Hey Sports junkies, I know it’s been awhile. You didn’t expect to hear from me until Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) regular basketball season starts later this fall. But there’s stuff you gotta hear, and I know you’ve been waiting impatiently for an update about our favorite basketball player.

 

Landon, showing off his pearly whites, 2016…

During the off season, (there never really is an ‘off’ season for Landon) he played in an AAU (Amatuer Athletic Union) for the second year in a row. A conference out of Cleveland (3-1/2 hours away) with some pretty awesome basketball talent. And some mighty big egos. His coach both years had been LeBron James’ coach in junior high. But this year Coach Ken just seemed tired. His heart and head were not in the game. Landon’s dad, our son-in-law Tracey ended up coaching several times, which was great. He’s very good at mentoring kids right along with coaching, and still enjoys all aspects of the game. But the turnover rate on Landon’s team was tremendous. Egomaniac # 1 (of course not my Landon) sincerely thought he was much better than the rest of his team-combined, thus moved up a grade division to the 16U’s (that’s 16 and under, Landon’s team was 15U). Thank heavens. They won more games after he moved on to greener pastures. Honestly he’s not that good. Maybe I’ll be eating these words down the road. We’ll see how he does in college. Anyway he’s not my concern, only fretting about my main man here.

 

Tracey, one heck of a substitute coach this spring…

 

One week the team would play great and win the whole tournament. The next week three new players would show up. The team would struggle and be out of sync. Hey, it’s summer, families have plans too. It can’t always be just about basketball. We only saw Landon’s team in 3 tourney’s. It’s WAY different than high school basketball though. Much looser and not nearly as many set plays. For the most part, the team, coaches and fans watching seem to thrive on the spectacular shot. Much more than being a cohesive unit. I’ll admit it is exciting to see a 14, 15 or 16 year-old dunk the ball that rivals the NBA. But for me, meh, I want to watch Landon handle the ball, march it down court, run the floor setting up a play. Probably just the ‘gram’ part showing. After the summer AAU season was over, Landon had a short season with his Pioneer team and lots of basketball camps and showcases.

 

I think he’s resting his left foot. Ha. 2016…

 

Around this time Landon’s left foot began to bother him. Again. Very near where he suffered a stress fracture a couple years ago but was not correctly diagnosed until last Christmas. Causing him to miss several weeks of his season (and breaking my heart). This time he went to a specialist at U of M. The doc seems to knows his business and ordered an MRI. We were so relieved when it was not another stress fracture. It is however, a hairline fracture a couple of tootsies away from the old injury. Well shoot. Good news: it happened way before his regular high school season starts. Bad news: it will take about 8 weeks to heal, four of which will be no weight bearing at all. Good news: Landon was ‘this close’ to starting football. Now I don’t have to worry about him for that little injury prone sport. Bad news: specialist wants him to use a machine to help heal the bone, the cost is astronomical. More bad news: according to Landon, he has to wear ‘ugly as crap orthotics, and I am not doing it.’ Good news: it’s only 4 hours a day, so he can fulfill that little obligation in the privacy of his home. Trust me, he will wear it 4 hours if I have to hot glue it to his foot every day. If only Oral Roberts were still around. Anyone remember watching him on TV? He’d smack the afflicted on the forehead and yell, “heal!” I’d better stop ‘spuuting’ (making fun or mocking religion as my folks used to say with their Dutch slang words).

 

Throwback about 5 years. Landon, front row in the middle. Behind him is Brandon, a year ahead of L and highly recruited by several colleges already…

 

There are scores of sports ‘experts’ who keep track of how top players are doing in their respective positions. Hard to believe, but I guess these dudes somehow make a living at it, or totally have no life outside of basketball. One would assume by top players, their main concern would be this year’s crop of high school seniors, but that’s not the case at all. They start tracking these kids when they get in junior high. As in seventh grade. Alrighty then, re-read the sentence about having no life outside of watching basketball. And I’m sure this goes for all sports that our kids participate in.

 

My fave pic of Landon # 3 swishing a 3-pointer during his freshman year on Pioneer’s varsity, 2016…

 

A couple weeks ago I got a text with an attachment from Shannon. Some kind of basketball list for the class of 2019. I recognized one very familiar name by number 5: Landon Lowder, So (sophomore) PG (point guard). “Wow, that’s amazing,” I texted back. “Who did this, and are all the boys from mid-Michigan?” “Ah no,” she wrote back, “only Landon and number 8 are from the whole state of Michigan. The rest are from all over the country.” Me: “you’re kidding right? This Highschool_stars1 group think Landon is the number 5 point guard in the country for the class of 2019? H.O.L.Y. S.H.I.T.

 

 

Wait, it gets better. I know, I’m giddy too. A couple days later an organization called ‘Bank Hoops’ listed Michigan’s top 30 college prospects by position for the class of 2019. Landon’s listed as number 3 for point guard. I wonder if grade point average figures into this equation at all? Landon does very well in his studies. My oh my. Can he live up to all the hype? Well, I think his head is screwed on pretty straight these days. Time will tell. He needs to get serious and be committed about healing his foot. Even if it involves ugly orthotics for a month. Geez. Sometimes he acts like he’s 15. Not for much longer though. His 16th birthday is on Sunday. Another thing for me to stew about. He’ll be driving. Watch over Landon for me God. Keep his head in the game when he’s on the road.

 

Class of 2019, top 30 top college prospects. Landon’s rated # 3 for point guard…

 

One last thing. You know Landon was born with allergies up the wazoo. Milk, eggs, chocolate, beef, nuts to name a few. Sounds miserable because most of us are used to eating all these things. (Really, chocolate!) But Landon has never known any different. He loves and devours chicken, turkey, and all cuts of pork. Makes turkey burgers regularly. Eats candy, Skittles, taffy, jelly beans, Mike and Ike, Anise, but nothing with chocolate. Not even tootsie rolls. Sigh. Still, he seems no worse for the wear. Carries an Epi pen, takes Zyrtec from March through December. Shannon and Landon recently had his annual appointment with his allergist. Time for some routine allergy testing. Tests showed no allergic reaction to eggs. To be sure, doc tested him a second time. Nada. This was indeed good news. Shannon dropped Landon off at home and proceeded to go to work. Landon focused on discovering the many ways he could enjoy the incredible, edible egg. Kind of like Bubba’s array of shrimp dishes in Forest Gump. Landon ate them scrambled, poached, and fried. Then hopped on the Internet, found a recipe for Egg Drop soup. Made a quart of that and scarfed it. Shannon came home, found one very full teenager, and nary an egg in the house. Reminded me of one of my favorite movie stars when I was a teen. The movie was Cool Hand Luke, with hunk Paul Newman, during his endless scene of eating hard boiled eggs. Seems these days it’s Landon. Any which way there is to serve an egg, Landon’s gonna make it and eat it. Soon as mom buys some more…

 

Another hottie, Paul Newman in a scene from Cool Hand Luke…

 

 

For my Mom, it was a no brainer. Her mother, my grandma Coba Berghuis Wanningen, died when Mom and her twin brother were just a few days old. Maternal and paternal grands duked it out because their dad wasn’t interested in raising them. Finally conceded paternal grands would do the bulk of rearing the newborns. But the maternals had a big part in doing their fair share with the twins throughout their young lives too. Mom idolized both sets of grandparents, didn’t see much of her father, my grandpa Lakey. He was bitter about losing his young, beautiful wife.

 

Floyd and Florence Wanningen, 1927…

 

So Mom and uncle Floyd spent their entire childhood with both sets of 60 plus year old grandparents, living with the Wanningen’s but spending much of their time with the Berghuis’ just a few blocks away. It’s no wonder Mom was always very fond of the elderly.

 

Mom, her Wanningen grandparents & Floyd, Sioux Center, Iowa, 1935…

 

More complicated was why on earth have I been drawn to the elderly bunch? My great grands, the Wanningen’s were both gone by the time I was born. I vaguely remember my great grandma Berghuis. Dad’s parents (the Gerritson’s, their longevity well apparent), lived in Rock Valley, but I was not close to either of them. Dad stopped at their house daily, but I rarely went along. Since Dad was a decade older than Mom, his parents always seemed ancient. Never went to town with my grandma. She never taught me how to knit, sew, speak Dutch or cook anything. Grandpa Lakey grew closer to Mom and uncle Floyd after they were adults. He died when I was about 10. We went to his 3 room house in Sioux Center nearly every Sunday afternoon, but I don’t remember him ever talking directly to me. I do recall a beautiful antique oak crank phone hanging on his living room wall I really wish I had. With so few elderly relatives to have a relationship with, I still have trouble wrapping my head around why I’ve always loved older folks.

 

My grandparents, Arie & Bessie Gerritson. Both passed away in the early-mid 1970’s…

 

I know it must have started with the neighborhood on 15th Street. I was only 4-1/2 when we moved and was amazed and ecstatic by the number of kids on our block. But every other house was home to an elderly person on our street too. Most of those names are on the tip of my tongue but have escaped during the last 6 decades. Their faces, the insides of the homes, their smiles, still have a place in my heart. I believe there were 2 widows on our block alone, plus an older couple right east of us. Maybe Kooima’s and related to the Ribbons? Before the Gayer’s moved in the house west of us, a widow lived there. She went on our California trip (sharing the backseat of a 2-door un-air conditioned Chevy Biscayne with one of her grandchildren) and me. She unfortunately was not at the top of my list of favorites. Not her fault, think her trip contribution paid for a chunk of ours. Still I was kind of bratty and wanted the backseat to myself for that long haul. Across the street, east of the Beumer’s was another widow, plus the quirky family living on the southwest corner in a haukee (Dutch word for add on, or lean to, really it was a shack) named the Henningfield’s. Behind our house was Mrs. Kuiper, another widow. I visited all these neighbors with regularity, especially my favorite, Bessie Jacobs. I think most were pretty free with cookies, or sweet breads, a glass of pop or milk to wash it down. They all loved to talk and so did I. Across the street west from the Henningfield’s was another older gentleman friend of my Dad’s named John Dodeward (probably messed up the spelling on that Dutch name pretty good. Sorry John). Mom helped some very special friends named Ivor and Frances Dearborn, who lived just a couple blocks away.

