Strange to think a business in Jackson, Michigan has been weaving it’s way through our lives since 1986. John moved to Jackson about 4 months before the rest of our family. But the rest of us went to Jackson for a long weekends every couple weeks. Hubs was staying at a new hotel called Budgetel, which was right next door to the Holiday Inn. When we were looking for a house, John would move to the Holiday Inn so the kids 16, 11, and 7 had a pool to enjoy. During one of those trips we would discover an ice cream shop which was pretty close to being world renown.

 

Several name changes, but always great treats…

It was called The Parlour, but had gone through several name changes, owners, and renovations since it’s humble beginning in the 1930’s. It was first called Loud and Jackson’s, then Jackson’s All-Star Dairy. Finally settled on The Parlour not too many years before we moved to Michigan. Greyhound busses with touring day trippers from all over Michigan, Ohio and Indiana would spend the day in Jackson. One of the highlights was always a stop at The Parlour. After a football or basketball game, it was nigh onto impossible to buy your favorite dish of ice cream. The lines outside, regardless of the weather were a block long. The required waitress uniforms when we became regular customers were scandalous. Very short red skirts, black cummerbund and a white blouse. Did I mention, the skirts were really, really short? Probably 3 inches longer than girls wear them now.

 

What a crock I found for Shannon a few years ago…

 

Shannon got a job there a few months after we moved. The Parlour was still making their own ice cream, and it was delicious. They carried about 30 flavors, including chocolate chip, bubblegum, strawberry, butter pecan like everyone else. But it was their custom made sundaes, shakes, banana splits where they excelled. A waist high extremely long freezer full of 5 gallon round brown tubs to choose from. The girls making these amazing concoctions had to have the strongest wrists in the world. Constantly dipping humongous fist size scoops. And nothing they made ever consisted of only one dip. Nothing.

 

Shannon in Parlour uniform, 1987…

 

We lived in Jackson for 7 years. And frequented The Parlour every couple weeks. One night Shannon came home after working a long, busy winter night at The Parlour, crying. In her haste to get to the freezing car with her skirt not covering very much of her, she set her plastic cup of tips on top of the car-and drove off. She was devastated over the loss of this extra money by the time she realized what had happened and got home. (Which was more than her hourly wage) Hubs grabbed his flashlight, and the bawling teen and hiked back to where she had parked her car. They spent over an hour picking up her hard earned tips.

 

Words fail me…

 

Naturally, after we moved about 160 miles west of Jackson to North Muskegon in 1994, our trips to The Parlour would be few and far between. They must have really missed our piddly business because The Parlour fell on hard times too. To the dismay of the hordes of loyal ice cream aficionados, The Parlour closed. It would take some time, another remodeling job, but it would reopen again. Same name, now serving sandwiches, plus all the old favorites. I don’t believe they make their own ice cream anymore. But it’s still very good. John and I stopped there just a couple weeks ago after we had been house hunting. I ordered my Parlour favorite in the smallest size, which is still huge. The Pecan Turtle Sundae. Vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and hot caramel topping, salted pecans, real whipped cream. And a cherry. In the dessert world, this is: To. Die. For. By the time we were half done with our ice cream, but all the way done with eating any more ice cream, we decided from here on out, we should order one speciality dish when we come. And share it. We’re both fine with that idea. (As long as it’s the Pecan Turtle Jr.).

 

Tell me this isn’t the cutest picture of Peyton-ever!!!

 

This is my fondest and funniest memory of a visit to The Parlour. Didn’t happen that long ago really. I’m almost positive Peyton was 3, thus Landon was 7 and it was fall of 2007. Tracey was teaching at Jackson and head basketball coach. Shannon was one year away from attaining her PH.D. So she was in school, an hour east, somewhere in Detroit. Don’t remember where Ariana was that afternoon, but she would have been about 16. Maybe an after school activity. Anyway, we were watching the 2 youngest ones. We decided as a special treat, we’d take them to The Parlour. This is kind of a dicey decision. Landon has an array of food allergies. Milk, eggs, beef, chocolate. Yikes. But The Parlour offered some fruit smoothies, like slushes, which he loves and can have. The Parlour’s seating is mostly swivel stools at a counter that snakes through a very large room. The last thing this grandma needed was Peyton taking a dive from one, onto the hard ceramic tile floor. Or rambunctious Landon running around like, well a 7 year old. So we chose one of about 4 booths they offer. John and I sat on the outside, him with Landon (now Drew to the rest of the world) me and PJ on the other side. We ordered.

 

The place for ice cream…

 

In saunterd a man a little older than us. With 2 very elderly women. The 3 of them plop in the booth directly across from us. They ordered as we got our ice cream. Talking, watching our adorable grandkids. (And who could blame or resist them)? We’re nearly done. So are they. The man gets up to pay. One of the ladies scoots out. (Not the right word. Try slowly inches) her way to the restroom. The remaining gal glances over occasionally. Smiling, watching us. Ever so slowly she maneuvers out of her booth. Stops smack dab in front of me. As God is my witness, she started what can only be described as a litany. A long litany.

 

Adorable Peyton, about 3…

 

“That’s my son Herb over there, paying the bill. He did the most thoughtful thing today. My name is Mabel, I’m 93. The lady who went to the restroom is my younger sister Mildred. She’s 90 and looks pretty good I think. Well she lives in Hamtramck. Do you know where that is? It’s over by Detroit, a good hour away.” (Peyton is now resting her jaw on the table. Landon however looks somewhere between amazed, dubious and sincerely troubled).

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world, 2007…

 

Mabel was not yet done with her conversation with me. “I haven’t seen Mildred for 5 years. So Mr. Thoughtful over there gets up this morning, drove ALL THE WAY OVER to Hamtramck. Just so we could spend the day together. We’ve just had the most wonderful time. Visiting and reminiscing about growing up. We thought the best ending to this fine day was some ice cream from The Parlour. Before Herb drives her all the way back to Hamtramck.” (Landon is now whispering furiously in grandpa’s ear across from us). Hubs just nods and puts his finger to his lips until Mabel decides it necessary to finally take a breath. (She’s like some long winded preachers I’ve heard in my lifetime-except she’s so stinking cute) Nope, still not quite the right moment to inhale.

 

Not particularly cheap, but worth the money…

 

“You got a real nice family,” Mabel exclaimed, smiling at Landon who’s still rather leary of this whole situation. “Are these your grandchildren?” “They sure are,” I bragged, “this is Peyton and her brother Landon. We’re watching them this afternoon while Daddy is teaching and Mom is in school. Which is very near where your sister lives.” Mabel glances over at the cashier. “Well I can see Herb and Mildred are waiting for me. You have a wonderful day with your little ones.” She finally takes a humongous gulp of air, smiles and pats me a couple times on the shoulder. Slowly toddles towards the door of her waiting, not so patiently, relatives.

 

I don’t think I’ve ever finished what I’ve ordered…

 

Landon is totally done whispering now. “Who was that lady? Is she a friend of yours grandma? Why did she stop here so long and talk so much?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. Grandpa took the lead. “No Landon, grandma has never seen that lady before. But this happens to her all the time.” (it does, I’m not ashamed to admit it) “As you get older, you’ll notice every time you’re with your grandma. Complete strangers, usually older folks will strike up a conversation with her. In a aisle at Meijer, at one of your daddy’s basketball games. Even here at The Parlour. You might as well learn this early and get used to it. You too Peyton. Your grandma is the old people whisperer.”…

 

A Dare to be Great. Wow…

 

 

 

How the Hubs and I became acquainted with these 3 fellas was kind of a fluke. Tom, Tileo, and John sat in the pew behind us during church. Tom had been widowed for years, and was in the middle of writing a book about the history of our church. Tileo sat with them was because his wife was in the choir singing every Sunday. John’s wife was having some health issues and rarely made it to the church service anymore.

 

Where the conversations were held-before and during the service…

All 3 sat conversing before the service started each week. Sometimes including us, sometimes about us. Kidding. Tom and Tileo didn’t have much to say for a couple of reasons. Both were rather soft-spoken and quiet gents. John did most of the talking on Sunday mornings. Didn’t really matter if the service had started or not. If he had something to say, it just got said. He wasn’t inappropriate in his comments and was sharp as a tack. He just didn’t have too much. Tact that is. I guess he figured his time was as valuable as the preacher’s. Each of them vying for a listening audience.

I was very fond of Tom. I purposefully stopped a couple times to visit him though he was not on my parish visitor list. He was about 80, still driving, going out to eat, visiting family near and far. Tom had just returned from a 6 week trip to Europe. When I remarked the following Sunday that I had been a little bit worried because he missed so many Sundays in a row, he grabbed my hand and told me how much he appreciated knowing someone noticed his absence. He was just finishing up a book about the church he had been working on for a couple years. Tom was honored at a church dinner shortly after it was published. Wasn’t a couple months later he suffered a massive stroke and passed away.

Author, friend Tom in 2000…

 

Tileo I never would know very well. He was quite frail, and spent most of his time with his wife Martha, and their musically talented family until his death a year or so later. Soon it was just John sitting behind us on Sunday mornings. Accompanied by his running conversations. Before and during the service.

John and his wife Marcella lived a few blocks from me in North Muskegon. Since I had never met her, I stopped at their house one afternoon to remedy that little wrong. John ushered me in and introduced me. He didn’t stop talking for 30 minutes straight. Finally Marcella looked at him squarely, and strongly suggested he go out for a cup of coffee. See if he could meet up with some of his retired realtor buddies he used to work with. He kindly took her not so subtle hint.

 

John and Marcella, about 2000…

 

Now was the time for Marcella and I to get acquainted. She was a retired elementary teacher from North Muskegon Schools. Said she taught the choir director at our church when he was in third grade. She was the same age as my Mom who had passed away just months before. Born in 1926, she shared the same birthday as the Queen Elizabeth.

 

John and Marcella were so proud of their Navy son…

 

A routine doctor’s visit revealed a spot on Marcella’s leg that needed attention. Although the procedure wasn’t new, I had never heard of it before. It’s called Mohs Surgery. I think it’s used for certain skin cancers. Usually done in a specialist’s office, her dermatologist practiced in Holland, about 40 miles away. Once the affected area is numb, the cancer was removed. The surgeon keeps searching for cancer cells around the area, removing a little bit more at a time. Then waiting until a pathologist looks at the latest specimen. If any cells are suspicious, they keep going deeper or out farther. Removing, sending the cells to be diagnosed, waiting to hear if this section is completely clear of cancer before closing. Fascinating really. Sometimes skins grafts are needed if the incision or surrounding tissue damage is extensive, but Marcella’s incision healed up just fine. Unfortunately, this was not her only or most serious health issue. But for the time being, she was fine.

One day I was parking my car in front just as they were backing their Caddie out of the driveway. I waved as they slowed down to see who was in the strange car. John rolled down his window, and hollered, “Denise, come get in the car and go for a ride with us. There’s a new housing development started out near Lake Michigan and I want to check it out.” (Forever the realtor). “Marcella’s been stuck in the house for a few days. We’d love it if you would ride along and keep us company.” (Explanation: listen to some of my stories). Marcella and I did have a great time hearing John’s opinion on whether this housing addition would be a smashing success or not.

 

The USS Nimitz. All 1092 feet of her-WOW…

 

John and Marcella had 2 children. Their daughter I believe lives in Kentucky. Their son Robert was a career Navy man. He had just been (I don’t know the correct term. Promoted, commissioned, invited, forced) as the CO (Commanding Officer) of the USS Nimitz. One of the Navy’s biggest, most prestigious super aircraft carriers. A very big deal. The local paper had numerous write-ups about the local boy and his huge success story. Because Robert was stationed in Hawaii for a time, John and Marcella decided to vacation and visit him there. Didn’t take too much persuading I don’t think.

They had a wonderful time and brought back a gift for me. Several of Hawaii’s local artists work on the beach and hand paint T-shirts. Marcella had bought several T-shirts from this gal when they had vacationed in Hawaii before. The artist signed and dated my shirt. One of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Every time I get that summer T-shirt out, my mind immediately drifts back to 2006. Visiting Marcella after her fabulous Hawaiian trip. She was still feeling good. A wonderful memory to reflect back on before she got so sick.

