked wave on Lake Superior, 2015…

 

Gordy and Barb were another long married couple. Raised 4 daughters, worked hard all their lives, and had been retired for years. You knew something was a little off as they walked into church. Gordon, leading Barb, with her beautiful snow white hair by the hand to their usual pew. As her memory issues got worse, they stopped coming together. He was her primary caregiver but had lots of help from their girls. Still when it got to be too much, Gordon placed Barb in a nearby long term care facility. Gordy went to visit Barb daily, but their life and marriage as they knew it had changed dramatically.

 

Gordon and Barb, around 2000…

 

John and I attended the first church service many Sunday’s. This service had perks and flaws about it. It started early, a perk, but the service included no choir, solos, bells, prelude or postlude. A flaw if you love music. The first service pretty much consisted of a couple of hymns, the same scripture and sermon as the late service. Just without all the frills. If we attended the second service, went out to eat afterward, honestly half the day was gone by the time we got home. I know what you’re thinking. Gee, God gives her a whole week, she can’t give Him a half day? True enough. A lame excuse for the early service, but it’s the one we both preferred. Why did I even venture on this long, drawn out sidebar? Probably to delay the sad conversation Gordon and I had together.

 

Still love anything with a clutch…

 

Getting back to Gordy’s story. It’s the middle of summer and a beautiful Sunday morning. John and I are walking out of first service, headed somewhere for an omelette before going home. Gordon is walking out behind me and taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and give him a hug. Here’s what he said. “I’m going to stop at the gas station and pick up a Sunday Chronicle. Then head to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and and sausage, egg McMuffin to go. I’m heading down to Lake Michigan (about 5 miles away) and sit on one of the benches along the Channel (deep water channel that often saw 1,000 footers glide through). Read my paper and hope a big ship comes through! Then I’ll go visit Barb and feed her lunch.” I couldn’t help it, my lip quivered and tears filled my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bad for someone as I did for Gordy that Sunday morning. He immediately understood the full meaning of those simple sentences, and why I felt so bad for him. Gordy and Barb should have been going out to eat together after church like Hubs and I. Gordy was a devoted husband, married to the love of his life, but really he was already a widower. His wonderful wife Barb was still alive, but not THERE anymore.

 

Muskegon’s deep channel with 1000 footer almost to Lake Michigan here, 2014…

 

 

And that’s the same stab of pain I felt when I saw the meme from Cindy. She’s grieving for her mom, but her mom is still here. But only physically. My parents had a lot of health issues as they started failing. But I didn’t have to experience what Jean, Gordy, Cindy and thousands of others have. It’s painful just to think about. But this meme wasn’t necessarily just about losing a loved one to Alzheimer’s. To countless others, it might be about a losing a true love, or angry, spiteful, words thrown out during an argument in which neither party will ever recover. I’ve experienced that. But when I read this meme, it was Gordy & Barb, Jean & Dick and Cindy’s acute pain on slowly losing her mom which came to mind…

 

Always a good reminder God is taking care of me…