 

John Dodeward & Dad, maybe mid 1970’s…

 

Even though I was surrounded by these special folks and loved them all, a big part of my life long fascination with the elderly started when Mom got a job at our new nursing home named Valley Manor. An inspiration of several local Rock Valley men with long term vision for our small Dutch, mostly farming community. I’m not sure if Mom was employed by Valley Manor when they first opened in 1963. If not an original, she was one of their first new hires. When the building plans were becoming reality, the committee had the foresight of easy expansion which was needed soon after they opened. Mom took nurse’s aide classes, even learning how to give insulin shots. I remember her practice giving shots on oranges! Yikes. At least it wasn’t on me. And she looked so professional. Bought at least a week’s worth of white uniforms. All dresses, different styles. Kept meticulously pristine white, washed and ironed, hanging neatly in a closet, ready for her next day of nurturing and caring for the elderly.

 

Uniform like Mom wore to work everyday in the 60’s…

 

This was about 5 years after my brother Larry had been killed. Our family life was sort of kapoot. Dad had accepted Jesus and spent 6 nights out of 7 a week teaching, preaching, visiting the sick or other church activities as an elder on the Consistory. Didn’t feel the need to be with his downsized family of 2, namely me and Mom. Working at Valley Manor was good for Mom. Mostly a loner, she formed some incredible friendships over the years she worked there. Admired and respected the administrator, Al Porter, and Dorothy Smith, the head RN. Adie Dykstra, Marion De Young were some of her dearest friends.

 

Al Porter, Valley Manor’s administrator, mid-1960’s…

 

And me. I was like the mascot of Valley Manor. It was like a magnet, drawing me in. Anyone who frequents nursing homes should be puzzled by this. I still am. Most times these places are difficult places to visit, even if you have a loved one there. I knew no one, but the residents were a hot topic at our supper table each night. Right after getting the lowdown on my day at school, Valley Manor stories would begin. Never anything confidential or health related, but usually a cute quip one of them had said to Mom or a conversation they had that day. Not sure, but believe Doc Hegg took care of the residents after it opened. Hegg Memorial Hospital was on the drawing board, but wouldn’t be built for another 3 or 4 years.

 

Dr. Hegg making rounds at Valley Manor. I adored him….

 

In the beginning they’re weren’t many residents in Valley Manor, less than a dozen I think, when I started visiting. Making my way through the wing, stopping in every room. I was 12. Hubs grandpa Van Berkum lived there. (I didn’t know who John was at the time, he was 3 years older than me. Safe bet though, we may have visited Valley Manor at the same time). Mr. Manning was an original too (living there and being a character. Mom adored him as did I). He rarely wore shoes, scooted around in a wheelchair and wore red socks. Now who couldn’t dearly love a guy like that?

 

Neese as a teen when I frequented Valley Manor, mid1960’s…

 

As the place filled up, they added wings to Valley Manor. One newcomer was a gal about my Mom’s age, who was in her late 30’s at the time. Her name was Kathy (another butcher job on her Dutch last name, sorry) Boekestine. Mentally challenged, she was thin and didn’t talk much and wasn’t easily understood, at least by me. Still we were great friends. Once a week Mom would buy Kathy a package of Little Debbie’s when she got groceries. Mom let me bring the treat to Kathy when I visited. At times it seemed like the high point of her week. She could sense when I was coming and would be standing at the front door. She’d grab the box, giggle, run (yes she could run) to her room and put them away. Then sprint back to me. Grabbed my hand in hers for the rest of my time that day at Valley Manor. We’d go up and down the hall, wandering in rooms and visit. Kathy, clinging to my hand, smiling and listening to this young teenager talk to old people. Man those are some precious memories I’ve got stored up.

 

Valley Manor, early 1960’s. Mom and I both loved the place…

 

A gentleman named Frank Kelly moved into Valley Manor from Alvord. Mom learned through their chats when he was younger he was an artist. She bought some paints, different sized canvases and encouraged him to start painting again. He was really good. After Frank finished several paintings they hung them up somewhere in Valley Manor with a ‘for sale’ ticket attached. Weeks later I don’t believe any paintings had yet sold. Frank was discouraged and disappointed. So Mom bought them all. Yay, Mom! She had them all professionally framed.

 

A Frank Kelly original, 1977, while living in Valley Manor…

Mom, describing in great detail one of Frank’s paintings…

 

I immediately claimed I needed, at the bare minimum, at least 2 of them. Mom being the detail person she was, turned my favorite one over, got out an ink pen and wrote on the back. To this day, the painting makes me smile, while what she wrote on the back still makes me cry…

 

My absolute favorite painting by Frank Kelly who lived in Valley Manor…

Mom was thorough in the details, which brings tears to this day…

 

 

I think most families have at least a couple. One of ours was unintentional and started a few years after Hubs and I eloped. We were in the midst of learning the ropes as parents to our adorable firstborn, Shannon. Neither John or I recognized the frequency of these strange phenomenons right away. Wasn’t exactly funny ha-ha, especially if your name was John. At the same time, if you were into dark humor, or goosebumply happenings, it was strangely humorous. No matter how many times we moved while the kids were around, these “incidents” followed us until all the kids flew the coop.

 

1976, Joshua appears to not know daddy because Shannon is wearing his glasses…

I noticed a pattern by the time Shannon was starting school. She or her baby brother, Joshua would come down with a cold, ear infection diarrhea, croup, or some other childhood malady. Usually happened as one, two, or later 3 kids were on the mend. I’d be doing my happy mom dance. Hallelujah, praise the Lord, amen. At least a couple of the rugrats would be heading back to school. Even if one had to remain home an extra day, there was light at the end of the tunnel. The time slot might be too small for accurate measurements, but there would be a little ‘me time.’ Vitally important for this mom’s sanity.

I hope I’m not alone in this world to what occurred next. Oddly enough, this did not just show up when an illness hit the kids. Too often to be anything but a warped coincidence, it happened often enough when one of them got hurt too. Just as my little clan appeared to be on the mend, sure as the sun comes up in the east, John would come down with whatever the kids were just getting over. Or get hurt. Only much worse than all three put together. Why me God? Having Hubs home sick easily surpassed having all 3 kiddos down and out at the same time. He’s a horrible patient. Those stinking tonsils were a huge part of the problem. Why did he have tonsils anyway? Everybody born during the 40’s through the 60’s had their tonsils and adenoids removed. It was part of being a kid, a rite of passage. Mona and Larry were hauled to Doc Hegg’s office together, given a bit of ether, and got those suckers snipped. At the time, I was too young, but had mine a decade later when I was about 10 after enough sore throats for a dozen kids.

 

Me about 10 when I got my tonsils out, 1960…

 

But not John. I don’t know if his sibs had their tonsils out, but John did not and has suffered (making me suffer too) for it numerous times. When Johnny Wayne was little and had a tooth ache his mom or dad would stuff cloves or tobacco in the offending tooth. (Hubs said he never thought either one really helped, but it tasted so bad in your mouth you forgot about the pain). They took care of most ailments the old fashioned way. Poultices and home remedies like their parents and grandparents used. This was not a bad thing. In fact, after the discovery of penicillin, we started using antibiotics so often that many of us built up an immunity to them. They no longer worked when we got sick. The offending germs, bacteria or whatever was making us sick got smarter, bigger and stronger and mutated or something. So we needed stronger drugs to outsmart them. A vicious cycle.

 

Watch out Daddy, your Christmas might not be so Merry…

 

Anyway, by the time the kids were old enough to realize what was constantly happening in our house anytime one or all of them got sick, it kind of became a family joke. Sick. Poor John. Not only lagging days behind the kids, but more often sicker than any of the kids. Yet he was in the house with them the least amount of time. Seemed impossible. Still well documented in our home.

 

No I wasn’t sick, maybe daddy was. Mother’s Day breakfast, 1981…

 

On the other hand, I rarely got sick. Didn’t catch their flu bugs or upper respiratory infections. I just never felt under the weather. Until I started working with adorable, snot-nosed, rash laden, cough, blow raspberries in my face, stick their drool laden fingers in my mouth, little squirts at the day care. I’m the virtual magnet Queen for poop, having noses wiped on my clothes, spit-up, rashes, coughs, for the entire school. In the last 6 months my illness stats are just a bit better than Johnny Bench during his illustrious career totals. Yes, I’m capable of catching a better game if it’s childhood illnesses you’re pitching my way. So proud.

 

Has Daddy had the pox before? Shannon, 1979…

 

Why? How? I’m fastidious about washing my hands, especially at work. Yesterday I sported smeared avocado on my shoulder, and a very noticeable snot stain on my blue capris. We had a 4 hour CPR/First aid course after work. I arrived about 10 minutes before it started wearing nice, clean clothes since I had been home for several hours in between work and the training. I was early so walked into ‘my’ baby room. One little sweetie was waiting momentarily for her mom. She honestly squealed with delight when she saw me. A word about this misconception of having favorites. I’ve talked about it before, saying I seem to be drawn to all the ‘high maintenance’ little farts. After working another couple months with pretty much the same ‘bunch ‘o babes’ I no longer believe this to be true. I don’t think I have favorites. But I do believe with my whole heart that certain babies are drawn to us. Some more than others. While some seem not to care one whit which of us is giving them undivided attention, several babies definitely seem to have favorites. If something’s not quite right for them, they are happy when anyone tries to figure out how to make their little world better for the moment. But after a couple of seconds, especially if they’ve taken a spill, they want to be conforted by their favorite caregiver. Sometimes it’s the only way they can be consoled. So to me, it’s been the babies picking us more than me picking the baby. Anyway, I walked up to her while she was sitting on someone’s lap. She literally jumped in my arms, squealing, wiggling and hugging me. And promptly spit up all over my new top. Really. Boy did I smell good in the un-airconditioned gym filled with co-workers and highly trained EMT’s. No wonder I had trouble finding a partner for mouth to mouth. Kidding. The dummy was just fine with me and my lingering spit up smell.