 

Aloha~Denise~Maui~2006…

 

Not long after getting back from their wonderful vacation, Marcella’s health would take a turn. I can’t remember exactly what it was called but a very serious blood disorder. Quite the opposite of what my Dad had. His white count hovered around 100,000 and should have been 12,000. While something in Marcella’s blood that should have numbered in the thousands sat near zero. She went into Hospice care and passed away shortly thereafter. A unique, quiet, inspiring teacher, wife, mother and grandmother. And I was lucky enough to call her my friend.

 

Gift from Marcella from Hawaii, 2006…

 

Robert retired from the Navy and his family and moved to California. By this time, John was in his upper-80’s. Bob and his sister thought it was a good idea for him to move closer to one of them. John decided on sunny California. He lived there for several years, first independently, then with some assistance. If he ever made it back to Michigan after his move to California, I did not get to visit with him. He just passed away recently, and a memorial was held in our church. No more Sunday mornings with John. Listening to him chat before, during and after the service…

 

CO Robert throwing out first pitch in San Diego…

 

 

I was raised to stay put. Until serious health issues forced Mom and Dad to make some necessary, but unwanted changes, they had only lived in 2 houses through 62 years of marriage. Both in Rock Valley. In 1955, when I was 4, we moved to 1711 15th Street, which would remain their home for 50 years. Hard to imagine. Back then, most things they were involved with were long term. Dad worked at the Iowa State Hiway Commission over 30 years. This wasn’t just a small town Iowa thing either. As a rookie, if you started your baseball career with the Chicago Cubs, odds were 20 some years later, you were still playing with those lovable losers. So what happened to me? How come I didn’t stay in Rock Valley? Heck, I even moved away from Iowa.

 

1711 15th St. where I grew up…

I never set out to move a lot in my adult life. I recently found a hundred letters Mom saved that I wrote her in the mid-70’s. In several, I’m very troubled because Shannon is about to turn 5. It wasn’t the turning five part I was unhappy about, but the going to school part. We were living in eastern Iowa. That area involved several miles which was about 90% Catholic. Nothing wrong with that, but every small city, town, village, and neighborhood of 3 or more homes, had their own Catholic school. Shannon was about to start kindergarten. The closest public school was miles away and humongous. I wasn’t feeling comfortable with our options. Deep down I had an uneasy feeling my kids weren’t going to experience the kind of school career (not the hopeless, non-study type kid I was, but the closeness of the small town living throughout my whole childhood). That somewhat ominous feeling would prove true for all my little rug rats. Sigh.

 

First day of school for Shannon on the farm, 1976…

 

I wrote Mom it was high time the Hubs and I settled down. I was committed to the idea. I wanted us to live, work and “stay put” in the same town once Shannon started school. That way, she could enjoy what I had growing up. Going to school with the same kids the entire 13 years. Knowing almost everyone in town. I was anxious to put down serious roots somewhere. I was skeptical and a bit afraid of this big school system she would have to attend if we stayed. It wasn’t what I knew or grew up with. How are you supposed to nurture close friendships with a class size of 400? My class size was only 50 some kids. Worrywart mom.

 

One of my class pics, maybe 4th grade…

 

Not to be. Hubs and I never did end up staying in any one place very long. Only time we did, Shannon and Joshua were grown and out on their own. Adam was a sophomore. I believe both boys changed schools 4 times. Four times. Shannon informed me she changed schools 7 times. So much worse. I guess I’ve been in denial. Pitiful. Totally blocked out a few of her moves.

 

Davenport 1985. Josh and Shannon had already changed schools several times…

 

It sure never crossed my mind that John and I would end up moving 15 times during 45 years of marriage. If you take away the lengthy stay in North Muskegon of 21 years, that’s not letting very much grass grow-anywhere. A few moves were our choice, but many were not. Companies where John was working suffered a downturn, the economy was in the tank, or companies were swallowed up by a bigger fish, and employees let go. Each time requiring finding work elsewhere, and moving the family. Again. Never occurred to me until recently but when each of our kids were sophomores, we moved, and they had to change schools. Tough time for teens. And for the mother of teens.

 

Mommy and Shannon, 1973. The first home we bought in Sioux City, Iowa…

 

Our kids seem to have skipped a generation and that pesky gene that has plagued their mom and dad. Although Josh has moved around a bit in the city, he’s been in Detroit for over 15 years. Shannon moved back to Jackson 14 years ago and still lives in the same house. Though that may change, but not by very many miles. Adam and Sarah haven’t moved either. Both are committed to the fantastic school district adorable Graham attends. Makes me feel good. They’ve put down better, deeper roots than we ever did.

 

Davenport Iowa home during Bix Race, 1985…

 

For as long as I can remember, we’ve always had “the next place” lined up and ready. Our current situation is a first. I fretted about it for weeks. Finally just had to let that one go. It somehow seemed irresponsible to me, without just cause. Not to have a place to call our own when Allied Van Lines pulled up in front of the house. What were we trying to accomplish, relive the ’60’s? We never were the young snots going through hippiedom. We were trying our darnedest to raise our kids the best we could.

 

Jackson, Mi. 1987-1994…

 

But it really started even earlier than that. I had made a list of businesses to call. You know, Consumer’s Energy, DTE Gas, Directv, Internet. Plus all of my magazines that needed a change of address. People, TV Guide, Good Housekeeping, (as if) Family Circle. I found all the numbers and addresses I needed and sat down with a frown. Not looking forward to all those calls. I don’t do very well on the phone with my hearing loss.

 

J and D. Didn’t have a permanent address together yet, 1965…

 

That’s when it hit me. For the first time in our married life, we had no forwarding address. I couldn’t request the electricity be switched from North Muskegon to WHERE-EVER! I would have our final bill sent to? Where? Hmmm. Might have suffered a mini-meltdown right then and there all by myself. Such a disconcerting feeling. A sense of panic. We’ve always had somewhere to go. Responsible parents with a home, and new school, even if the kids were justifiably upset with another move. Yet here we were. Retired. Still, seemingly not together enough to have “the next place to live.” Just can’t explain how queasy that made me feel when the realization hit.

 

Moorings Court, North Muskegon, Mi, 1994-2015…

 

Finally, after a little weepy and poor, woe is me session, I dried my eyes, blew my nose, and started punching out numbers. After a few calls, I thought it polite to text Shannon, asking if we could use her address as a home base until we bought a house? Since I had already given it out to a dozen times.

Rock Valley, Iowa has always held a special place in my heart…

 

It’s a weird feeling not having a home base. A strange feeling I hadn’t felt since my 40th class reunion in 2009. Hubs and I were in Rock Valley for the day. Shopping, eating, riding around and reminiscing through old neighborhoods. But we were staying in Le Mars with John’s brother and his wife, Les and Mary Jane. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts, though at least smart enough to bring along better clothes for the reunion. But an hour before heading to the reunion we suddenly found ourselves questioning exactly where could we change our clothes? Without that home base we were both so used to. We finally drove outside of Rock Valley, stopped on a gravel road. Walked down the ditch and each changed clothes in the corn field. Laughed about what we would have been doing 40 plus years before when changing clothes together in a corn field. Yeah, we would have been very late. And dirty. All joking aside, it was an awful feeling. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies. No home base. Nomads. Wandering. Drifting. Sponging off our kids.

 

The Hubs and I…

 

I was telling Shannon about the strange feelings Hubs and I have been having. Living with our kids. Waking up during the night, before dawn. Watching my son-in-law Tracey slink (hard to do when you’re 6’5″) through the house with his hand covering the dim light of his phone. Navigating quietly through his own house. Trying hard to be polite and not wake me by turning on some lights. Whispering to Landon as they got ready to start their long day. Decided to give Shannon and crew a long weekend break, so have been staying with Adam and Sarah for a few days. Waiting for news on the house we bid on. Lots to do, but nothing much to do until we close. Our 11 year old granddaughter, Peyton appeared to be in her own little-newly-minted-middle-school-normal-world while we were talking. I was joking with Shannon about our living conditions. Being homeless. Peyton’s head shot up, her eyes scorched mine. She insisted with some heat, “grandma, you’re not homeless. You live with us now and this is your home.” What a great thing to say. Thanks Peyton. And thanks kids…

 

Peyton honing her archery skills at camp, 2015…

 

 

 

 

 

It should be compared to a lengthy, difficult labor. Except there’s no newborn to smell, swaddle and nurse. Besides the good Lord gave new moms the ability to gradually forget about those perfectly timed, excruciating pains when you shouted the Hubs name. Claiming if he ever comes near you again, there would be hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay. Nope, not going to forget this for a quite a spell.

 

1979 with newborn Adam…

The week everything fell into place for closing on the long awaited sale of our house, not exactly everything fell just right. Just fell. Three sprinkler heads went kaflooey, dribbling water like a little boy with bad aim. Who wants a new owner to start off with that mess? Growing grass is tough enough here. You’re trying to have a lush green lawn on about 4 inches of topsoil covering 2 feet of sand. Besides it’s a Hot August Night (Neal Diamond) and the lawn is already stressed. John hopped in the truck, ran to the hardware store and bought some new heads. Terrible to admit, but I always kind of get a kick out of watching him change heads. He digs up the old one, replaces it, then has to set them. Exactly right. So every stinking blade of grass gets equally covered. He gets utterly saturated with sprinkler well water. When he’s absolutely sure the rotation is perfect, he’s covered with mud, sand, water and mosquito bites. I wouldn’t do that job if you paid me. But Hubs has always been anal about his grass.

 

Muskegon Lighthouse looking west towards Milwaukee, 2015…

 

The evening Hubs changed the sprinkler heads, he sauntered in, filthy and dripping wet. While he scooted upstairs to shower, I made supper. We ate, then decided to go for a little ride. Stopped at our favorite ice cream joint (we knew our 2 visits a week were going to end soon) and each got a twist cone. Meandered home and settled in the family room. John reached for his iPad next to his recliner. Which was setting on the hearth. Behind his iPad are a set of fireplace tools you use to arrange wood and stoke the fire. Like a gentle breeze, one of the tools (fireplace, not Hubs) slowly started leaning. For 21 years we have had those fireplace tools flying, falling, and flipping through that room. Nothing has ever happened. But this time there was a sharp crack as wrought iron nuzzled the fireplace’s 4 paned glass doors. Actually sounded kind of neat. Tinkling little shards of glass sprinkled the hearth, my sandals, the carpet and an open lock box of old pictures I had been delving through for blog pictures. We just sat there, looking back and forth at each other, 12 feet apart. Watching as the few remaining clinging hunks of glass made their way to their final resting place. What are the chances? What was the tool (fireplace) doing there anyway? We usually put them in the garage for the summer. We hadn’t burned the fireplace in months. Why hadn’t the tool (Hubs) moved the dang thing? Burning questions and you want answers. Got nothing. Guess we didn’t move them to the garage because it was already bursting at the seams. We both assumed they should stay with the house.

 

Lake Express arriving daily from Milwaukee. Our lake home was behind that out crop of land in left corner…

 

Well, the new owner was expecting doors on the fireplace, so John took the measurements, and zipped upstairs to the computer. Searching, he found a set just like ours, but with glass. He ordered new doors while I cleaned up. A fluke. The doors came a few days later, and didn’t take Hubs long to install. All shiny and new, looked good. The tool (fireplace) was then put out of harms way. A day late and many dollars shorter.

 

Fireplace now has a new set of doors…

 

Closing went without a hitch, giving us 14 days to move. Seems like a long time doesn’t it? Holy Hanna, it went fast. We blew 2-1/2 days house hunting when we should have been packing in earnest. But finding a new crib was much more fun that going through drawers, cupboards, closets that held items from the Eisenhower administration. I jest. Well, most of our furniture was born about the time of Eisenhower, but we weren’t. After looking for a house the second time, we decided that had to be put on the back burner or we’d never be ready when the moving van parked in our drive.