 

Josh on the farm, but no Hoof & Mouth there, just chocolate mouth, not contagious, 1976…

 

I’ve managed to avoid any serious lung issues for 65 years. That’s nothing to sneeze at folks. It’s downright impressive. By the time I had worked with the babies for 2 months, I was in the middle of a very dangerous case of pneumonia. Yeah, me. That cough lasted 2 months. Soon after it finally went away, I got another scratchy throat, tickle in my throat making my eyes squirt water and a cough for 2 weeks. This time I got better on my own.

 

No, not Hand, Foot & Mouth. Adam with Oreo Mouth & Hand, 1980…

 

I can’t blame the babies for my knee issue which started right after I began working, but was unrelated. Lugging babies probably didn’t help and perhaps hindered a better time line for healing, but the little stinkers were not responsible. Last week however, I woke up with a thick, scratchy throat again. Tickle in my throat making water from my eyes squirt for the third time in 6 months. Seriously. If only they weren’t so adorable. I thought I was doing an OK job of fighting off the crud myself, but the cough was getting worse. Keeping me up several hours a night. Maybe I’m just paranoid after that horrible bout in April and May. After all I did manage to avoid catching hand, foot and mouth disease that zipped through the preschool a couple weeks ago. Yes, you read that right. Hand, foot, and mouth. Never even heard of it before. And my kids caught most of that stuff at one time or another. H F & M is kinda tricky. By the time you sport a fever or rash, you’re no longer contagious. So there’s really no symptoms until it’s too late. I guess it’s quite hard for an adult to catch it, but my luck hasn’t been all that great lately. But maybe my luck had changed.

 

John might be smiling, but if Shannon was sick, he soon would be too…

 

Until I got up a couple of days ago. Slept awful because of the cough, but wasn’t done trying to duke it out myself. Laid in bed for a few minutes after waking up because it was my day off. Still super early but grateful for another day on earth. Stretched and rubbed my face. Eyes were gritty and crusty. Oh dear Lord, please don’t let me have something else. I’m working very hard trying to fight off this upper chest pox crap. Limped (leg continues to improve though, thanks God) to the bathroom, turned on the light and could see nothing but red in my eyes. Are you fricking kidding me? P!nk eye! Oh hells bells. Waited until the doctor’s office opened, lamented my woes, and got in to see someone today.

 

Doc walks in, immediately says, “What’s going on today Denise? You look well. Wow, except for your eyes.” Sadly said I thought I had P!nk eye. “Good grief, your voice sounds terrible! When did that start?” Hanging my head in shame, I went on, “I seem to catch everything those babies throw my way. I’ve been fighting this sore throat and cough for a week.” She listened to my lungs and determined, “This has gone on long enough since you just recovered from being very sick. We’ll get some drops for the eye business, and something for that upper respiratory thing. If you don’t feel much better by the end of the week, I want to see you again. You should be building up immunities to most of these illnesses you’re catching after a year or so. How long have you worked there?” Ticking off the months, I said, “Six months, but I’ve only been sick for 3 of them!” “Halfway there,” she laughed, handing me my chart and walked out the door…

 

Yup, it was all about to start. Poor Hubs…

 

It’s not all that unusual for him to call. He’s never been obsessed with the phone, but since getting an iPad, he does FaceTime me now and then. So I was excited when my 6 year old grandson Graham called. He asked for my address. “I need it for a school project we’re working on grandma. Something I will mail to you,” was all he would say. Hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about? Not my birthday and Mother’s Day was still weeks away.

My son Adam and grandson, Graham. This picture-there are no words…

Several days later a letter arrived. Seems Graham’s 1st grade class was reading a book titled, Flat Stanley. (And you think some of my blog post titles are strange). Poor Stanley got smashed by a bulletin board. Yes Flat Stanley, life is tough. He wanted to go on a trip, so his family folded him up (ouch) and mailed him to California. (As if being smashed, folded and mailed wasn’t harsh enough. Sorry, California Carol)

 

Graham and his winning catch. Supper…

 

Well Graham mailed me his Flat Stanley. My instructions were to do some interesting things with Flat Stanley, then write Graham about our week long adventure. Sigh. Accompanying pictures were welcomed, (not more than 5, however) along with postcards and brochures. Oh boy.

 

Making a snake out of rice crispy treats, 2015…

 

 

Along with the letter and pictures, I was to fold up poor Flat Stanley and mail him back to Graham at school. Naturally, Graham would share Flat Stanley’s week stay at grandma’s house with the rest of his class. I was reluctant to give Flat Stanley the grim news. There wasn’t a lot going on during my week while he was visiting. And the stuff I had planned hardly resembled a vacation. But I was stuck with him through thick and thin.

 

–

Sarah, Graham & Adam, 2015…

 

Flat Stanley and I had some close calls during his week stay here. A couple of the incidents did not make Graham’s letter. Grandpa took him outside to watch a friend of ours take down a big tree. I reminded grandpa to be careful with Flat Stanley and keep a close eye on him. Flat Stanley managed to have a huge branch land on him, pinning him in mud and a couple inches of snow. When grandpa brought him back in the house, I swear he was even flatter, and his backside was muddy. I gently washed him, got out my seldom used blow dryer, clothes pinned FS and Great Scott, now he was wrinkly and not at all flat. So I plopped him on the ironing board which brought on some whining. He promptly stopped when he noticed me plugging in the iron.

 

Graham making Annual Christmas slush, 2015…

 

I take full responsibility for losing (almost permanently) Flat Stanley the very next day. We were having great fun baking cookies. Still mysterious how he managed to fly off the counter and land in the oven! Luckily he screamed so loud as I was closing the door which saved his hiney from being scorched. His hair was a couple shades darker, but I don’t think Graham ever noticed. I was a wreck trying to keep Flat Stanley in one piece for a week. We made it and here were the experiences I could share with Graham.

 

 

 

Dear Graham,

This is your friend, Flat Stanley reporting on my week at your grandma’s house. It was an unusual week. Your grandma called it a working vacation. I didn’t know what that meant. I do now. I would have liked it better if she would have left off the working part. But I did learn lots of new things. And I liked helping your grandparents. They’re kinda old and need help.

 

It took grandma a couple minutes to spot me here…

 

Some of our plans had to be changed because of the weather. Grandpa wanted me to help put up a new front yard light and plant grass seed where they had taken down a big tree. But it rained or snowed everyday. Grandma said that always used to happen to her too when your daddy was in school and had spring break. Not such great weather for playing or doing outdoor projects. Your grandma was writing something called a blog and let me type some words. That was fun. She was writing a story about your cousin Peyton.

 

You should have seen how fast I could type, Graham…

 

When I got up in the morning, after we had breakfast we drove to a restaurant in Mexicantown. That’s in Detroit. There were lots of different restaurants, but grandpa knew exactly where the best one was. It sure smelled good. And I got my own glass of pop with a straw. Please don’t tell your mom. I didn’t know if I would like tacos, tostadas, or burritos so grandma shared her lunch with me. I loved the food, Graham. We’ll have to ask mom and dad to take us to a Mexican restaurant in town. But I don’t think the food will taste as good as Mexicantown.

 

Ha, I’m standing right in the middle of 2 flags, United States and Canada…

 

Not very far away from the restaurant was a business your grandparents wanted to visit. It was called Disenos Ornamental Iron. Isn’t that a big word? I thought so too. Grandpa and grandma want to buy new railings for their front porch. Like the ones at your house. So this pretty lady brought out a big book with lots of different designs to choose from. I was bored, so I climbed up and down all the different railings in the hallway. That was fun, but grandma thought I might fall and get hurt. All week she said, “be careful Flat Stanley. I don’t want to send you back to Graham if you’re hurt.” Does she say that to you too? She was worried about me. That made me feel safe and good. But it bugged me too. She worries a lot.

 

This was the fence I liked the best…

 

 

The next day grandma took me to work with her. Since you haven’t been there yet, I’ll tell you about it. It’s a daycare, pre-school and regular school all together. Grandma works in the baby room (she called them infants) but they’re really just babies. I got to try out all their toys and play equipment. A funny tilted seat which she strapped me in so I wouldn’t fall out.

 

Yawn, a little flat guy could fall asleep in here…

 

A 3 legged wooden toy which had little toys hanging from it. Grandma said it helps babies when they grab the toys. But my arms were too short. A little slide that’s a foam cushion. That was fun. There were gates and doors to keep the babies safe in their room, but since I’m small and flat, I slid under the door and snuck into the hallway. I climbed up a great big display that said, Welcome Spring and found some pretty pussy willows to climb. That’s where grandma spotted me and carried me back to the baby room. It was very noisy in there sometimes. Babies cry a lot. They want to be held all the time. Your grandma likes the babies very much. Even when they cry.

 

I tried so hard to wiggle the toys, but I’m just too flat…

 

 

On my last night, we went to a birthday party at Peyton’s house. She turned 12 today. She got lots of presents. We sang Happy Birthday and had cake. It was the most fun this week. I love cake. I thanked grandma and grandpa for taking good care of me. And I liked doing new things with them. But I am awfully glad to come back home to you.

 

Boy was this cake good…

 

 

Your friend,

Flat Stanley…

 

I’ve never tried to deceive you. Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town is my personal view of my life stories. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. I’m into details about my stories. Dates, locations, surroundings, people involved. Feelings. I think I’ve succeeded in being honest. Brutally at times. Always used names of those involved. Except for the 4 dubious bosses I encountered while Parish Visitor. Ministers, all.

 

Looks innocent enough, right?

This story is different. Can’t really say I’m trying to protect anyone because the folks involved have passed away. They have several children and though I’m not in contact with them since I moved, I don’t want to cause any pain or embarrassment. Or to the couple involved, who really were lovely. So there won’t be any pictures in this story.

To anyone who has read more than a few blog posts know I have loved the elderly since I was a little girl. Starting with my neighbor ladies in Rock Valley, to the residents of Valley Manor where my Mom worked for years. Elderly strangers start conversations with me wherever I am. Hubs has called me ‘The Old People Whisperer’ since Cesar Millan started taming yippee-yappy-snarly-snappy pooches on TV.