 

Seagulls get cold feet too…

 

If you’ve been at an address for any length of time, take a mental walk through a couple of your rooms. Notice the painted rocks your granddaughter made for you awhile back. The magnet pictures on the fridge, box of colors, a few crayons short. The Northern gar pike hanging on the wall. Remembering 17 year old Adam excitedly calling you at work one day many years ago. Begging you to have it mounted for him.

 

Neighbor’s lab Junior, Adam with speared gar pike, 1997…

 

Who doesn’t have at least one junk drawer? We have 3. Every bit of string, dried out tubes of crazy glue, wandering nails and an obscure coin from a Las Vegas trip 20 years causes reflection. Most must be weighed in worth. Smiles, tears, pros-cons. I tossed or donated items I could barely part with by day 6.

 

Sailboats on Muskegon Lake behind our house, 2013…

 

Finally in Jackson, I looked at my holy mess of a Jeep and slowly started unpacking. Most of it are things I need until we buy a house. Clothes and toiletries. Still off to one side of the mountain of miscellaneous crap, I find 3 small Meijer bags. Filled with empty pop cans. A whopping $3.40. Are you kidding me? I lost more than that when I pitched the new jar of Hoisen Sauce from the fridge missing 1/2 cup from the last time I made broccoli beef. Ugh.

 

Sunrise looking east at Moorings Court, 2013…

 

I wasn’t dreading this move at all. It was anticipated wholeheartedly. But I could not fathom exactly how much stuff had to be plucked, pondered, and plunked in a box. While I was super diligent at first, it didn’t take long before that over exuberance waned dramatically. The clock was ticking faster than a speeding bullet. No time if a pair of my Keen sandals were in the bathroom. Mentally, I’d take make a note. Keen sandals in with 2-36 packs of Northern bath tissue. As if. There were numerous things to decide on and delegate, and too little time to devote anything to memory. I’m lucky I could remember where to turn off I-96 to head south on 127. Someday I will get to that huge box of toilet paper. Hope it’s spring so the sandals are right on time.

 

Lake Michigan. Breathtaking beauty…

 

By day 8, most of the stuff I was packing, I never wanted to see again. It’s like you become desensitized. I was a packer in zombie mode. Only one purpose. The finish line. Which was before the movers arrived.

 

Left Muskegon Lake, right, Bear Lake, top magnificent Lake Michigan…

 

The most unappealing aspect of this is NOT that we have yet to find a home to buy. All of our belongings are safe. Secure and stored for now. The key word here is: stored. Meaning, lucky us, we get to do this again. Yay us. But this time, without the massive amount of help from the dudes from Allied. Who, by the way after 5 hours of backbreaking work in hot, humid weather conditions, were still taking the stairs, 2 steps at a time. And singing. And joking. All the while hauling out our antiques that were barely recognizable. Which accounts for the secure part.

 

Deep water channel to Lake Michigan, looking west…

 

These moving dudes know their way around old furniture. For example, my stacking oak bookcase. This exquisite piece was willed to me several years ago. Really, one of my better stories. Titled Mildred and Charlie, in October of 2014. The bookcase is actually 7 separate pieces. After John and I picked it up in 2008, Hubs had a heck of a time putting it back together. The 5 bookcase sections are all just a bit different in size. By maybe half an inch each. Plus the bottom section is a drawer and the top fancy part. So I numbered them from 1-7, making life easier for The Hubs when it came time to slap that sucker back together. Little show off mover guy had other ideas after thanking me for the great idea of numbering them. He secured (“we don’t use tape Denise. If this piece sits in storage even a few days, when you try and remove it, the finish comes right off”) cardboard to the front, protecting the glass doors. Proceeded to haul out a huge roll of Saran Wrap, which they prefer to call shrink wrap. Show-off-mover-dude ran around the bookcase a minimum of 648 times. With the Saran Wrap at warp speed. Top to bottom. Gave a little whistle, another mover (there was only one show off) with a carrot top (Red) hustled over. Both picked up the bookcase like it weighed 5 pounds-tops and zoomed it into the truck. All my antiques were treated this way.

 

Bookcase snugly stored. Waiting to come back home…

 

The hardest part is done. Moorings Court now has a new owner. I’m so glad. I hope he enjoys the house and living on the lake. For this homeless couple, we are filled with hope and anticipation of where we’ll be hanging our hats soon. Still, absolutely no regrets. Only got choked up saying goodbye to my dear friend Jo. I will miss her. And Lake Michigan. One unparalleled body of water. Some of the most spectacular sunsets, ever. But the bennies about living here. Within a few minutes from my 3 grown children and 4 grandchildren. That too is unparalleled. I think they’re all excited that we will be living closer. Maybe they’ll show more excitement in a few months. After the dreaded call and some time has passed. The recent unpleasant memory has faded a bit. We have moved every one of them too many times to count. Hauled furniture back and forth. They owe us. It’s pay back time…

 

Lake Michigan. Simply stunning…

 

 

It’s a significant day. Realistically, when I started blogging in June of 2014, I had no idea there would still be words and stories in my head. Pretty secure in saying, I’m the only person who’s read every single one. And more than once. Ugh. Instead of celebrating this milestone, I decided to read the first 99 again. My eyes, my eyes. My head, my head. I tried to remain objective. Hoping to see them from the perspective of reader instead of inept writer. I was determined to find at least 10% worthy of reading more than once. This is going to be a hard sell. Some arm twisting and bribery may be involved.

 

Yay Neese…

While none of the 99 are hysterically-pee-in-your-pants funny, a couple are mildly amusing. One or 2, heart-breakingly sad. The rest are just snippets of my life, family and the Hubs. All of whom wish I would never mention them again. Or in the first place. But, it’s always been my story, and mine to tell.

For the love of God, put a cork in in…

 

To commensurate with my eyes-glazed-over-for-days from reading, muddling my way through these blog posts one more time, I thought it only fair. The crazy, loyal, commenting folks who read this drivel get to suffer right along with me. Yay. The mighty few. Unlucky. Ones.

 

Pretty sure of my counting skills here…

 

The first 3 months of blogging can be described as resembling rapid machine gun fire. I was posting every 3 or 4 days. The stories of my childhood (told quickly in case I forgot), losing my brother Larry in 1958 when I was 7. Our rather strange home life after that life shattering event. My Dad, who found the Lord, but had little time after for anything else in his life. My Mom, never recovering or able to move past losing Larry. Becoming over protective towards me. Stifling at times.

 

That’s the way I remember kindergarten…

 

Since those early months of rat-a-tat typing, I’ve found a comfortable rhythm with my writing. Every single time I think there’s not one thing left to write, type, share, a story pops out from nowhere. I just love those. A subject or story I never considered. A thought might smack me in the head hard enough to cause a goose egg. Holy cow, where did that come from? How come I never thought about that before? Do you think this happened now so I could write about it?

 

Luke, I am your father…

 

In my early days of blogging, right after I hit publish, I’d start writing my next story. Leave it alone for a day or 2, make some changes, and hit publish again. Not so much anymore. Now after I’m done with a new post, I mull for a couple days. Somewhere, somehow, (This part is unknown. Part scary, part exhilarating, part creepy) an idea forms. Not always worth writing, but usually. At least to me. And that’s why I write.

 

What will I come up with next???

 

One of the most unusual aspects of writing is the unknown part. I have a story in mind, but once my fingers start typing, the story seems to literally have a mind of it’s own. Weird and strange. I swear it’s not me. The story just tells itself. There have probably been 5 times I’ve started a story. One third through, the whole gist of the story has changed. Here’s a prime example. The story I remember writing was going to be about my best friend when I was growing up. Char. Started off with how boring my Sunday’s were. Gong to church on Sunday morning, changing clothes, big dinner, visiting my grandfather in Sioux Center. Holy mackerel, 1500 words in, I was still talking about Sunday’s in the life of Neese. Not one word about Char had been uttered, er typed. Ran with the Sunday theme since I was nearly done and saved my dear friend Char for another post. How in the world does that happen? I truly don’t know.

 

Ok, I’m sneezing…

 

Now this has droned on long enough. Sometimes I can’t stop the words. It’s like having your good moral compass on one shoulder, and the devil typist on the other. That little devil keeps tapping away. Be gone, devil!!

 

Little stinker works at his own pace to boot…

 

 

OK we’re talking about some of my favorite stories. Are any particularly well written? No. When the little devil is furiously typing away, the words sometimes just sort of appear. If I stop for 2 minutes, trying valiantly to come up with a clever phrase instead of, “he asked,” instead saying, “he cautiously inquired,” I might lose the next 3 sentences already on their way from small brain to small iPad. Can you feel my pain? My daily writing hope is that new, innovative, clever, different, unusual words and phrases will leap their way into my blog. Only to find after I hit publish, I said, “he asked?” A vast vocabulary has not been my strong suit. I’m really sorry. I keep thinking I will improve, then read yet another, “he asked?” Sigh.

 

Happy, happy 100th Neese…

 

 

I’m not quite sure how my blog looks on other devices. On mine, the story appears as my first written paragraph and my first picture. All of this surrounded by a green background with dandelions gone to seed. Along the top right side, there is a picture of me. Underneath, the small scoop about Neese. It will say, August, 2015 and the name of each blog post for this month. Listed under that are months dating back to January. Below that has 2014. So if I wanted to see a post from March of this year, I tap that month. Up pops all the posts from that month. If I want to go back farther, I tap 2014, the months from December to June show up. “Where it began,” bleats Mr. Diamond.

 

Thanks for all my blessings God…

 

These are some of my favorites. Was surprised that I initially jotted down about 20. Eh, some were not very good upon further inspection. So I wheedled it down some. They’re not in any particular order, but I’ll try to list the most recent favorite first, going back in time:

1. “Ariana.” May, 2015. The story on one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. My fabulous granddaughter. Thanks God.

2. “Becca.” May, 2015. A woman of God who tries to help and support a sinner like me. Plus take care of her flock. Hint. I’m the black sheep.

3. “Opposites.” February, 2015. After 45 plus years of marriage (to the same guy) it suddenly it me. Hubs and I are really very different. Who knew?

4. “Man on a Mission.” January, 2015. The dedication of my 91 year old Dad.

5. “The Jug.” January, 2015. Mom’s unusual saving methods. She was such a great saver. One of her best, most unique qualities.

6. “The Middle.” December, 2014. Joshua, my middle child. Best. Ever.

7. “Landon Andrew.” December, 2014. Although it put me in extremely hot water with his sister Peyton 11, (it was simply the word nipple) my smart, sports junkie grandson. “Drew” to the rest of the world. You’ll see.

8. “Bye Dad.” November, 2014. Tough one. Losing your last parent.

9. “Called.” October, 2014. I literally felt compelled (most of my life) to nurture and visit the elderly.

10. “Decade of Dangers.” How did I manage to rear children during the dangerous 1970’s? Still, all became amazing, hardworking adults. Beats me.

11. “Party of 5.” September, 2014. Adam, my unplanned, surprise breech baby. Very much needed and welcomed to complete our family.

12. “Preliminary Steps.” June, 2014. The quirky study of Dad’s odd construction projects over the years.

So here’s the deal. I don’t expect you to read all these stories. But I would like you to read a couple. Take your time. I’ll wait. An hour. Tops. Kidding. Just give it the good old college try here folks. Especially if one seems unfamiliar. Maybe a word or 2 about what you liked or hated. Though most of my tormented, spiteful ones did not make my favorite list either. That’s odd. Read a couple of paragraphs. Then kindly tell me, yeah, yeah, yeah, # 3. Neese, now for the love of God, write something original again. Please.

I thought I would have big problems finding 10 or 12 stories that I still liked. I can be quite critical when it comes to me. But more still tug at the strings of my heart. If you find you are bored, stop cleaning the lint out of your belly button now. Or you have absolutely nothing to accomplish this day or week, remove the fork from your hand pointing towards your eye, get comfy and peruse my honorable mentions: “Life Lessons,” “It’s a Sign,” “3 Amigos,” all from July, 2014. “The Bonus,” August, 2014. “The Farm,” and “Mildred & Charlie,” and “Charlie and Opal” from October, 2014. Last one, “Accumulating Losses,” February, 2015.

Almost done. I’ll leave you with an amazing quote I read this week. “I believe God opens doors. I believe He has my whole life. My job has always been to walk through them. So I did.”

 

Can’t take the credit, but thanks Ben Carson…

 

 

Sorry, not quite done yet. Quit groaning. I mean with stories. Still got plenty of words floating around my head. Thanks for letting me air out some of my favorites for my 100th post. Happy, painful, silly, uplifting, depressing, bored, never-ending-reading my pretties…

 

In a nutshell. From the bottom of my heart…

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve had a For Sale sign in our front yard for 3 years. Had you told me in 2012 the nicest home we’ve ever owned would take this long to sell, I would have had you committed. It’s lake property people. Certainly not a mansion compared to some in the neighborhood, but still a nice home. I’ve lived in this house longer than I lived in my childhood home town of Rock Valley, Iowa, although it doesn’t seem that long. Except for that stinking sign still out front.

 

The sign has truly worn out its welcome…

I don’t remember exactly when we decided that living in west Michigan wasn’t smart for us anymore. I was still doing my Parish Visiting gig, but now on my 4th boss. All of them preachers and not very good in the boss department. John’s thriving little manufacturing plant was suddenly struggling after the crash of 2008. He had just been handed the straw that broke the camel’s back. One of the Big 3 had reneged on a huge contract Hubs had been awarded. Now mired with the huge debt load of already having new equipment installed, and no parts to produce, his company closed.

 

A nice house with great views. Time to move on…

 

 

Our youngest grandchild Graham, was born in 2009. Sarah and Adam were both working, plus Sarah had enrolled in school to become an RN. Neither wanted outsiders taking care of him. Sarah’s mom Karen and I would take care of Graham when Adam and Sarah both worked. The nights we were needed was one weekend a month each. Karen took one, John and I took the other. We have been driving 175 miles one way, at least once a month to watch Graham for 5 years. We love doing this, and have loads of fun with G. Plus many trips to Jackson in those 5 years to visit Shannon and Tracey. Attending Landon’s baseball, football, basketball games, and Peyton’s dance recitals, school projects, programs etc. More trips to Detroit to visit Josh and Erica, and nearby, our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. We’re constantly driving back and forth for something. It’s what we want to do. We love seeing our family often. What we don’t enjoy as much is the 3 hour drive one way to watch 11 year old Peyton dance (she’s very talented) 4 minutes, then drive another 3 hours back home.

 

Little cutie Graham 1, 2010…

 

We started questioning why we were living 180 miles from our immediate family? I loved my work, but was getting burned out by the mounting deaths of the elderly folks I visited. The passing of another person on my list every few weeks was taking a huge toll. I retired in 2013.

 

A regular occurrence. 1000 foot tankers chug past the house…

 

After looking at the big picture, we concluded the only thing holding us to Muskegon was our house. Why stay here? It had been a good 18 years, but the decision was made to move at least 150 miles east. Not too close to any of the kids. But close enough to help out with the grandchildren by picking up, carting to dance class, the Y, babysitting in a pinch, bringing forgotten lunch money, excuse slips, and permission slips without too much hassle.

 

Peyton 11, Landon 14 in California 2014…

 

Our first phone call was to Bill, the realtor who had sold us this house in 1994. He’s consistently one of the top sellers in the area. When he and his partner showed up, I was even happier. Dave owned the apartment complex a block away where my Dad lived when he moved to Michigan on 2005. Dave was terrific with the senior tenants.

 

Hoping to spend a bit more time with this beauty, Ariana, 2015…

 

Bill was just as persuasive and persistent as he was almost 20 years go. He was positive he could get this place sold and we would move by Labor Day, 2012. In fact, he had a couple from Chicago who wanted a summer place on the lake. Might not even take him and Dave 90 days to get us out of here. We signed a 6 month agreement. A couple days later Bill called with more good news. A couple from Saugatuk wanted a lake home. Our lake home. They would be driving up shortly. He was convinced we would have an offer in a few days. Sixty days later, we had not seen the couple from Chicago or Saugatuk. Or Bill. Or Dave.

 

Shooting stars over Muskegon’s lighthouse, 2015…

 

What we didn’t know is Bill was in a tough spot of his own. The 2008 crash was hitting him hard too. He had bought a bunch of land on speculation. A future profitable housing development. Well, land and houses weren’t popping up around here. Economy was in the toilet. Bill was trying to avoid bankruptcy. Thus the quick sale of John and Denise’s lake home was not high on his priority list. He didn’t update, communicate or show the house. What a mistake on our part! I was disappointed, disgusted and had reached my limit of being civil. I zipped off a rather terse email. Questioning why there hadn’t been an open house? Why, when he had all these buyers lined up, panting for the place, hadn’t he shown it ONCE in 2 months? I was not very nice. Bill never answered me. He was too busy. That job fell to Dave. Who droned on for 8 paragraphs how un-sellable our house was, even though neither had shown it. Folks didn’t like the master suite on the second floor. Or that the master bath faced the lake. Dave thought it was high time to start dropping the price. After that, communication pretty much stopped. I did complain via email once more. I got reamed a new one. Yikes. I read the note to John, who then wrote Dave a testy reply. Dave answered, and addressed the email to Denise and “George.” OK, we’re done here.

 

Sometimes words just aren’t needed…

 

Enter Mary. She works at a local realtor office right here in North Muskegon. She had lots of suggestions to make the place more marketable, without dumping in thousands of dollars. Suggested some new paint, carpet and removal of most of the things that make this house all Neese-like. We don’t want to distract buyers from looking at the house when they’re too busy looking at all my stuff. We didn’t argue, and took her suggestions to heart. Hauled out loads of furniture and almost everything hanging on the walls.

 

Mary our extraordinary realtor…

 

Wasn’t long before we had an offer. But it had a twist. Buyers wanted to put on a huge addition, and insisted on including an architect and builder to see how much it would cost. Or if it was even feasible. The addition was much more than they thought, and the deal fell through. We were devastated. They had looked at our home 7 times. Yes 7.

 

Some pretty spectacular sunsets over Lake Michigan, 2015…

 

Decided we needed a little break. Took it off the market for a couple months during the winter. We were just so tired of always being ready for another showing. You want constant showings, but keeping the house that clean is hard. And irritating. While the house was off the market, Hubs and I burned the fireplace every night. I went days without having every square inch of the counters sparkling. Sometimes left some dishes in the sink. Or a pan on the stove. Oh yeah, we were rebels.

 

Stunning colors. Yes, I’m going to miss this…

 

For the past 3 years, whenever I was doing routine chores, these were my thoughts. Well this is the last time I’ll have to haul out the down comforter in this house. This will be the last time we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving here. This is the last time I have to change my closet from season to season. One of the dumbest was check blanks. I’d be running out of checks and think, sure don’t want to order 2 books of check blanks with a North Muskegon address, then move. I ordered one box of duplicate checks at least 3 times, waiting.

 

Captured August, 2015, a waterspout on Lake Michigan…

 

So about the time we re-listed with Mary, I went into my slump. Spring was right around the corner, but I had a bad case of the blahs. Just not in a happy place. It took a couple of months for me to realize what was going on in the world of Neese. So like the brave gal I am (not), I bared my soul in my blog and wrote a post called, The Hole. It was June 24, 2015. As God is my witness, we got an offer on the house on June 25. God’s timing was impeccable. Since we had been pretty vocal with our first offer by telling family and friends, this time around we were going in another direction.

 

The clump of birch that’s always visible. The water’s up and they’re drowning…

 

 

“John, we’re going to treat this offer differently. Instead of blabbing to the world we have an offer, let’s pretend it’s 30 years ago, and I’ve just found out I’m pregnant-again. Whoops, another surprise. We tell no one until the first trimester is over (a done deal-house wise). It will be our little secret, ok?” “Sure,” he said beaming. “But just so you know, the other 3 times you really were pregnant, I shared our news with everyone. On day one. With complete strangers. In line at Meijer.” (Maybe I really do have 4 children).

 

I took this, looking east. Birch trees on the left…

 

Our house passed inspection and the buyer wanted to close on July 31st. About 10 days before the 31st, Mary texted that the buyer was changing loan institutions. That didn’t sound good. He was pre-approved. Please not another deal going kaflooey. Mary texted again a couple days later. An addendum had come from the buyer. Changing financing from a conventional loan to cash. Buyer wants closing, on or before August 14th. “It’s looking good,” she wrote. “Keep packing.” I texted back, “Mary, this is fantastic news.” Also mentioned I was busy making Bread and Butter pickles that day. She texted back, “I said keep packing, not pickling!” Clever girl. However, getting all the cash together stalled a bit, waiting on some banker dude’s signature. Buyer was not going to have the money to close on the 14th. I was getting a little discouraged.

 

1000 footer headed thru channel to the big Lake…

 

Suddenly Monday, August 17th, everything fell into place. Buyer and the cash were ready. Closing at 9 am on August 21st. Took a half hour. A young single guy, he’s ecstatic about buying the house. I hope he enjoys it for 21 (ok, some of the love started fading at year 19) years.

 

Great whitecaps…

 

We have no regrets. Enjoyed it here, the views, as you can see are fantastic. But I’m so ready. I have yet to discover the reason God needed us in this house for an extra 3 years. His timing doesn’t always coincide with this impatient sinner. Now there’s only 14 days before we have to be out of this place. We’re house hunting this weekend. Probably end up renting something for a bit and store our stuff in pods.

 

Looking out to Lake Michigan…

 

I’ve dreamt, prayed and longed to write the post, Pending. Here’s the definition of pending, “the period before the conclusion about to take place.” We actually passed pending this morning when we closed. But I love that word. More distinct than just plain old sold. Mary said she doesn’t use pending signs. Too many deals fall through after that little word has been displayed. However, after she brought over the closing paper details, she added pending to the for sale sign. Just so I could take a picture for my blog. I thought she would have changed it to sold by now. Think she might be celebrating today. Getting rid of us. Finally.

 

Waiting to see the Pending sign for a very long time, 8-20-15…

 

I refuse to fret about the next chapter. I’ve prayed the house would sell for so long, moving is going to be small potatoes. Thousands of folks move everyday. The next few blog posts maybe scheduled a little crazy. Be patient with this odd writer. I’ll be packing Blue Delft in one hand, and tapping away with the other. But I’m thankful and excited for what comes next…

 

Thanks for your help God, 8-21-15…

 

 

 

 

Boy, it’s been some week. As my Dad used to say, “I want to share this with you.” I was knee deep trying to get my last blog posted. Remember, it was the one about all the letters I wrote my Mom and Dad? Spanning the years from 1974-1976. After we had moved to eastern Iowa, about 325 miles away. I had letters everywhere. Reading each one, copying down paragraphs from certain ones that I wanted to use. I probably had written down 35 snippets.

 

The letters from me to my Mom and Dad, 1974-1976..

Hubs was not here. He had to go to Jackson, so I was home alone. I had my usual August fare for lunch. A BLT. I really love fresh tomatoes. If there’s left over tomato slices, I eat them on a slice of bread, sprinkled with sugar. I call it dessert. But August tomatoes are way different than tomatoes in any other month. They’re juicy. And I’m a lazy slug. With my letters laying helter-skelter all over the family room floor, rather than sit at the table like a normal civilized woman, I chose to have my über juicy BLT sitting in my nest.

 

I know better than to eat here. What can I say? I’m lazy…

 

I didn’t want to mess up my clean jammies that I was guiltily wearing at 2 p.m. Besides my arms were cold, so I buttoned up my ever present flannel shirt and sloppily snacked on the best lunch ever. It dripped and dribbled everywhere. I thought I was careful, but still managed a big mess. Toast crumbs down my flannel. Tomato seeds and juice glopped from chin to knees. Heaven. Washed it all down with a screw lid bottle of Diet Pepsi. ‘Cuse me while I burp for awhile.