It was the most rewarding job (calling) I’ve ever had. The folks on my list actually thought they were getting some benefit from my visit. The majority of the time, it was me who was reaping the rewards of that simple stop to see them. Visiting older folks always made me feel better and blessed. The tough part, moving past their declining health and deaths. Just reconcile myself and start processing a death when I’d have to do it all over again. With an aging congregation, this was a monthly occurrence. That was so hard.

I had a method when I visited. Usually picked a section of town so I’d be in one area for the day. Certain days I might drive south about 20 miles, working my way north towards home. Some sections of the city were large enough there might be several couples in their own homes within a 5 mile radius. Or an assisted living or nursing facility where several members now called home. So I didn’t end up driving around aimlessly, instead of visiting.

This was a normal visiting kind of work day for me. Usually didn’t do much visiting in the morning. Older folks just don’t move at the same speed in the mornings like the rest of the world. Often they don’t sleep very well in general, but usually a bit better towards morning. No alarms waking them up for work anymore, so many sleep until 9 or later. For others, getting their engines going had a lot to do with medication. When they took their morning meds, it might take a couple hours before they kicked in. I can’t tell you how many times one of them would observe, “you know Denise, if church started at 2 pm, we could attend most Sundays.” The exception here was nursing homes. Residents are up pretty early, had breakfast, were cleaned up, and dressed for the day by mid-morning. Normally, they don’t get a lot of visitors in the morning, so it was a great time for me to visit. Since nursing home residents tend to have fewer visits, it was counterproductive to show up if they already had company. If a resident’s daughter showed up at 2 pm every Wednesday, guess what? Their mom or dad would be spit shined and ready. I preferred to visit at the more quirky times to see how they looked at 10 in the morning or 5:30 pm. How could I be an advocate unless I got to observe those who no longer had a voice at various times? Sorry, I digress.

It was a beautiful, hot summer day. Nearing the end of my visits for the day when I stopped at this couple’s house. They had been on my list for years and I had seen them at least 50 times. Both in their 90’s, reed thin and slowing down, him a bit more physically, her more confused. One, a member of our church, the spouse was not. But I very much enjoyed visiting both of them. They might get out some old pictures. Talk about their vacation when they hiked through some National Park 40 years ago.

I thought I had taken enough classes and seminars to deal with just about everything involving visiting the elderly. Courses on caregiving, burnout, dementia, sundowners, side affects of geriatric medications, over medication issues, abuse of the elderly from caregivers, palliative care, hospice care. And on and on. But this day I was thrown for a loop and shaken up more than when I was alone with Bob the day he passed away, (Story called Ann & Bob, May, 2015) or the day I found Mildred dead (post called Mildred & Charlie, October, 2014).

After I parked my car in their driveway, I used the side door of the garage. The door to the house was unlocked. I knocked, turned the knob, yelled pretty loud, “hey, it’s Denise, Parish Visitor!” Walking through the kitchen, I could see (let’s just call them Jake and Iris) Jake vigorously and furiously fanning something. What was he doing, swatting bugs or killing a mouse? He was not yet aware I was speaking to him and I was getting concerned for his health and safety. Jake was standing by the edge of the kitchen table, and the countertop and stove were blocking my view. I kept talking and walking. Stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what was underneath the table. Sucked in my breath and sprinted to the other side of the table. With his two hands clasped together, Jake was holding a box full of Kleenex. Swinging it over his head, swooping it downward with all the force of a 6’4″ 140 pound, 95 year old could muster. Repeatedly. Smack dab on the top of Iris’s head. Who was on all fours on the floor. She didn’t cower, or try to protect herself. And said not a word. I tried to shield her, and got smacked a couple of times before he realized he was now swearing and hitting the wrong person. I wouldn’t put my hand on the bible but I’m pretty sure I started with, “stop it. Stop it. Jake, what the hell are you doing?” (Not exactly the right phrasing for a Christian Parish Visitor. Sorry God.) Jake wasn’t really aware of anything yet besides swinging that dang Kleenex box on the top of Iris’s head. Who now sported several red welts I could see through her thin hair. “Stop hitting her,” I screamed! “She won’t listen to a G-damn thing I say,” he screamed, just as loud. I grabbed the box out of his hands and was surprised by his visible rage. “Jake, if you don’t stop hitting her, I’m going to call the police! Sit down. Sit down right now!”

His anger finally subsided and he plopped down in a chair, deflated. I slid back a chair from the table, helped Iris up, got a cold compress for the top of her head, who had still said nothing. At less than 5 feet, maybe 90 pounds soaking wet, I suddenly feared for Iris’s safety in her home for the last 50 plus years. What should I do? Logical thing was to call someone. Cops, family, my boss (ugh)? Nope, boss was out of town. Hmm, that’s 2 out of 3 serious incidents as Parish Visitor where boss was on vacation. What are the odds? Pretty good since all 4 got several weeks a year. Guess I’m still a little bitter. I really need to move past these unhealthy feelings for that group. Maybe next year. Probably should have called the police, but I was reluctant. Then I remembered one of Jake and Iris’s kids came over daily to cook supper, which was about an hour away. I calmly (really, I was anything but calm) talked to both of them. Both of them acted like nothing had happened. Dementia, denial, unaware?

I went home for a few minutes. Sobbed telling John the details. Drove back to their house and was relieved when I saw another car in the driveway. Went in through the garage, knocked on the door and walked in. One of their daughter’s, whom I had met several times was standing by the stove cooking. Jake and Iris were watching a small portable TV by the kitchen table, and seemed not to notice me. I asked the daughter if I could speak to her for a minute in the garage? As gently as I could, explained what I had walked in on a couple of hours prior. She seemed genuinely surprised but it was kind of hard to believe she’d never witnessed anything like that from her dad before. I showed her the crumpled Kleenex box and the red welts on top of mom’s head. Told her I feared for her safety. Daughter was most cooperative and said she would call her sibs, and hold a family meeting very soon. Promised mom and dad would not be left alone until a solution was found. Took my email address to keep me updated. I was still very shaken up. Though I never mentioned calling the authorities, she knew I would follow this through until the situation was remedied.

I’ve second guessed myself on issues dealing with our kids, neighbors, Hubs, my parents, and being a stay at home mom. Before I walked in their house for that routine visit, I had never second guessed myself on anything about my job of Parish Visiting. While it was happening, I was unsure of anything besides stopping it. Made me feel weird because I didn’t know exactly what was the right thing to do. I hate to say I was suspicious of Jake and Iris’s family, but it felt immediately odd that between 4 children, spouses, many grandchildren and great-grandchildren in and out of their house, the person who stops once a month for an hour was the first and only witness to Jake’s dangerous behavior. Was the family in denial too?

I got an email within 48 hours that the search was on to find a place for mom. Within a week, Iris was living in a assisted living facility. Jake was still at home, receiving care from family members. But Jake was not my main concern. Iris got acclimated in her new surroundings, with lots of family visiting and her room chucked full of items from home. Jake moved to the same facility months later. But a couple of hallways away. Jake or Iris were wheeled to the each other’s room for frequent visits. And the facility was made aware of his mental issues so they were never alone. Jake and Iris lived contentedly for many months. Iris occasionally mentioned she was homesick for Jake. Which flooded me with feelings of guilt for separating them at the end of their long married lives. Though I don’t believe Iris realized it was my visit which put in motion their life changing locations. But her safety, and my job as an outside advocate maintained I did the right thing. Maybe not enough. None of the family seemed bitter towards me if we happened to be visiting at the same time. I think they appreciated I didn’t immediately call the police and could spare their family. Pretty sure if an incident came up again though, my first instinct, call the police would be the one I would choose.

Jake and Iris passed away within days of each other. United once again. This time, with their Lord and Savior for eternity…

 

 

 

In many ways, I have a love-hate relationship with the Internet and my smart-ass phone. I don’t try to understand it. My mind just doesn’t work that way. It’s much too complicated. I think it’s magic. Real clouds that store my stuff. I’ve looked up in the sky, but as of today have yet to easily spot Neese’s safe, impenetrable cloud. Shouldn’t my cloud hover over my head? Staying close in case quick retrieval is ever needed?

 

iPhone may be smarter than me, but lacks sarcasm…

One of the most disturbing aspects of all this magical gobbledygook happened about 5 years ago. Still remains, firmly entrenched and causes a frown every time it resurfaces. I had been shopping in Grand Haven, which is about 15 miles south of North Muskegon. I was on my way home, driving on 31. Late afternoon, 4-lane highway was not busy. I was following a slow moving school bus. It was loaded with students, all who appeared headless from my angle. I moved into the passing lane. (this lane is used for passing, then I moved back into the right lane. Don’t even get me started with # 1 on my very long pet peeve list).

 

Lori as cheerleader mascot, basketball season, 1959-60…

 

I glanced sideways a couple of times as I scooted past. Brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Dumb I know, but it still bothers me. No students (pretty sure they were of high school age) were talking to each other that I could see. Not one. All of their heads were either hanging down, which is why I couldn’t see any as I was following them. Or their heads were bobbing up and down. Lost in a world of their own music. In a bus filled with the biggest, fastest talkers, no one was talking out loud. To each other. They were probably texting each other, but not any I glanced at for those few seconds were talking or joking with each other. I found that very troubling. Still do.

 

Rock Valley school and bus in the 50’s & 60’s…

 

Living a couple blocks away I never rode the bus back and forth to school. But I did to special events. Mostly away games for basketball or football. We had so much fun on our pep bus. We’d be hoarse by the time we got back to Rock Valley. Laughing, teasing, flirting, singing. I wanted those little bus zombies to experience what I did 50 years ago. The fellowship, goofiness, camaraderie. Do you understand this love-hate thing I got going on?

 

Getting ready for a pep bus adventure, 1967…

 

I discovered something huge this week. Monumental. The impact of a hidden piece of my past I didn’t even realize I had. Or was missing. It all started when I got a friend request. OMG. Could it really be her? It’s not like I ever forgot her. She was a big part of my life for 5 years. From 1955 to 1960. In kid time, that’s about 20 years. My family moved from the west edge of Rock Valley (sparse population) to the center of town. Near the business district, close to school and smack dab in the middle of a large neighborhood, filled with families. In my one block, backside and front, there were at least a dozen kids who were my age. The Beumer’s, Van Ort’s, Buckley’s, Miller’s, Klein’s, Hamann’s.

 

Neese, Cindy and the Schmidt dog, Skippy, 1957…

 

And the Wayne and Helen Schmidt family in the corner house. They had a daughter named Lori. We were pretty much inseparable. She was a couple years younger than me, but that never mattered. She was sweet, adorable, and cute as a bug. She had 2 older brothers named Gary and Rodney. Rounding out the family was a new baby sister named Cindy. I didn’t remember Cindy’s name until Lori mentioned it from a picture I sent her. I’ll admit, it shook me up. I had to go back and find the story I wrote several months ago. I’ve always remembered my 2 favorite dolly’s names, but didn’t recall if I used their names when I wrote the story. Yes, indeedy, there it was. I called the story, ‘Charmed.’ Mostly about finally unpacking and rediscovering all my old childhood toys after our move to Jackson last fall.

 

Lori, Rodney and Skippy about 1956…

 

In this particular story, I talked about my favorite baby doll. How much I loved and spoiled her. Rubbing her with real baby lotion. Can you imagine how long that took? Buying real baby clothes at Ben Franklin’s. Changing her diaper after feeding her water from her own baby bottle. Swaddling her like a newborn. She slept next to me every night, along with my menagerie of stuffed animals. But my baby doll always got top billing. Walking her up and down the sidewalk of 15th street in a doll stroller. Covered with a handmade quilt made by my neighbor, Bessie Jacobs. Who loved me a lot.

 

Quilt made by Bessie about 60 yrs ago…

 

Playing with Lori in my fabulous backyard playhouse. Swinging on my handmade swing set, both built by Dad. Playing house. Walking our dollies or sometimes her baby sister up and down the sidewalk. It all came flooding back. Not only because Lori somehow (magic?) managed to find and send me a friend request. I don’t even go by my maiden name of Gerritson on Facebook. But because of a name. My baby doll’s name is Lori Jean. Named 60 years ago after my little bestie, Lori Jean Schmidt. Which was not that surprising. I loved Lori Jean Schmidt as much as I loved my favorite doll.

 

Lori Jean when we became neighbors and besties, 1956…

 

The part that really surprised me was in a different part in the ‘Charmed’ story. My walking doll, who refused to walk beside me. So I decided to play hairdresser and cut her hair. Much to my Mom’s dismay. She’s always been one of my favorite dolls, although not cuddly like my baby doll. I didn’t remember why I named her until Lori mentioned her sister’s name. I named my walking doll after Lori’s little sister, Cindy. I was completely baby crazy about all things Cindy after we moved to 15th street. Holy smokes, I’ve been impacted by the Schmidt family my whole life.

My walking doll Cindy. Named after baby Cindy Schmidt in 1957…

 

There is magic in the world. Ok, Internet, I’ll give you that one. No doubt. How is it possible for me to keep discovering so many people from my past? I’m a retired, deaf loner who lives in her own small world. There is no way I would be in contact with at least 60 or more of my Facebook friends without this Internet magic. Too many married names and moves by all of us. I’m in awe and sometimes very afraid of what’s possible with the Internet. Definitely not smitten with all aspects, but the world is very different than when I was a child. I’m forever grateful I was a kid who grew up in the ’50’s and 60’s.

 

Still my favorite doll, Lori Jean…

 

I tried to watch a you tube video yesterday. The star was a little boy, not yet 3. Gyrating, lip-syncing this hip-hop song. I was very close to a smile, but after a few seconds I thought, he should not know the words to this song, let alone have it memorized along with the dance moves. Failed to see anything cute about it and turned it off. Why are we in such a hurry to have our kids grow up? I can tell you from this mom’s perspective, my three kid’s childhood flew by way too fast. Now there’s proms with limos after preschool graduation, ears are pierced at age 2, and kids wear grown up clothing. Adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be. And time just goes faster and faster. Just for a few days, I long for 1957. My brother Larry is still very much alive. I would thank God for each day and appreciate the time Larry had left on this earth with me so much more. I would again be a happy, carefree, little girl. Living in a town I love, with parents who did their best. Playing with my favorite baby doll and my best friend. Both named Lori Jean…

 

Lori Jean Schmidt. My first best friend, 1958…

 

 

 

 

This story started a couple weeks ago. Our 25 year old granddaughter Ariana called and asked if we would host a family picnic? She’s in a serious relationship with this neat guy named Josh. (I know, what are the odds of having 2 Josh’s in a rather small family?) Ari and her Josh will be making me a very young, hip great-grandma around New Year’s, 2017. Josh’s mom and Ari’s mom, our daughter Shannon, have never met. Ari and Josh thought the perfect place might be our house for an informal meal of, “getting to know you, getting to know all about you!”

 

Josh & Ari, happy in 2016…

I thought this was a splendid idea. Only gonna be about 10 of us. We had to find a date that suited everyone which proved to be the 4th of July. So me and my ever present stash of swiped notepads from every hotel I’ve ever stayed in started making lists. Chores around the house that needed to be done. This was complicated by 10,000 pounds of river rock that had been delivered in the middle of our new driveway last Saturday. John put edging in the front of the house while I was in Italy, but wanted me to choose what kind of stone to use. I did most of the shoveling of rock into the wheel barrow. John dumped and smoothed it out. My arms were shaky, and my legs felt like jello for days, but it’s done. Newly edged rock has nary a shrub, perennial, bonsai, dune grass, or ornamental tree as of yet. But still looks pretty darn good. At least now the driveway can be used for parking and my Jeep is back in the garage. Crossed one item off my list.

Being married forever, it wasn’t necessary to assign tasks. We just know which one of us are doing what. I’m the duster, window washer, mopper, and in charge of most of the food. Hubs is the yard man, vacuum dude, and has a (small) say in the menu. Ah, the menu.

 

We’re usually on the same page. Sometimes tho, we’re not even reading the same book…

 

Some kind of meat (undecided) on the grill, and baked beans, John’s department. Potato salad, veggie slaw, fruit salad, and stuffed Rice Krispie Treats are up to me. I thought perhaps boneless pork chops or ribs. John decided on smoked pork butt for pulled pork. And there lies the rub.

I waited until Friday to get groceries, which is late in the week for me. John wanted to buy the pork butt on Saturday so he wouldn’t have to freeze it. As I was reading the newspaper this morning, John was rattling off spices required for his pork rub. Which needed to go on the butt ASAP when he got home. Giving the pork all the time needed to marinate or whatever before heading to the smoker early Monday morning. Since he has this bizarre affliction and is not able to spot a gallon of milk in an otherwise empty fridge, I decided to help out while he was on the hunt and gather task of finding the perfect hunk of hog. I envisioned my 2 shelves which hold all my spices, all over the counter. Yet John wouldn’t be able to find the half dozen he needed.

 

I was just trying to help…

 

With recipe in hand, I got out garlic powder, paprika, onion powder, sea salt, coarse pepper, cayenne pepper and sugar. Please note, I listed sugar last. It’s vitally important to the story. Sigh. Besides these ingredients, measuring spoons, a spoon to stir, a 16 oz. anchor hocking glass bowl with lid. Which had a sticker on the lid written in sharpie pen stating, PORK RUB. Yeah, I did that for him. Measured out the 1/4 C. Sugar, leaving it in the measuring cup, but placed it in the anchor hocking bowl. Why, oh why, didn’t I just mix up the batch myself? I’ll be asking the exact same question for the rest of my life.

 

All the spices needed for the rub down…

 

John waltzes in the house, giddy with anticipation. Hauls out the pork butt which is the approximate size of Rhode Island. Did I mention it’s a party of 10 on Monday? When I can tear his eyes away from that big hunk-o-hog, he notices all the appropriate spices, bowl, spoons waiting patiently on the counter. “You got everything out for me? Thanks!” Naturally I didn’t think any more explanation was needed. Our 6 year old grandson, Graham could have had it done in minutes, had he been able to read grandpa’s writing. I walked in not one minute later and Hubs is already furiously stirring spices. IN ANOTHER BOWL. “Um, why are you using a different bowl? Did you see the bowl with the measuring cup and sugar in it already,” I asked incredulously? Still stirring with feeling he says, “the recipe calls for the sugar as the last ingredient. I needed another bowl to put all the other stuff in first!” Just kill me now. Are you fricking kidding me? Apparently not. The counter now looks like Michigan’s sandy shoreline, smattered with spices of all colors. Smells good though.

 

Hubs gets a little crazy with his measuring…

 

John unwraps the butt and proceeds to fastidiously pat rub everywhere. I sigh, turn around and walk away. After finishing his task at hand, he shows me the plastic container (containers now number 3 to make a one-cup-bowl-of-rub) holding the leftover. “Where should I store this?” I bite the inside of my cheek (hard) and answer, “why didn’t you use the glass bowl and lid I had on the counter for you?” He comes back with, “it doesn’t have to be stored in glass, does it?” Shaking my head I answer testily, “Well, the plastic container will smell like pork rub through eternity, and I had a big old sticker on the lid stating, pork rub.”

 

He’s always been a messy cook…

 

Hubs stashed the spices everywhere but the right shelf (extra credit for his attempt though). In his eyes, a job well done. Next trip to the kitchen I notice a puddle of spices in the sink, along with the original bowl, lid, and his second mixing bowl. The counter where the Rhode Island butt got spanked with spicy rub was pretty clean. The floor underneath this rubbing ceremony now sported 2 T. (yes folks, that’s tablespoons) of pork rub on my gel mat rug. No doubt it would be edible and tasty.

 

Bare feet feel especially good walking on these spices…

 

A bit later Hubs announced, “I’m getting hamburger out of the freezer. I’m hungry for chile.” I hear the microwave, cupboard doors banging open and closed. He has not yet asked where the beans, petite diced tomatoes, or V-8 juice are, so I assume he’s getting stuff ready to make tomorrow. Then I hear a fry pan. “Hon, are you making chile tonight? It’s 7:45.” His comeback, “there’s nothing to eat and I’m hungry.” I mentally start (thrashing the snot out of him) going through our fridge. “There’s a big leftover pork chop, beef jerky, and those barbecued little smokies you like. Or make a grilled cheese, Denver or a salad,” I said, now bleeding from a nasty bite wound in my other cheek.