 

So good, but not attractive all over my clothes…

 

Friends who read my blog, or total strangers even, know I’m somewhat of a loner. Happy with my own company, I don’t socialize a whole lot. You know I adore my family, and 99% of anyone over the age of 75. But short of calling myself a recluse, which I don’t think I fit into that particular category, I am not comfortable in the limelight. Ever. This may seem odd, as I seem to have no problems baring my soul when I write. That’s different. You can’t see me. Part of this stems from my newly acquired (ok, it’s been a decade. Still taking some getting used to though) profound hearing loss. Don’t do well in crowds or restaurants. Can’t join in noisy conversations. I end up looking dumb and clueless. Might “get” the joke someone said a lot later than the rest of the group. Shit, they were done laughing 2 minutes ago. And that’s if I’m lucky. Usually don’t hear or properly understand it in the first place. Kind of bugs me. I actually used to have a quick wit. Believe me, nothing’s quick when you’re deaf. The point I’m valiantly trying to make. Although my hearing loss has compounded my loner aloofness, most of my adult life I’ve been like this. Just a more dramatic form of Neese.

I bowled on one or 2 leagues for about 20 years. Loved the camaraderie, and I was pretty good. In that span, I would venture to guess I had a minimum of 20 bowling shirts, and at least 8 different bowling balls. I don’t believe I ever put the name Denise on a shirt or ball. Always dvb. I really didn’t want people who didn’t know me to know my name. Or anything about me. Is that weird?

 

My cool dvb mini iPad case…

 

Forty years ago, Dad asked me to start going to the South Dakota prisons with him when he spoke. I firmly said no thanks. Wasn’t my cup of tea at all. He asked me numerous times after he moved to Michigan in 2005. That environment is SO not me. Never felt compelled to mingle with prisoners in general. (Dad, I’ve always loved old people). And speaking in front of a group was (is) torture. Absolute torture. It’s not that I don’t have things to say. Man, I can write a good script on a topic. But if the group was larger than 6, and not in a loosey-goosey informal couch setting, I was (am) totally incapable.

 

Back to my strange week. I’m alone in the house. Family room sliders and front door is open, with a cool cross breeze on a beautiful day. I’m a mess. Busy writing, checking my old letters for dates and content. Half my head is thinking of what pictures I’m going to use. Just as hard and time consuming as writing the blog. Love doing the pictures but it takes me forever. So I should have brushed my teeth after eating. Should have showered hours before. And now all the tomato seeds are dried on the front of my flannel shirt. Are you getting the whole picture here? I closely resembled Michael Keaton in Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. We could have been twins. Ok, I never actually saw him with juicy tomato seeds stuck to the front of his movie costume.

 

Our likeness was uncanny one day last week…

 

The doorbell rings. (Please just kill me now). Hard NOT to answer the door since it’s wide open. Please, please let it be a kid collecting pop cans for North Muskegon School project. No, that would have been too simple and uncomplicated. It’s an adult. Of the male variety. Can I just slither in between one of the cracks of my wood floor?

“Hi, are you Denise?” (This was my out, and I blew it. Not a very good liar) Didn’t open the door, or get too close. No, I wasn’t afraid. But besides the glaring tomato seeds and drips all over my flannel shirt, covering my pajama top, I probably got seeds between my teeth to boot. A sigh here is not sufficient. A miserable, lamenting groan might however suffice. I hope you can feel my pain. It’s about to get much worse. I inwardly cringe, “Yes, I’m Denise.”

“Do you recognize this?” He thrusts a shadowy piece of paper (copy) in my direction. “Um, yes, I believe it was in my Dad’s apartment,” I cautiously answered. “Well Denise” (did he not get the memo about NO ONE KNOWING OR USING MY NAME?) he continued, “here’s the deal. A young woman from Spring Lake bought this painting at the Goodwill store in North Muskegon a few days ago. She was only interested in the frame. When she got to her car, she started taking the back off. That’s when she discovered a letter. Written to your dad, Rich Gerritson in 1984. The letter was written by a guy named Skip who painted the picture for your dad. The letter says that Skip was an inmate in a South Dakota prison. Is that possible?”

 

Skip’s 1984 painting for Dad. Minus the gorgeous frame…

 

“Sure sounds like my Dad.” (sorry, but I was dreading every sentence I was now verifying. This wasn’t going to end well for the loner). “He was actively involved with a prison ministry for decades. Preached at Sioux Falls, Springfield, held weekly Bible studies. He was instrumental in a group of volunteers who mentored inmates in a one-to-one basis called the M-2 Program” Gulp.

 

Dad trying to win inmate souls for Christ. In the late 1980’s…

 

Dude continues, “Michelle (the young woman from Spring Lake) put this on the station’s social media page. (Don’t bother with the gun, I’ll find one myself). “That’s when I got involved. We did a story on Michelle finding the letter. Would you believe, it’s gotten over 100,000 hits?” (Yet not one hitman for me) “A detective from Texas did some research and found obituaries on Skip in 1999, and your father in 2008. In your dad’s obituary, you are listed as his daughter. We didn’t have a phone number, but addresses are public knowledge.” (Lucky me) “So I drove over here today. Michelle would like to return the letter and painting to you. Is that ok?” “Sure,” I squeaked, “have her give me a call, and we’ll get together,” (I pleaded desperately with my eyes. For a news guy, he was kind of dense. Or in his defense, he might have been checking out my lunch leftovers. Can it get any worse? Yessiree)

You know it couldn’t possibly have ended that painlessly for me don’t you? Their original plan had been for them to give the follow up story line from Skip’s viewpoint. That was a dead end. (Sorry Skip). Since Rich’s daughter (of quivering voice and knocking knees) was alive and well (the well part still to be determined), this dude preferred to have the “rest of the story” documented on film. Have I mentioned that I do not like to have my name or any part of me out there anywhere? Honestly, I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. Standing there, agreeing to have him and Michelle come to my house. With a camera. I do believe at this point I did try and slink under the front porch. Tomato seeds and all.

 

What Michelle found under the frame backing…

 

Dude emailed, messaged, friended and phoned me during the next several uncomfortable hours. He had a somewhat bubbly disposition. Guess that’s a job requirement. The Big Story was going down the following morning at 10. I giddily hoped and fervently prayed, they’ll be here 5, ten minutes tops. Try an excruciating hour. I’m not wishing for a natural disaster, but can’t help but wonder how slow this news week must have been. (What are my chances)? All that and he got 90 seconds air time. Painful as they were, it could have been worse.

Dude did not show. (Thank you Jesus). But his replacement did. (Alas it was Dude’s regularly scheduled day off, which he failed to mention to this basket case). Dude #2 entered enthusiastically, bouncing up and down like Tigger on speed. Second dude was incredibly nice, trying hard to put me at ease. Asked me about Dad’s story. How and why he was compelled to work with inmates. Dad, giving his life to Christ after losing his only son Larry in 1958 at age 12 in a bike accident. My part in getting Dad re-connected after he moved here, 800 miles from his little Iowa home town. Before Dad moved, I had contacted the Chaplain at West Shoreline Correctional Facility. Asking if they had a spot for Dad’s gifts, though he was already 88 years old. Stopping in at Muskegon’s Rescue Mission and landing Dad a once a month gig with the less fortunate men staying at the shelter. Getting some heartfelt help at a local assisted living facility. Giving Dad a weekly Bible study spot. They adored having him come every week, and he loved going there.

 

Dad holding weekly Bible study in 2006. He’s sitting in the upper right…

 

Just getting semi-comfortable when dude # 2 hands me a MICROPHONE. I swear I’m going to collapse in a big heap. He notices then that Michelle has parked her car. Shoots out the door like a rocket, slaps a mic on her too. Comes back in the house. INSTRUCTS ME TO CASUALLY WALK OUT TO MEET AND GREET HER.

 

This is what I felt like. Calgon, take me away…

 

(If you’ve ever watched Sanford and Son, I’m here to tell you, my eyes went heavenward, and as Fred, I silently shouted, “Elizabeth, I’m coming!”). So we sit by the kitchen table (ha, take that TV camera. You can’t see my knees shaking. But my voice was hopelessly quivery when I was asked to read some of the sentiments from the inmates. They sent me, a virtual stranger, countless sympathy cards after Dad passed away. Telling me how much Dad, after 3 short years had meant to each of them) Hard. Though I try to minimize my self worth during my unbearable discomfort, Dad’s meaningful life was no joke.

 

My favorite pic of Dad. Newspaper interview about his sign ministry. He was kinda vain. I love that he’s still wearing his work clothes. 1978…

 

Imagine. Seven years after his death, Dad’s message is still getting through to others. He would be profoundly proud (and maybe a little envious). Wishing he were around to be interviewed and filmed. Instead of his hopeless, helpless, clueless daughter who couldn’t do him justice. But I tried. And didn’t collapse in a heap…

 

Skip’s letter to Dad in 1984…

 

Rich,

Knowing you the last several years has been a real pleasure, and one that I will keep stored in my minds memory for years to come. I had hoped to be here on Wednesday last, when you finished your Bible Study, and we could have visited one last time, but it didn’t work out that way. And since I’m going to Springfield on Tuesday morning, I won’t be seeing you this Wednesday either.

Over the last several years, I’ve enjoyed our various talks, and most especially though, had the opportunity to really get to know you, and know that you truly have the love of Jesus in your heart. Your impression left with me has been good, and I hope that I can continue to grow, and use some of the examples of your life, in my own.

This needn’t be good by. Maybe one of these days you’ll come to Springfield to visit Wayne (at Yankton), and we can see each other again. Otherwise, perhaps our paths will cross sometime in the future, when everything is different. Perhaps too, I’ll be lucky enough to go to the same place God has reserved for you, and we can meet again.

Thanks for everything Rich, and I really mean it.

From a friend,

Skip Teegardin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been tripping. Not literally the fall down kind. The memory lane variety. It all started with our basement. Our house is about 120 feet from Muskegon Lake. The basement is only 30 inches deep. A royal pain. The only thing I really hate about this house. Want the dozen containers holding all our Christmas paraphernalia? Go crawl around the basement cement floor for an hour.

 

Just before we moved to eastern Iowa. John, Denise, Shannon, 1973…

Hubs decided to clean the basement. Brought up countless tubs, containers, boxes, old toys, and miscellaneous junk that has been stored down there for 20 years. Shoved it all in the garage. What? How does that help anything? His goal was to have the basement squeaky clean, and have nothing stored down there. He swept (crawling), painted the floor, (also crawling) until it sparkled and was naked as a jaybird. But now the garage is a holy mess. Except for my car. I refused to give up that space and park my Jeep outside. And all my canning equipment, extra fridge and freezer. The rest of the garage was awful and a constant reminder of what still needed to be done.

We’ve been saying since spring, “we gotta defrost the freezer, and go through every one of those containers and downsize.” The freezer was a snap. But most of the basement stuff was going to be emotional. Much of it stuffed down there 10 years ago when Mom passed away. After Dad moved to Michigan, Mom’s stuff slid right down the 4 steps and has been sitting there ever since. Doubling in mass after Dad passed away in 2008. Things from his apartment, too painful for me to part with. Handwritten sermons, neatly stored in a nifty business sized tub Shannon bought him to help organize her lay-preaching Poppa. Just lots of stuff.

 

Dad’s handwritten sermons he gave at the prison, 2006…

 

John encouraged, “just bring one or 2 containers in the house at a time. Go through all the Rock Valley stuff. Only keep what you truly cannot part with. Please.” And that’s what started the tripping. I was doing pretty well too. Decided to keep a dozen of Dad’s sermons rather than the hundred languishing in the box. Plus his handwritten, detailed, original copy of what he wanted said and done for his funeral. I brought in this olive green container. Marked “Rock Valley-Denise’s early school papers and pictures.” Now that was fun to go through. Immediately, I did a blog post on my 13th birthday bash, and scavenger hunt. Sharing the pictures of that special day.