 

I think this looks self-explanatory…

 

So here’s the deal. Our house is small. Our kitchen is small. I need to keep them tidy. If there is an errant spoon, grape tomato, bag of chips, or grain of salt setting out, the whole kitchen looks messy. John barbecued these little smokies in a small crockpot 3 days ago. After eating some, he unplugged it, leaving the crockpot on the counter, grabbed the insert with remaining smokies and stuck it in the fridge. Three days later, the crockpot skeleton still lingers, decaying on the counter. While doing dishes, I grabbed the insert out of the fridge, dumped the leftovers in ANOTHER ANCHOR HOCKING BOWL WITH A LID. Washed the crockpot insert and lid and returned them to their natural habitat (the pantry closet shelf). When what to my wondering eyes should appear? The little black crockpot nestled in the crook of John’s arm. On its way back to my kitchen counter. “Why are you getting the crockpot out?” I ventured, hoping I said it without too much venom. He looks at me as though I’ve grown a third eye. “To heat up the little smokies,” he says happily. For real? Yup. You can not make up crap like this…

This is the result of John putting wet tea bags in the garbage…

 

 

 

It’s been two years. Twenty-four months. Give or take a leap, over 730 days. I couldn’t decide between ‘Thanks-a-lot’ or ‘Blame them’ for the title. Blame sounds like such a downer, thus I went with thanks. It’s up to my readers to determine if I got that part right. Where to start, where to start? I guess she’s either a heroine (or a culprit). Her name is Betty. So I’m gonna start with her.

 

My home town…

Betty grew up in the same Iowa Dutch community, Rock Valley as me. But I didn’t know Betty back in the 50’s and 60’s when we were kids. She’s a bit older than me, so we ran in different circles. Betty must have had a powerful hankering for Rock Valley, or started reminiscing about her childhood. She started a group site and became the administrator. Named it, ‘If you grew up in Rock Valley” about 3 years ago. Posting tidbits about the quaint, somewhat sheltered little town she called home. Invited her Iowa friends and former classmates to join and jot down their own 2 cents worth on posts, or come up with their interpretation of northwest Iowa. Betty’s friends joined her merry band of misfits. They, in turn invited kids (ok, so none of us are kids anymore) they knew, who were also from our beloved town of Rock Valley. So it’s Betty who should be thanked (or cursed) in her endeavor. I want to thank profusely Betty for your thoughtful input and encouragement since I started blogging.

 

Main Street of Rock Valley in the 60’s…

 

Enter, stage left, Ray. A classmate of John’s, but Hubs ‘doesn’t do Facebook.’ Somehow Ray and I became friends on Facebook, so I’d see his posts and he’d see mine and we would comment back and forth. Ray was invited to join IYGUIRV, (not gonna write ‘if you grew up in Rock Valley’ 20 times, so from here on out will be IYGUIRV saw-right?) near its inception. Ray then invited me (he’s probably still banging his head against the wall about that wacky decision. Dude, let it go. Done deal). When I pushed the join button, there were about 30 members. The group size zoomed up to 100 in the few weeks that followed. I haven’t checked the group size recently, but I think the numbers have climbed over 600 Rock Valley fan followers as of late. Without Ray’s invitation to join IYGUIRV, I’m convinced I would not be writing a blog. Thanks Ray. Or, it’s your fault.

 

My Facebook buddy, Ray…

 

Right off the bat, I was smitten with the IYGUIRV site. Some of the posts were a bit ahead of my time, others a bit after, but with most, I felt a deep connection to what they wrote. And remembered. Little things I hadn’t thought about in 50 years or more.There was always something that jogged my memory or I remembered it just a titch differently. So I hesitantly started to post some of my childhood memories. But there was something odd about the way I wrote. Almost embarrassing. No, really not almost. Take out the word almost. When I re-read the first 100 miscellaneous posts after I joined, every stinking one I wrote was embarrassing. Mortifying. Not the subject matter. I had pretty good (or painful) memories to share. But the length. Good grief Neese, could you ever just write a one or 2 sentence post? Obviously not. Someone would write a 3 sentence ditty about anything to get the conversation started. Like remembering the day back in the mid-50’s when our local butcher slaughtered cattle at his butcher shop. One happy-go-lucky cow decided he wasn’t ready to die, so promptly ran away. How many hours he was on the loose in town and where he scampered. That’s it. From there, it would be, “I remember he ran through my mom’s garden,” or “we were on the school playground and a cow ran down the street followed by some men in a truck.” And on and on the comments would go until the subject just petered out. I could never just do that. What others could say in a 100 words took me 500.

 

Rock Valley’s school in the 50’s and 60’s…

 

The IYGUIRV group was still quite small, I probably knew about 30 of the members. It was around this time I started noticing some of the comments made from this gal named Marlys. A little ding would go off inside my head like, “wow, that sounds awfully familiar. How does she know that?” I think I private messaged her. Do I know you somehow? I went to the Calvin Christian Reformed Church when I was little. Were our parents friends? Yup, her family attended the same church, our parents were friends and invited each other over for coffee and dessert after Sunday night church services. She recalled Larry’s death in detail. Even remembered he had a slight lisp. Her family moved to Michigan after Larry died, and we lost touch with each other. This has been the best surprise and wonderful renewal of a long lost friendship.

 

Calvin Christian Reformed Church, Rock Valley, 1950’s…

 

Marlys casually commented something like, “dang you’re a wordy girl, Denise!” I would have been embarrasssed until she continued, “but that’s not a bad thing. I hope you’re at least blogging. You need to write!” Had to admit I had no idea what a blog was. I’m a loner. Got nothing to say. Until I started typing.

I was surprised by some of the comments on my posts on IYGUIRV. I got some awesome exchanges started after I wrote a couple of posts. The best one ever was about Dutch words and phrases used in our home during my childhood. Mom and Dad were Dutch but didn’t speak it very much. I still use some of these crazy words and phrases everyday. (plue-she, a fuzzy off a dark sock on the carpet) When my thinking cap was finally screwed on straight, there were many more words and phrases than I first remembered. Which started an avalanche of comments about kooky words Dutch folks used when we were growing up. Words none of us could spell, or pronounce like the next person. And it seemed every family had a few choice words only used in their immediate family. (Heh-tok, meaning exasperation). I don’t know if it was because they were from a different area of the Netherlands, or they just coined a mixture of words after they’d been in the US for awhile. Hutt-fa-Duttie. (Oh my goodness).

One of the gals who first joined IYGUIRV, wasn’t born in Rock Valley (we love her anyway) but moved to RV years ago, when she married Erwin, a Rock Valley guy. Alma’s actually lived there a heck of a lot longer than I did. Who am I to judge who knows more about Rock Valley? So this happened about two years ago. Iowa’s had a 40 plus year tradition called RAGBRAI, (Des Moines) Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. Rock Valley was chosen to be the starting point for the 2014 bike ride across the state (they pick different routes through the state each year). Alma decided she wanted to join the first day’s ride which would go from Rock Valley to Lake Okoboji. That type of bike ride would require some serious training. She started a blog a couple months before the bike ride’s starting date about her training experience. I followed her hilarious version of getting into shape on her bike in anticipation of riding 75 miles a day with a few thousand other bike riders. This is Alma’s excerpt which contains a 3 sentence description of getting used to riding a bike for extended amount of time. “A word about bike saddles. They do not look like saddles. They are sinister, narrow, razor sharp evil devices designed to do great damage to a person’s basement.” I laughed until I cried over those 3 sentences. For 2 years. I commented and complimented Alma on her terrific sense of humor and ability to write a blog. Something I really wanted to try. She answered immediately and said it Marlys (who’s related to Erwin) who had helped her. The same Marlys who had been a childhood friend and moved to Michigan right after we lost Larry. She now lived 40 miles from me. Fate I tell you, or divine intervention. And you need to start blogging again about anything, Alma. Seriously.

 

Alma & Erwin on their wedding day, before bike issues…

 

My son Josh offered to get me started with a blog. But he was 175 miles away, running a company and the mundane chore of trying to get dear old mom to gasp new concepts (to me) and technology was painful for him to even think about. Hats off to Josh because he has helped me on countless occasions (when he’d rather have a root canal) after I got started my blog, and had problems or issues that couldn’t be resolved with his guidance over the phone. Sorry Josh and I love you and appreciate your help.

 

Joshua, my techie wizard…

 

One of my oldest friends from Rock Valley, Loie told me after a dozen of my rather lengthy IYGUIRV posts, “Neese, you should write a book about Rock Valley. You remember so much about growing up there.” I really don’t, just the memories burned in my head cause I was getting in trouble for what ever I was doing at the time. To an insecure hopeless writer, you can’t imagine how much those words meant to me Loie. I am going to have my blog made into a book someday. A book for just me. Something for me to carry around when I’m living in a nursing home. Haven’t figured out how to get the comments (best part of writing the blog) included yet. Or when to do it. Thought maybe 100 posts or the one year anniversary. Both of those days are long gone, and here I sit, bookless. Many heartfelt thanks, Loie.

But it was my friend from decades ago, Marlys who convinced me to start writing a blog. She invited me to her house, made lunch and gave me courage and easy to understand instructions I needed to JUST START THE THING. She helped pick out the blue-green dandelion background. It was Marlys who put my bio on the right side, convinced me to be honest, no matter how painful, though she was unaware at the time of my family’s deep issues. I had 3 or 4 working titles for the blog, but couldn’t decide. Marlys made it easy, and it’s perfect: Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town. My life long love and devotion to my little home town from so many years ago. There are no words to let you know how much I appreciate your help and encouragement Marlys. There, you see, at times I can be stumped for words.

 

The gal who got me started, Marlys. Thanks friend…

 

My story has been exactly that. The story of me. I really never thought anyone would read it. And I was ok with that. This is my story that needed to be typed out. Maybe a month into writing, Hubs and I were zipping from North Muskegon through Lansing on our way to watch our grandson, Graham. The reason we stopped in Lansing on the way was potato salad, strangely enough. Shannon was hosting her company’s summer picnic and asked me to make a boatload of potato salad. So we stopped in Lansing to give her the full cooler. As I was getting back in the car, Shannon stopped, turned towards me, gave me a hug and said, “I love your blog mom. You write really well.” For the first time in my life, I was speechless. And sobbed all the way to Ann Arbor. Not that far really, a half hour away. But still. Thanks for the kind words, Honey. When I needed them the most.

 

My amazing daughter, Shannon…

 

One of my faithful readers/commenters is Cindy. She told me after I started writing to carry a little notebook EVERYWHERE. In case an idea hits me when I’m getting gas (for the car, not me) sitting at a stoplight, or wake up in the middle of the night. Cindy, it works. Countless times I’ve been watching TV, or laying in bed trying to fall asleep when an idea hits me. Hey, I should do a story about that. Another reader, Glenda said, walk around your house, look at your walls. Write what you see. Glenda, it works. I often think, I got nothing. Then I go to my little notebook, or walk through the kitchen, see an old gadget and a story sort of forms itself. To my faithful supporters who never fail to ‘like’ my newest post or make a comment: Jeff, Ray, Alma, Ellie, Marlys, Janice, Wan, Renee, Deb, Betty, Carolyn, Paula, Lois, Kevin, Krissy, Ron, Erwin, Tom, Gayle, Nita, Kathy, California Carol and Cindy. You guys never fail to make me feel better. Even when the story was a complete bust. Or horribly depressing. I write because my head is full and the words need to come out. I write because it’s therapeutic, rewarding, frustrating, painful and gives me an immense amount of satisfaction. I write for me. But I wholeheartedly appreciate every word you write in return.

This is a day before my actual 2 year blog anniversary. Shannon and I are doing something we haven’t done for quite awhile. ROAD TRIP. But no kids this time, and that’s been several years. You’ll be hearing about it soon enough. Until then: Arrivederci…

 

 

 

 

I was born and raised in a small town in Iowa. It was about the best place in the world to grow up. We had freedom to ride bikes, go to the dump, play in the park, go swimming at the sandpit until Dr. Hegg convinced the townsfolk we needed a modern, cement swimming pool. Our stores downtown were all we ever really needed. Right. That lasted until we got close to our teens.

 

Rock Valley Park with our spiffy swimming pool in the background about 1960…

Once we experienced big cities (to me) like Sioux Falls and Sioux City, we hungered for more. The restaurants, the amazing shopping took some of the shine off good old Rock Valley. I still loved the town. Heck, almost everyone knew everybody else. You went to the same school with the same kids every year. There was a kind of familiarity that was very comforting. I feel kinda’ bad for kids who don’t get to experience that secure, small town living.

 

Half of my kindergarten class. I’m top right corner. Went all through school with the same kids…

 

So what did we do for excitement? Well, there was lots to do in Sioux Falls and Sioux City. The movie theaters seemed as big as Rock Valley’s whole downtown area. Beside Warren’s Cafe, Ray’s Cafe, Green Acres and Manning’s Parkway Drive Inn, plus bowling alley pizza which was fantastic for 60 cents, we were shut out. The big cities had a dozen different restaurants dedicated to just pizza. New to my Dutch taste buds. They also boasted steak joints, Chinese, Italian, even McDonald’s. Which advertised a meal: Shake, hamburger, fries and change back from your dollar. Wow. Then there was the entertainment aspect. Rock Valley had a bowling alley (it was so cute, maybe 6 lanes), a roller rink above our grocery store, The Cue, and a small theater. And that too seemed enough until we hit our teens.

 

The infamous Roof Garden. One cool spot to be in the 60’s…

 

My first encounter at Lake Okoboji that I remember is well documented. The year was 1957, I was 6-1/2, Larry 11, Mona was 14. I’m sure Dad had some vacation time coming because he had been working for the Iowa State Hiway Commission about 7 years. But just because he had vacation days did not mean we really could afford a long vacation. We had only been in our house on 15th Street about 2 years. Buying one of the oldest houses in town had its pros and cons. I loved being that close to downtown and school. But the house needed so much work. Dad would just finish a project when a dozen more needed his attention. Not all of the remodeling could be done quickly either. With 3 kids, they had to skimp and save before starting the living room or whatever Mom deemed most important. I believe we went to Lake Okoboji for a day trip. When you’re 6, that 75 miles on 2 lane roads, doing 55, seemed to take a lifetime! We had a great time. Even the folks saw this as a big time event for the Gerritson’s, though none of us would realize the importance of that day until later. We had our family picture taken, right there at Arnold’s Park to commemorate the day. We looked happy. Mom was wearing a dress! The right side of the picture boldly states: Lake Okoboji, 1957. A few short months later, Larry was gone. Killed while riding his bike. Never has a picture meant more me more than the one that was taken that day. Our family of 5, captured in the moment, together and happy.

 

Larry, Mona, Dad, me & Mom at Okoboji in 1957…

 

I’m not very knowledgeable about Lake Okoboji. I seem to recall we usually called the area, The Lakes. There was West Okoboji, East Okoboji and Spirit Lake. All of northwest Iowa seemed pretty proud of the whole area. West Okoboji is one of the few (7 rings a bell) true blue lakes in the world. It’s very deep and it freezes so hard during Iowa’s frigid winters that they once moved a house from one side of the lake to the other on the ice when we were kids. Slid that baby across.

 

John & I, about 1965. He had no car yet, so we walked on our dates…

 

Once I hit my teens, Lake Okoboji was IT. Thee place to go in the summer. I suppose you could call it a poor man’s Disneyland. On the south side of Okoboji was Arnold’s Park. Roller coaster, carnival rides, an emporium, junk food eating places. Plus the Roof Garden. Upper level of a building. For concerts. Real concerts with rock bands. Man oh man, it was so cool. Being there made you cool too. Needless to say, I didn’t get there often enough to be cool. But the memories of my day jaunts there remain happy and pretty clear.

 

Arnold’s Park Tilta-Whirl. One of the few rides I could stomach…

 

Two trips to Lake Okoboji during my teens really stand out. Both were dates with Hubs, but very different from each other. The first one was a cozy, intimate swimming date. But not at the popular, crowded beach near Arnold’s Park. We went to a secluded place called Gull Point on the west side. We talked a lot, swam, ate, made-out and laid-out. Maybe more. That part is probably not something to be shared. But our glorious day had a gloomy downside. My whole life I’ve tanned easily. Mom used to say, “Denise gets brown as an Indian during the summer.” John, not so much. Towards the end of the day of our neat swimming adventure, he was the color of a gorgeous cooked lobster. Feeling about the same as when the lobster gets dunked in the boiling pot. He couldn’t even drive. Honest, he was delirious. (Maybe part love and lust but I was skeptical) So I drove his 1965, 3-speed on the column, maroon Chevy Impala back to Rock Valley. Poor little shit. He had blisters the size of my palm on his back by the time we got to his house. Called Doc Yates who came over immediately. (He always had a soft spot for John). Brought pain pills and cream, and dressed his burns. He was pretty sick for a couple days. Wuss. I looked fabulous in my little white shorts, brown as an Indian. Just saying.

 

Pale face Hubs right after we eloped at Channel 4, about 1970…

 

The second memorable Lake Okoboji trip was all about Arnold’s Park. The rides, carnie food and Roof Garden. Though The Roof Garden part was dicey. I’ve never been much of a ‘ride’ girl. I could stomach the Tilta-Whirl, bumper cars, and maybe a kiddie swing. No roller coasters. Hubs convinced me to go into the Bug House. He probably just wanted to cop a feel and guaranteed the ride was ‘no big deal.’ The Bug House looked innocent enough. A small cabin type building. Kind of reminded me of a rustic cottage. Old fashioned phone sitting on a little table. Decorated cute and quaint. Little windows with curtains. In the middle of the room was a swing. We stepped up just a couple inches to the swing and sat down. There was a bar on top of the swing that ran through the whole cabin. The dude at the controls came in and strapped us in the swing. Gave us a gentle push. We were barely moving. Maybe a foot back and forth. Very relaxing, lulling, pulling me in. Ready for John’s try at his cop-a-feel. Suddenly, my world turned upside down. Certainly not by John’s ‘smooth’ moves. Literally, I was upside down. And turning greener by the minute. Scratching, clawing, trying to keep my equilibrium, and not hurl all over John, which isn’t very impressive on a teenage girl’s date. I screamed, hollered, cried, and begged to die. When the world righted itself, Hubs grabbed my hand and lead me out of that horror show. I was bent over at the waist, walking crooked and had no idea where I was. I don’t remember if John was worried, embarrassed or laughing. He couldn’t have laughed very long if he ever, ever wanted to cop another anything on me. Ever. Geez, it took a couple hours before I could walk in a straight line again and felt somewhat normal.

 

John snapped this the day we went to the Buckingham’s concert at The Roof Garden, 1967…

 

That stupid ride. Everything but the swing inside was nailed down. Furniture, phone, curtains. With that cute swing moving so slightly, the whole cabin was turning round and round. I was hanging on for dear life while the building was rotating and I was moving but a few inches. Horrible, horrible ride from hell.

 

I get woozy just looking at this place…

 

After I righted me, we did get to The Roof Garden. And danced all night to the Buckingham’s. Kind of a Drag, when your baby don’t love you. We had a ball and we were even. John: sick at Boji, 1, Neese: sick at Boji, 1.