 

The famous letters from me to Mom and Dad, 74-76…

 

 

Then I found this stack of letters. Just after we had moved from Sioux City to New Vienna, Iowa, about 325 miles away. It was 1974. Hubs was working for the Whack Brothers at a toy tractor company in Dyersville. Shannon had just turned 4 and I was pregnant with our second child, sex still unknown. Just as God intended. New Vienna was a very small, close knit, 99.9% Catholic community. Plus the Dutch, Protestant Van Berkum’s, numbering only 3, but soon to be 4. Make that 5. I’m claiming our German Shorthair Pointer Anja as Dutch. I’ve definitely heard her bark, “heh-tah.”

 

Probably writing letters. Worthington, 1975…

 

In this container of Neese Notes, school pictures, perfect attendance accolades, award winning elementary poetry, and odds and ends of my childhood was this cache of letters. About a 100 of them. Written by me to my Mom and Dad. Mostly to Mom though (who obviously saved everything). Surprisingly, I didn’t cry very much when I read them. They’re not sad, depressing or morose. Most are about the happy, yet mundane life of a young stay at home, broke on her ass mom of one, soon to be 2.

 

Perfect attendance in kindergarten, 1957…

 

Once in a while, I mention something Mom must have written, because I’m answering her or clarifying. After reading the letters, I decided I could not part with them. About a third contained the first letters from 4 year old Shannon to her grandparents. Words run together, s’s that are backwards for about 6 months. Truly priceless. I told Shannon she and Joshua have to read these after I’m gone. A couple of years in the day to day life with their mom. That was about a month ago. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about those old letters. They just sloshing around my head. So I went back to the green container, and pulled them all out again. A couple no longer have envelopes. A couple more I’m unable to read the postal stamp date. I put them in chronological order best I could before reading them a second time. It was easy to insert the others. I’m either pregnant or got a new baby. Pretty sure some of you will identify with some of the subject matter I’m writing about. We were in the middle of our first decade of marriage during the mid 1970’s. Here are a few of the snippets from the assortment of letters to my Mom and Dad.

1975: Mom, Shannon is now able to write most of the letters of the alphabet. I write a sentence or 2, then she copies it. She doesn’t understand separating the words though. She’s quite proud of herself and loves to write you letters when I’m writing.

 

One of Shannon’s first attempts at writing my Mom and Dad, March, 1975…

 

We have to do something about our 1965 IH truck. While we were driving in Dubuque last night, we turned a corner and the passenger door flew open. Scared us to death. Would if Shannon had been standing by the door instead of in between us? How are we supposed to feel safe when we have 2 kids in there? We must get some better means of transportation before the baby.

 

Doors flying open were the only parts moving fast on our 1965 IH, 1974…

 

I need socks for Shannon. I want cotton, not white nylon that gets gray the first time I wash them. Would you look at Bev’s for me? K-Mart carried Buster Brown for 38 cents a pair. Now they’re 69 cents and have no colors to match her summer outfits.

John went to J. C. Penney’s during their sale. Sports coats regularly $40.00 on sale for $19.88. He came home with one, spending his 8 dollars of birthday money. He’s going to Milwaukee for work next week, and needs to be dressed nice. He also bought a writing tablet that they use in school. Oh Mom, I’ve been teaching Shannon to write some of her letters wrong.

John’s been car shopping. He brought home a 1970 Chevy, gold Nova. Almost identical to your blue one except this one has 4 doors, which I don’t like. It has 70,000 miles and they’re asking $1,200.00. They first offered us 75 bucks for the pickup in trade-in. They finally went up to $290. which is just enough for the down payment. That means we drove the truck for one year for 150 dollars. But since we now have a loan on the Nova, we need to carry full coverage insurance which will cost 60 dollars for 6 months. Our car payment is $49.00 a month. I’m so anxious to get our $700. dollar tax refund.

 

1970 Chevy Nova. Huge improvement over the old truck…

 

I bought Shannon a new set of sheets for her bed. She wanted purple, but were out of the flat full size, so I got her pink checks. Each sheet was $2.94, and matching cases were $2.14. If you and Dad need some, they had loads of twin size. They are 50% cotton, 50% polyester. They feel cool and nice.

 

Hanging out those new sheets. Joshua 1, 1976…

 

Boy am I ever mad. I heard my favorite program, “Petrocelli” might be cancelled. I wrote the television station. Can you believe they wrote me back? First time I’ve ever been addressed as Ms. They assured me it’s not being cancelled, but will be on a new night. Now they are running it against Monday Night Football. We will be watching Petrocelli unless the Viking’s or Dolphins are playing on TV.

 

Barry Newman as Petrocelli, 1975…

 

Shannon wants to bring May baskets next week to a dozen neighborhood kids. Helen says no one around New Vienna does May baskets. Poor Shannon won’t be getting any baskets in return. John brought a new book home for me to read until I go into labor. It’s by Peter Benchley, called Jaws. About some big killer shark.

 

Me and Shannon. Wearing my “eternity clothes,” 1974, Rock Valley…

 

I’m so uncomfortable. I get charley horses almost every night, bad enough to make me cry. Dr. Mulay said the baby is pressing on my esophagus which is why I have to sit up and swallow 40 times a night. Makes my throat hurt so much. Haven’t been able to drink coffee for the last few weeks. Hope that goes away after I have the baby. We went to Dubuque last night to get the new crib off lay-away. Guess what? They wouldn’t give it to us. That model doesn’t meet the new government standards. Now each crib side has to have 15 slats. The one we picked out has 13. Get this. All the new models are 20 dollars higher. We don’t have the extra money. John argued with them for a long time. They finally agreed to give us the newer, safer model for 10 dollars more.

 

What a beautiful head of hair! Joshua in his government approved crib, 1975…

 

Our dryer has been on the fritz for a couple weeks. It’s still under warranty, but they haven’t been able to fix it yet. Now the washer is broke. John brought the new box of Tide down the basement and set it on the washer for me. He accidentally shoved the box against the on button, forcing it to run for a day before I noticed it. What next? Now it doesn’t work right and smells like burnt rubber. I have to literally run down and turn it off after every wash cycle. Just started what I hope is the last time I ever have to wash my “eternity slacks” again. I’m really very tired of wearing them. (I swear the last month of a pregnancy is equivalent to a year in solitary confinement)

 

Joshua 4 months and Daddy, 1975…

 

I’m bringing Joshua to Dr. Mulay for his first check up. Since he’s almost 4 weeks old, I’m sure the doctor will have me start feeding him cereal.

 

May, 1974. John 26, Shannon 4-1/2, Joshua 2 weeks, me 24…

 

We’ve been going to a small Presbyterian church in Cascade, a few miles away. Joshua sleeps during the service. I don’t want to feed him a bottle because when he burps, he sounds like an uncouth grown man. (Honest, I wrote that. What a hoot). He’s still waking up for a bottle at 3 am too. In his book, Dr. Spock says a 9 pound, 1 month old baby does not need that feeding. This mom thinks otherwise. (Go mom!)

 

Going to church in Cascade, 1976. Shannon 5, John 27, Joshua 1…

 

Just about everyone gave us 5 dollars as a baby gift. I can usually find a one piece Health Tex outfit for that. While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses remarked about my frosted hair. Mom, I’m getting so gray. (I was 24-1/2 when I had Josh) Well, I’m not going to start dyeing it because I’d be doing that for 20 years. (Try 35 years Neese! But that’s a blog for another day).

 

New Vienna, May 1975. Mommy and her newborn Joshua…

 

I’ve been trying to find Baby-that-away for Shannon. One store has it for $17. but in the Sears catalog it’s only $10.66. Quite a savings, so I ordered it.

 

Shannon thought Baby-that-away could teach Joshua how to crawl, 1976…

 

Shannon always seems to get sick around the holidays. Now I think Joshua is following in her footsteps. He woke up with a very high temperature. I called Dr. Mulay, who is out of town. The doctor covering for him now practices in Dubuque. The visit cost 10 dollars and the medicine was $9.44. Can you believe it? I wonder how people with 6 kids do it? We’re only having 2. Every time we get ahead, something comes up.

 

Joshua, sick for another holiday, continuing the tradition, 1980 chickenpox…

 

Shannon’s Christmas program was something else. Shannon was with 7 other children, and during their part you could only hear one of them. Wanna guess? Right, your granddaughter. I was so embarrassed. John kept telling her, nice and loud when she was practicing. Naturally she went a little overboard. She had everyone in church in stitches. Boy, she likes to be the center of attention.

Have you ever heard of Fran Tarkenton? He’s the quarterback for the Minnesota Viking’s. Yesterday they lost in the playoffs so they won’t be going to the Super Bowl as they did for the last 3 years-and lost all 3 times. Well, Fran’s dad was watching the game from Savannah, Georgia and had a fatal heart attack during the game. I feel so bad. Poor Franny.

 

Minnesota Viking’s QB Fran Tarkenton, 1976..,

 

1976: Joshua won’t drink his bottle anymore. Mom, he’s only 8 months old. He likes drinking out of a cup and loves sucking his thumb. I guess I’ll just stop trying to give him the bottle.

 

Don’t worry about me. I got my thumb. Joshua, 1976…

 

The Eagle’s store in Dubuque is having a meat sale this week. Rib steak is $1.19, sirloin $1.29, and pork chops .99 cents. I’m getting extra steaks because we’re bringing some to Ankeny when we visit Barry and Jeanene Kuiper next weekend.

I’ve been saving green stamps for a new toaster. The cheapest one is 5-3/4 books. I need 3/4’s of a book yet. Now I have to go to the National store, which I don’t like to get some more stamps.

 

Joshua happily eating, 1976…

 

Shannon’s teaching herself to blow bubbles with bubblegum and whistle. She’s also been drawing faces on paper bags, coloring and cutting out parts. Then she wears the paper bag on her head all day. Joshua giggles when she walks past. We had some new snow, so Shannon went outside to build a snowman. She came in all excited. I looked out the window and just laughed myself sick. She made a “busty” snow-woman. I wanted a picture of it but she sort of melted and fell over. Boy does that girl have an imagination.

 

Shannon and Joshua, 1976…

 

I’ve been making homemade bread. I only have one loaf pan, so I make half into cinnamon rolls. I think I’m getting better every time I make them. I got a new book I want to read before the mini series comes on TV. It’s called, Rich Man, Poor Man.

 

Shannon 5, Poppa 58, Joshua 6 months, 1975…

 

I’ve had the worst toothache. (This letter was funny in a painful sort of way. I can hardly read my writing due to the pain pills I was on). How am I supposed to care for these kids all afternoon feeling so dizzy and giddy? The pills only help for about an hour, but the goofy affects last a long time. Dr. Mulay found a dentist for me in Cascade. Only way to save the tooth is with a root canal which I can’t afford, so he pulled it. Instant relief. The wonderful dentist only charged me 10 dollars and said I was very brave. Now we are trying to save 20 dollars a month so John can get his teeth fixed.

 

I was in pretty bad shape taking pain meds for a toothache, 1976…

 

We’ve been watching the Winter Olympics. It’s not fair that Russia sends their professional hockey players. I don’t think we should even play them. They showed some comparison food prices to the United States. How can people afford to live there? Gas is $1.47 a gallon and 72 cents for a quart of milk. We sure couldn’t.

Probably more than you wanted or needed to know about this small thriving family. Makes me remember and appreciate some of the tough times we went through. Yet there was never talk about throwing in the towel. We were committed (or should have been committed somewhere) to each other and our great kids. All part of my continuing journey. And so it goes…

 

Me and the Hubs, 1976, Worthington, Iowa…

 

 

It wasn’t exactly awkward, but still rather unusual. John and I started dating in the mid-60’s. His only sister Elly, had already been married for several years with 4 children! Wow. Jim and Mag were champions when it came to spacing children! Meaning, Elly got married when John was about 2. She became a mother for the first time a couple years after I was born. I didn’t see them very often. They lived in Sioux Falls at the time and were busy raising their family. A few years later they moved to Spencer. John and I were too busy making out to be real involved with Elly and her family. Oh how things would change.