 

Me & The Hubs about the time we moved to Spencer, 1977…

 

The Lakes continued to be a part of our lives when we lived in Spencer during the late 70’s. Not so much Arnold’s Park, Gull Point or Okoboji, though we did take the kids there, and took many leisurely car rides through the area. The high point was at least once a month we went out for supper with John’s sister, Elly and brother-in-law, Dewey. A place called Miller’s Bay. They had a fish fry on Friday’s that still makes my mouth water. Big chunks of Cod fried to perfection, Cole slaw, and French fries. Under 3 bucks. Not kidding. The cook/chef had a long, reddish beard, and often came out to talk to customers, even us some nights. We had some of the best times eating that simple fish fry with Elly and Dew. (Usually minus our kids who were about 7 and 3 at the time. Adam wouldn’t join us for another 18 months.) Taking turns driving, talking about the upcoming weekend, which sometimes included an antique road trip somewhere together. Dewey talking about bowling or basketball. He was really good at both sports. We bowled on a couple’s league with them. Where Dewey would make his own little history bowling a 725 series. Good times that went way too fast…

 

Dewey & Elly, about the time we moved to Spencer in 1977..,

 

 

 

I’m guilty of not giving Mom a fair shake at times. Until I was 10 or 12, I thought the sun rose and set on her. To be fair, her life was not easy from the get-go. She and her twin brother Floyd lost their mom when they were 2 weeks old. Although they had 2 sets of doting grandparents who raised and adored them, Mom always felt her dad blamed her and Floyd for their mother’s death. Her dad left the child rearing to his parents and in-laws. And never was a very involved father. She learned rejection at a very young age.

 

Maternal grandma Berghuis with Florence and Floyd, 1927…

Mom professed her devotion for both sets of grandparents, yet she seemed awfully eager to be away from them. She was smart and got good grades in school, but married Dad who was 10 years older than her before her 16th birthday. Wow. And she would never, ever admit to that. I had to figure it out on my fingers. It wasn’t like they had my sister 6 months later either. They were married 9 months before Mona was born. I’ve counted it out. Several times. On my fingers. I wasn’t added to the family mix until past their 8th anniversary, and was always lead to believe I was not planned. But they both seemed happy to have me.

 

Paternal grands, Wanningen’s raising Florence and Floyd, 1931…

 

I wish I remembered more of the family dynamics before we lost Larry in 1958, but I hadn’t yet reached my 8th birthday when he died. The family pictures I have suggest a pretty normal, happy, well adjusted family of 5. After losing Larry, I don’t remember any of us being very happy. Dad seemed to drift away from family things, Mom grew over zealous in her need to protect me from harm and manipulate my life. Mona was either ignored or picked on. Mom seemed secretive. And so alone.

Mona, Mom and Larry. About 1948…

Not once during her life do I remember Mom going out for lunch with a friend. Ever. I know the neighborhood women had coffee together in the mornings, but I think that was before Larry died. I don’t think it was after we moved to 15th street. She didn’t belong to a circle at church, but for many years either entertained folks from church on Sunday nights or accepted invitations from other church families. This seemed to be the extent of their social life. Sunday night coffee hour.

Mom did have some great friendships with co-workers at different places she worked. Valley Manor and G & H Hatchery. She talked about her co-workers, (usually positive) or cute stories about the residents. She was friendly with many of the neighbor’s to a point. But to this young girl’s memory, Mom usually seemed sad, alone and aloof.

I hit the rebellious stage hard and head on about the age of 12. Mom was pretty domineering and manipulative. Dad was gone most nights, involved with church activities like visiting the sick. Mom loved that I had friends, but didn’t like it when I wanted to go anywhere, especially at night. There was only so much quiet a young teen could take. Most of my friends had noise, brothers and sisters, family chaos in their homes. It was just so quiet in our house. All the time.

The house that held many secrets….

I remember the first time I smoked. I was 8 or 9. Staying at some friends from church overnight. My friend, whose name is just beyond the fringe of my memory and I were playing by the farm house. Her dad was conversing with another guy and as a joke one of them offered each of us a puff from his cigar. My no name friend coughed, sputtered and turned a hideous shade of green. I loved the taste and feeling and wanted more. I’m convinced those 2 measly puffs would lead me to a life of smoking that lasted until I hit 39. Twenty-six years since I stopped and I still get cravings once in a while. Without a doubt, if I took one little puff, I’d be hooked like I never quit. Much like a recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon. I never really cared for the taste of beer or booze, but I certainly was addicted to smoking for 3 plus decades (and 30 lbs, guess that works out to 10 a decade, since I stopped).

1961, pretty close to getting sneaky and rebellious…

After those first couple cigar puffs, I don’t really remember how I started smoking in earnest during my spunky rebellious stage. No one to blame, it was all me. I swear I was already hooked on smoking, emotionally at least. Smoking involved several of my friends and a cousin. Helen, Loie, Patsy, Peggy and a boy named Herm. Many times there would be a several day gap between smokes (yes, I counted the days or hours) but I always knew I’d have another one. Sometime. Dad had quit smoking and drinking (not heavy in either category) after Larry died.

Mom w/ Joshua. She loved and kept her orange kitchen for years…

 

In our small, narrow orange kitchen was our gas stove. Two burners on each side, a pilot light with a tiny blue flame in the middle, which burned all the time. When one of the burners was turned on (flirty slut) the pilot light was responsible for sending gas to the burner. Sometimes this worked, other times with older stoves, you needed a match to encourage the burner to ignite. (Does this remind anyone else of the 2 bath tub couple commercial?)

Diane, me, Kay and Faye. Think I was the only smoker, 1966…

One day I was home alone, I wandered in the kitchen and noticed a burned up match near the pilot light on the stove. Not unusual if Mom had turned on a burner but it failed to ignite. A second glance spotted something that looked familiar but should not be on our stove top. A tiny pile of ash. A small round cylinder of ash. Like from a cigarette. Close to the pilot light opening on the black section of our stove. Almost unnoticeable. Odd. The only sporadic, infrequent smoker in our house was me! And I was not yet sneaking smokes in my house (though I would be soon enough). And it certainly wasn’t mine, but not a bad idea. Using the pilot to light your smoke. But I never had cigarettes on or with me. Yet. That task went to other kid’s parents who smoked. If there was a pack lying around, their parents wouldn’t notice when a couple disappeared. This was not the only risky part that accompanied smoking as a young teen in a small town. You could safely bet, no matter where you were or what you were doing, someone was watching. Waiting to rat you out to your parents. And this was decades before cell phones with cameras. Can’t tell you how many times, someone (grown ups) saw me sneaking into the theater (movies were forbidden in our house, sigh) or spotted me puffing on a cig. Small Dutch town living.

1963 with my nephew. Hope I didn’t smell like smoke…

But let me get back to that little pile of ash on our gas stove in our smokeless house (except for me). My interest was piqued and I was determined to figure out why it was there, without asking Mom or Dad. I searched the house. Went through the cupboards and drawers. Nada, zip. But I was a sneaky teen, so I delved deeper. I hit pay dirt in the basement. I never went down there. The steps were treacherous and a hazard to anyone’s health. The only things down there was the fuel oil tank for our furnace and a now abandoned wringer washer since the laundromat opened a half block away. Plus a half carton of L & M cigarettes hidden behind some junk. WTH? I was dumbfounded. Further nosing around would reveal matches in Mom’s house dress, single cigarettes in the bottom of her knitting basket, and almost every jacket and coat pocket. Mom was a closet smoker? And nobody knew? What about Dad? I often wondered why she went down the basement so often? Mom and her secrets.

Mom and Dad about 1961…

I think the answers were all about Dad. Mom had slumped to new lows in grief and depression after Larry’s death. Dad had accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior, and was full of fervor. So full of fervor. But quite condescending. He clearly saw how awful Mom was doing, but forbade her from doing any kind of therapy to talk and work through her grief. He told her if she were a stronger Christian, she wouldn’t be depressed. Ugh. I believe after he easily quit smoking and drinking, he asked Mom to stop smoking, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t. So she smoked alone, in secret. Sad really. More rejection.

Larry, Mom and me, 1951…

I might have told the whole world, bratty teen that I was, but I don’t think so or remember blabbing that little secret of Mom’s. It would be years before we admitted to each other that we both smoked. And smoked in front of each other. I then became her enabler.

For years she was in a tough spot. Since no one in town knew or realized Florence smoked, she couldn’t just zip to Koster’s Market for a carton. Mom’s elaborate cigarette buying techniques still make me feel bad. She would go to such great lengths to purchase a carton without anyone she knew spotting her. No, she was not into disguises, but would drive to Sioux Falls, Sioux City, Rock Rapids, Canton, Le Mars or Worthington. Just to buy a carton of L & M’s without being seen by someone from Rock Valley. She would stop at a huge grocery store in Sioux Falls, grab a cart, wander over to the cartons of cigarettes, grab her brand and high tail it to the checkouts. Eyes darting back and forth, heart pounding, convinced that a member from church was nearby and would see an otherwise empty cart but for that damn carton sitting neatly at the bottom. I told her so often after we both ‘came out’ to each other. Put the carton on the bottom and pile 25 dollars (a cart full back then) worth of groceries on top. No one will ever see the smokes. But she was too nervous to do that. She preferred slinking in, grabbing a carton and high-tailing it out.

This would soon be the room where I’d blow smoke out the window…

I might be mistaken, but as far as I know and remember, only one other person in Rock Valley knew Mom’s secret. Iowa winters are brutal. We had blizzards that lasted for days. Yay, no school. But that put Mom in a tough spot. If she’d run out of cigarettes during a hellacious storm, she was just screwed. Sure Dad could have bought some for her in Sheldon or Canton when he was driving the snowplow, but I think he was unwilling to do that for her. Or she didn’t dare ask him, for fear of being shamed or belittled. I never asked her how this arrangement happened the first time. How in the world she dared to ask someone in town if she could buy some cigarettes from them until the weather cleared? Then she could again drive 50 miles to keep her little secret intact. Mom did what was almost impossible for her personality. She confided and trusted another person to keep her secret. She called our neighbor across the street, asking to buy a pack or 2 to tide her over. Elaine Beumer. I believe Elaine and Paul both smoked. Maybe Elaine told other Rock Valley folks the details of Mom’s little secret, but I doubt that very much. Elaine would not hurt my Mom on purpose. After I was married, living in Sioux City, and heading to Rock Valley, I’d often buy Mom a carton or 2. Yeah, the enabling part. When and if I had money. Geez, sometimes we were so broke I didn’t have the cash, even though Mom always paid me right back. Or I’d get them for her while I was staying at their house. But she’d never let me buy them in town. Never. Somehow she was convinced the clerks would figure out the cigarettes were for her. Florence Gerritson. And why not? My brand was Tareyton…

How well I remember that little white stripe around the filter…