Holidays with Elly and Dewey, mid-1970’s…

It was 1977. We were still renting the farm house in Cascade. John was driving 40 miles to work, one way to Cedar Rapids. Leaving me virtually stranded out in the boondocks. With several hundred hogs. And 2 small children. On the plus side, at my disposal were the best apple trees in the world. Made some great apple pies out there.

 

My favorite picture of Elly, always limber, mid-1980’s…

 

John had a job offer from Eaton Corp, located in Spencer, Iowa. We would be about 60 miles from both sets of parents who were in in Rock Valley. For the first time since Hubs was 2 years old, he would be living in the same town as his oldest sibling, Elly. Some of our best years were about to start. In 45 years of marriage, of all the many places we have lived, 2 hold a special place in our hearts. Complete opposites as far as size. Small town versus big city. Spencer and Davenport. You’ve heard a lot about Davenport. This is my story about Spencer. And Elly.

We weren’t used to being so close to family. For a short time in Hinton, 1970-1972, John’s brother Arly, his wife Vicky, and baby Wendy lived there. Otherwise we had never lived this close to any family members.

 

Young Elly with her mom Mag. In front great grandma Lena, and grandma Carrie, 1934…

 

Elly and Dewey welcomed us (more like enveloped us) with open arms. Both were working full time, but they included us in their family plans often. By then, 3 of their kids were out on their own, though I think Kerrie was still in high school or living at home.

Think of it. Elly was born 4 years after my mom. Although our kids would soon think of them as another set of grandparents, (something neither Elly or Dewey ever discouraged) John and I did not. Elly doled out her own brand of wisdom on child rearing and marriage, but I never saw her as a mother figure. She became one of my dearest, best friends and sister-in-law.

 

Elly, Jimmy and Leslie. About 1945…

 

Dewey was a sports nut. Not spectator. Two sports come to mind. He loved basketball. Playing in a senior league past the age of 80! And bowling. He was good. Very, very good. Soon after we moved, he asked us to join a couple’s league. Bowling every Sunday night. John and I had bowled on a couple’s league as newlyweds with Phil and Mitzi in Sioux City. But neither of us had thrown a strike or a gutter ball I n the 5 years since.

 

Aunt Elly and Adam, 1985…

 

 

It was a wonderful chance to get to know Elly and Dewey better. Often we would have supper together at their house or ours. Dewey would require the patience of Job to bowl with the rest of us misfits. (Actually talking mostly about Hubs here). John assumed to become a better bowler, one needed to throw the ball harder. Aim was secondary. Concentration, not mandatory. He’d heave that 16 pound sucker down the alley with the strength of Atlas. It might stay in the assigned lane and catch a couple of corner pins. Occasionally smash the living snot out of them with a zinging strike. Then he’d trot up to the 19″ color TV, hanging on the wall by the counter. Watching the last of whatever football game was still on. Sigh. Amble back and give the ball a second toss, aiming for the brick and mortar way beyond the lanes. Drink some beer and talk football. Elly threw her ball at about 10% of John’s speed, but got down as many or more pins.

 

I give up. Done arguing with Arly and Jim behind her, 1975…

 

Dewey and I concentrated hard on the finite world of bowling. I was pretty good, but threw a straight ball down the center. Dewey threw a magnificent hook. Encouraging me to invest in a fingertip ball, and try rolling a hook. We were there the night Dewey was in “the zone.” He seemed to have found a literal groove in both lanes. Bowled the series of a lifetime. It was almost 40 years ago, but it was something like a 725 series. Unbelievable. We were farting around with 450 series. Dewey was almost double that.

 

Shannon, Elly, Adam, Dewey and Josh, 1980…

 

Elly, Dewey and I would stick with bowling for several more years. Actually, I got pretty good and consistent. Best average I would maintain was in the mid 160’s. John gave it up to be an armchair football coach. Dewey and his 700 series. That was some night. Towards the end of the night, all eyes were on Dewey every time he let the ball go. Quiet, because no one wanted to jinx him. No one came over to joke or high 5 him about his 5 or 7 string of strikes in a row. The bowling alley made him a commemorative bowling pin. Sawed one in half with his series total painted on it.

 

Elly with her dad, mid-70’s…

 

Elly was really into collecting. John and I had a few pieces of antique oak furniture. But it was Elly who would soon infect us with the life long bug of antiquing. We were at an auction together. Elly outbid her competitor for a box of antique dishes. She was going through her treasures and she handed me 2 pieces. One was a green rectangular, 2-piece butter dish. The kind that holds a pound of butter. The other was a piece of depression glass, also green. Called Cameo. She thought this would give me something to collect besides furniture. And it was cheap. Oh, Elly what a shove you gave me down that slippery slope. A love of old glassware. Which I never had looked at before. Even when it wasn’t cheap anymore.

 

Elly recently in Le Mars, Iowa, 2012…

 

We would antique with them for years. Even after we moved away from Spencer. Hire a babysitter for the day, and leisurely go on the hunt. Back then, almost every little town in Iowa had at least one antique store. Lately it’s antique malls that have gained popularity. But a day of antiquing with Elly was gaining knowledge. She knew a little bit about everything when it came to antiques. Kitchenware, furniture, glassware. What was real or a “repo.”

 

Elly and Dewey…

 

Our closeness with this amazing couple (relatives to boot, who knew?) did not require a sitter or a day away though. Most of our best times were spent at each other’s house. Sharing a meal. Yes, I was finally a fairly good cook and baker by then. Playing cards, watching the kids play or TV. One miserable weekend during the winter (Spencer winters lasted about as long as northern Alaska’s) we invited them over. We were going to play Penuchle and make homemade ice cream. We had a crank type we had to churn. You surround the mixer (full of milk, cream, sugar) with rock salt and ice, and turned the crank until your arm fell off. Ta-da. Homemade ice cream. You can’t believe how much colder it tastes than store bought. We were doing something special with this batch that snowy Saturday. Making the whole works into “Grasshoppers!” Adding a healthy dose of Cream de Menthe and Cream de Coaco. First we took out a big portion, plunked in a few drops of green food coloring for Shannon and Joshua’s share. They wanted grasshoppers too. We were half lit playing cards. I don’t think I was capable of cooking anything too complicated that night. A good time together.

 

Dewey me Josh just starting on Grasshopper ice cream, 1981…

 

Elly wanted me to take ceramic classes with her. I did and made a few things for the house and a couple gifts. Not long after I started though, the place we took classes was making me sick. One night I had to leave early. Light headed and queasy, I needed to get out of there. Driving home, wise Elly wondered what was wrong. “It’s their heat Elly. Who has heat blowing down from the ceiling? Blows on my face and it’s making me sick,” I lamented. “Well, I think you’re going to have a baby,” she said quietly. ‘Twas true. We just hadn’t told anyone yet about our news. Little Adam was about to make our world a better place. Elly continued classes, but I didn’t. She surprised me with a fantastic nativity set she made for Christmas. Blew me away.

 

The nativity set Elly made for me, 1979…

 

The fall of 1979, the 4 of us had Minnesota Viking’s tickets. We would slowly antique all the way up to Minneapolis, go to the game on Sunday and head back home on Monday. We dropped Shannon and Josh at my Mom and Dad’s. Adam, a month old and a nursing babe would make the trip with us. A memorable trip to say the least. Only thing I remember buying was an antique oak board. It was off a fancy dresser or sideboard. One end was chewed off by mice after laying in a barn somewhere for 30 years. We spent a couple of bucks for it. When we got home, John used his saw to make it fit the top of our china closet we had just bought, but was missing the top.

Dewey helping Adam at Christmas in Rock Valley, 1980…

 

Two other moments stick out about that trip. Let’s just say Dewey was frugal. Very frugal. He would often drive several extra miles, looking for gas. Cheap gas. A penny a gallon cheaper than he saw it at the last station. We wandered around Minneapolis, looking for gas. I still don’t know how we didn’t run out. Then the brakes started squeaking. A couple of days of driving in a big city, and the noise was driving us crazy. John said, mildly exasperated, “I thought you were going to have new brake pads put on before we left, Dewey.” “Well I was John, but I thought I could get one more trip out of them,” Dewey answers slowly. (He was an easy going guy). Doesn’t do any good to point out after we screeched our way back to Iowa, John not only had to replace the pads of Dew’s wagon, but the rotors too.

Elly at Adam’s 1st birthday party. September 1980…

 

The last big memory of that trip was the game itself. I had one of those baby carriers. Nestled that little newborn right out in front like he was still in the womb. Game day was a spectacular fall day in Minnesota. High about 70, sunny skies. There were thousands of fans at the old Metropolitan Field. Adam was fed, dry, content, quiet and comfy. The Vikes were about to take the field. Holy moly. You wouldn’t think 57,124 fans, seeing 50 players run onto the field would be such a big deal. Big deal folks. 57,122 fans jumped out of their seats, screaming bloody murder. When they finally quieted down, only 1 small fan remained screaming. That uproar sent Adam over the edge. And I couldn’t retrieve him. He screamed for about 10 minutes before I screamed, “I’m done.” It took more pushing and shoving than giving birth, but I managed to free myself and the still screaming tiny fan out of our row. The great motel we were staying at was right across the parking lot. Wound our way through thousands of cars, to our quiet, air-conditioned room. We watched the game on the queen size bed. No more screaming from either of us. The trip as a whole, a wonderful memory both John and I hold dear.

 

John and Elly not too long ago…

 

Besides an avid antiquer, Elly had a “thing” for Christmas. She must have got it from her family. All the Van Berkum’s made a big deal about Christmas. Elly had a large picture window in her dining room. Every Advent, she painted a Christmas scene on that window. Decades later, folks from town would ride down East 8th Street to witness she had chosen to paint.

 

Don’t look at me. See the decorated window behind me that Elly painted, 1979…

 

The other “thing” that takes hours (and dollars) was her tree. She has an ornament collection that’s unrivaled. She bought unique, one of a kind ornaments wherever she went. Everyone who knows and loves her bought her unusual ornaments. One made from the ash of Mount St. Helen’s after it erupted. Many homemade ones from her grandkids. And our kids, of course, who thought of them as grandparents.

 

Elly’s magnificently decorated Christmas tree…

 

 

Elly would happily “do” Shannon’s hair for me. I was pretty hopeless in the styling of complicated hair. Shannon has a head of hair that unbelievably thick and coarse. Elly could do the most amazing French braids. Kids at school doubted Shannon’s Dutch heritage after Elly did her hair in braids. Shannon looked Asian for days because the braids were pulled so tight. Shannon’s little Asian eyes squirting tears while Elly’s fingers flew through that mass of hair.

 

Shannon aka, Bo Derek. Styled by Elly’s daughter, Kerrie, 1980…

 

The year after she made me the nativity set, Elly surprised me with a Christmas tree skirt. It’s about 35 years old now, and lovingly used every year. But not without a few expletives at first. Elly didn’t cut through the skirt. She cut a big X through the center. Her reasoning was then I could use it as a table cloth or center piece if I just covered the slit X with something. All well and good. But when I’m setting up the tree, if I don’t remember to slide the skirt over the stand before the tree is plopped in, I have to undo everything to that point. It’s not often anymore that I forget. But I did several times the first few years.

 

Joshua and Aunt Elly. Christmas, 1980…

 

We moved to Davenport in 1981, about 325 miles from Spencer. We still often traveled to northwest Iowa. Making a point to visit Elly and Dewey. They came to visit us eastern Iowa, later to Michigan. Lots of new antique stores for her to check out.

 

Hot tubbing with Dewey at our house in Jackson, 1990…

 

 

Dewey passed away a couple of years ago. Elly sold her big 2 story house and moved closer to a couple of her kids, and several of her grandkids and great-grands. Just had her 85th birthday and still enjoying her circle of life. I thank God that He put us in Spencer for a few years. Wish we could have been there longer. Grateful for the good years we had together. Love you so much Elly…

 

Elly with her newest great-granddaughter, 2015…

 

 

 

Since my kids were evenly spaced, you’d think they wouldn’t have much in common. And that was true as they got older. None of them were ever even in high school together. However their mother remained sane. Which was the whole purpose of having them spaced to begin with. But when I looked at some old pictures, I see the kids, mostly the boys played together quite a bit. At least for the first several years.

 

Absolutely priceless. Adam and Joshua, 1983…

We were living in Spencer, Iowa. A fabulous (freaking cold) town of less than 10,000 folks. Renting a cement block house. Let me tell you, when those blocks got cold, it was almost impossible to warm up that huge house. One of my most dramatic memories occurred in that house. It was September 22, 1979. John and I were celebrating our 10th anniversary. How could I possibly be married for a decade already? I was laying on our queen size bed upstairs. Sans John. Nothing much about this special anniversary would be very romantic.

 

Christmas card, 1979…

 

Laying next to me was Adam. Hmmm. He was a big surprise. A true gift from God, though unexpected. We’d been home from the hospital about a week. A traumatic birth, to say the least. If you haven’t read my blog post about him, it’s called Party of 5, posted in September of 2014. Ten days old and the first baby that I am nursing. Probably because he’s my last baby. I had some good friends, Shari, Pam and Diane. All recently becoming new moms, extolling the virtues of nursing versus formula babies. It took some convincing on my part, and Hubs never did join that happy bandwagon. He was too set in his bottle ways. He had happily helped raise 2 formula babies. This was foreign to him. And I really didn’t know yet what I was doing. Had I to do it over, I would have handled the whole nursing experience differently.

 

Shannon 10 in the (blank) house, 1981…

 

There was this group of DEDICATED ZEALOT MOMS called Le Leche League, trying to help. They were against pacifiers, bottles, formula of any kind. They also had some issues when was the best and right time to stop nursing. I swear a couple moms in the group were still nursing tweens. Icky. Most of them could tell I wasn’t on board with what they generally stood for. But since Adam was my last baby, I did want to try. And it was a wonderful experience. The best. For 5 months. I took the end of nursing much harder than Adam did.

Underoos rule! Josh 6, Adam 2, 1981…

 

John had always gotten up during the night with Shannon and Joshua. Heated a bottle, changed their diaper, fed and burped them. Letting me sleep through one nightly feeding until they slept through the night. Never happened with Adam. Newbie Adam wasn’t about to get cozy and nuzzle daddy’s neck or beard. He didn’t smell right for mommy milk. Period. So John felt left out in the early days with Adam. Had I nursed the other 2, Daddy would have never known the difference. And I should have been firmer about starting Adam off with a bottle or 2 a day to get him used to the other kind of nipple. For Daddy’s sake. And mine.

 

I swear they told me wine helped stimulate milk production, 1979…

 

Getting back to my ah-ha moment. Adam and I were resting. Four year old Joshua wanders in and out of his bedroom and ours. Playing, checking on me and his new baby brother. John and 9 year old Shannon are downstairs fixing supper. I simply cannot fathom I’ve been married for a decade already. With 3 children. I can distinctly remember the sounds and smells of that night. Joshua, making revving engine noises for the hot wheels he’s racing across the wood floor. My tiny newborn nestled next to me. I am in awe of my blessings and want desperately to stop time. Just for a bit. I swear I snoozed for 10 minutes. When I woke I was at Adam’s high school graduation. That’s how fast time slipped past me.

 

Adam and Josh, 1980…

 

So Josh was 4, Shannon 9, when Adam joined our merry band of misfits. Both of them doted on their baby brother. Josh had quite a bit of freedom in Spencer. Several buddies down the block to play with. Shannon practically had a run of the town. But that would change soon.

 

No words. Cutest. Picture. Ever. 1980…

 

John got laid off the day before Thanksgiving 1980. Sucked. Big time. He soon found an engineering job in the Quad-Cities, about 325 miles away. A factory called French and Hecht. Horrible place. We moved early in 1981. The only house we could rent was about 1000 square feet. After our extra large, ice cold house in Spencer. Now we were packed like a can of sardines. Shannon’s room was a small sun porch (ok, I’m gonna stop saying small. Trust me, everything in and about this house was small) off the (blank) dining room. I don’t think there was room for a crib and twin bed in the boy’s (blank) bedroom. So I ditched the crib, which was unusual for this mom. I clung to the crib for each kid. Explained to each of them, they could have a big bed when they were dry all night. That proved to be about 2-1/2 for Shannon and Joshua. But I had to change Adam’s timeline because the house was so dang (blank). We bought bunk beds for the boys. I think the master bedroom held our queen sized bed and one of our 3 dressers.

 

Shannon 13, on Kirkwood Blvd, 1983…

 

Davenport was huge by our standards of all Iowa living so far. A city of 100,000. Which butted up against 3 more cities. (That’s why Duh-Neese, it was called the QUAD-Cities). Davenport and Bettendorf on the west side of the mighty Mississippi. Rock Island and Moline just east of the river. Totaling almost a half of million people. Making the Van Berkum parents leery of letting the 2 older kids very far out of our sight. Boy, were we wrong. One of the best places we ever lived. I had more close friends in that large metropolis than I’ve ever had before or since. Sigh. Anyway, right after we moved, we kept the kids pretty close to home. It would be Josh teaching toddler Adam how to peddle his new little Big Wheel.

 

Joshua 6, Adam 2. On 38th St. 1981…

 

Soon Shannon found friends living nearby that were in her class at school as did Josh. It was also the first time in their young lives they would learn about loss. Joshua’s best buddy was named Craig. He lived about a half a block away. They were the same age and played together often. Both had to cross Sturdevant Street to get to each other’s house, but were careful and capable, being 6. We would fulfill our year’s lease on 38th Street before buying our big old stucco house on Kirkwood Blvd. Josh and Shannon would then be attending new schools, Washington Elementary and Sudlow Junior High. Adam was still home with Mommy.

 

Story time. Adam, Mommy, Joshua, 1981…

 

Craig spent a great deal of time at our house. Ate with us often. Wasn’t that hard to squeeze in another sardine. He was eating supper with us in our (blank) dining room in our (blank) house. To say our dining quarters were crowded with 6 around the table was an understatement. Adam was still using the high chair, which was in the next county, but only 2 feet away. Craig was trying to add salsa to his taco. Turning the jar upside down, it glopped out everywhere. John quickly stood up, leaned over to keep it from spilling on the floor, which was carpeted. Craig suddenly cowered, winced and covered his head with his arms. Forgot that he was not home, getting ready to be smacked. We all sat there dumbstruck. Feeling the pain for a little boy who knew no different. But our kids knew no different either. Just the total opposite of what Craig’s life was like. Too sad. Just wait. It gets worse.

 

Josh 10, Adam 6, Davenport, 1985…

 

Not long after moving to our house on Kirkwood, we were returning from northwest Iowa, after visiting our parents. It was a Sunday afternoon. We were listening to a Minnesota Viking’s game on the radio, which was carried on a Quad-Cities affiliate. During half time, local news reported that a 7 year old boy had been killed when a garbage truck backed over him in an alley. While he was riding his bike. The street was 38th and Sturdevant. The little boys name was being withheld. No doubt in our minds. It was our little battle worn friend Craig. Gone. His parents accepted the city’s check for compensation a few weeks later. And were completely broke in a year. Pitiful part of my story. We should have called social services. We wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. That time would come just a couple years later. Ugh. Death is awful. Sometimes life is too.

Superman 7, Woody 3, 1982…

 

The 5 years on Kirkwood Blvd (plus 1 on 38th) were pretty good ones for this family. The new neighborhood was full of kids. Shannon would be diagnosed with allergies, and asthma. And come pretty close to having a ruptured appendix. She started working for a neighbor lady who did in home day care. By the time she hit her teens, Shannon was raking in 50 bucks a week. Maybe this doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was 1983. Probably close to 400 dollars a week now. She was buying Calvin Klein Jeans, Nike Air Jordan’s (in baby blue), plus saving. I was jealous of her wardrobe. And her money.

 

Shannon had a better stereo system too, 1984…

 

Josh remained accident free until we moved to Michigan. But he was sick a lot. He had so many tonsil infections. Just get finished with antibiotics and go back to school. I could tell he had another infection as soon I walked into their (blank) bedroom. There was the distinct smell of sour bread dough. Joshua’s tonsils would be so swollen, they would touch each other. Causing that strange smell for a boys bedroom. As if the constant infections weren’t bad enough, he got Mononucleosis. Causing his spleen to swell for a couple weeks. Ever try getting a rambunctious 7 year old to lay on the couch for 2 weeks? Yikes. Lucky Adam was home to keep him quietly occupied. Finally, we had Joshua’s tonsils and adenoids removed. He was rarely sick after that. Went into a growth spurt and ate like there was no tomorrow.

When Adam was 5, Shannon was giving him a ride on her bike. His foot got caught in between the wheel spokes and the frame. Scraped the skin off his ankle down to the bone. That nasty wound would take months to heal. And he still carries a scar. But it was Hubs who usually got hurt the worst or the sickest. Sigh. (Sometimes it felt like I indeed had 4 children)

 

House in Davenport, Iowa, 1982-1987…

 

Here’s the best of the worst. It’s Christmas vacation for the kids. Plus John, now happily working for JI Case, which has it’s annual holiday shut down for 2 weeks. Lord, spare me. Love everyone of them to the moon and back, but this wife, mother, chief cook and bottle washer was so ready for all of them to head back to work and school.

 

Christmas 1985. Josh 10, Adam 6, Shannon 15…

 

John and our good buddy Ron (single coworker, engineering friend who loved us and we loved him) decided on Saturday (2 lousy days, a mere 48 hours and I was home free. Before everyone went back to their assigned places early Monday morning) to take the kids sledding. Yay. Not too far from our house was an old military school which was no longer used as such. The grounds were terraced on 2 sides where the cannons had once been placed. In between was quite a steep slope, leading to the parade grounds. Great place for sledding. Everyone was having a ball. Little stinker Adam started whining. Oh no, not to come home. He was feeling especially adventurous. He wanted to go down the terraces on the toboggan. Dad thought it looked too dangerous. So did Ron. But Adam was not deterred. The men caved. No surprise there. As a precaution Hubs and Ron said they would go first to ensure none of the kids would get hurt. Right. John was in front, Ron behind him. FOUR TERRACES. Before the bottom. After hitting the first terrace, they were off the ground a foot and picked up a little speed. By terrace number 4, they were airborne about 15 feet high, heading nose first into the parade grounds. Neither moved when they finally landed. Adam ran up to them yelling, “my turn, my turn!”

 

Ron, all healed up, 1984…

 

A mom (nurse) saw these 2 insane yahoos hit the ground. She ran to them yelling she was calling 911. John croaked out a “no!” After a few minutes of not feeling either of his legs, both guys finally got their wind back. They managed to get up and started limping back to the truck. All the while, Adam still complaining that daddy and Ron always got to have all the fun. By the time they got back to our house, they were in pretty sad shape. The hospital was just a few blocks away. I said I’d drive the nut jobs. Shannon could watch the boys. “Nah, we’ll be fine,” says wise John, pouring himself and Ron a pretty stiff drink. Ron soon limped to his car and drove home.

Well by Sunday, we almost had to call an ambulance. John could barely move. (I could point out, had John given birth to our first child, and me to our second, there would have never been a third child in our family. Or anyone else’s. But I won’t. This is not the time) I hauled him to the ER. John had a bump on the kaup, (head) a sprained wrist, sore feet from ramming them in the front of the toboggan. Plus a broken tailbone. Sigh. Ron ended up in the ER too. He had a couple of broken fingers, more than a couple broken toes from ramming John in the back with his feet.

The kids went back to school on Monday. Thank you God. John spent a few days at home, moaning and healing. When my engineering manager Hubs went back to work at Case, he brought along a nifty treat daily for the next 3 months. A donut. Not his favorite kind with sprinkles though. This one of the foam variety. To ease the pain of his sore hiney…

 

Adam 21, Joshua 25. Black Hills, 2000…