Have you noticed people celebrate birthdays differently? As a young mother, I usually made a big deal of our children’s birthdays. Inviting relatives and a few kids their age. Unless I could buy them off. I wasn’t above bribing them with cold hard cash. If one of the kids wanted something really expensive, sometimes they could be convinced to give up the party. Take the money and run. Really, birthdays should be a bigger deal in the life of a kid than Christmas. Celebrating their own uniqueness of the special day they came into and made your life so much better.

 

Shy, introverted Adam’s 4th birthday, Davenport, 1983…

When you think about it, it’s precisely why we celebrate Christmas. The day God sent His Son to live and die for us. I wonder when Christmas started leaning towards how many presents we were getting or giving instead of celebrating the birth of Jesus? Recently, much has been argued that December 25th is not the real day that Jesus was born. The exact day doesn’t matter folks. Pick a day and celebrate what God did for us. The sacrifice for us. Ok, now back to regular old birthdays. And Christmas.

 

Joshua’s 5th birthday party with Superman, 1980…

 

After my brother’s death in 1958, the Gerritson’s stopped celebrating Christmas. Period. Not the religious part, but everything about the commercialized part. Larry had picked out the tree for a couple years before he died. After his tragic death, celebrating Christmas seemed not only trivial, but bordered on blasphemous. The hard part of course was I was not yet 8 when he died. What kid that age says, “no, really, don’t mind me. Never wanted to celebrate and get a bunch of presents anyway.” That part was tough for this little kid.

 

Shannon’s 10th birthday, 1980. She still asks for German Chocolate Cake…

 

But I think it was about that time in the Life of Neese that Mom did up the ante in celebrating my birthday. Might not have been done consciously by her. And it very well could have had a lot to do with Larry’s death. Mom started making a big deal about a couple of holidays every year. May Day. Bringing homemade baskets to classmates after school. And my birthday. Not always a big party, but always something special. That took time and planning on her part. I really appreciate her efforts, even more that she did this when her heart wasn’t always in it.

 

Wearing shorts on Dec. 2nd. My 13th birthday, 1963…

 

Sometimes it might just be a shopping trip. Mom, me and my best friend Char. Going to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. Not K-Mart or Lewis Drug either. The good stores. Shriver’s and Younker’s. Buying us matching fuchsia fleece hooded tops (40 years before hoodies became the rage). Standing in line at Bishop’s Cafeteria. Eagerly waiting to choose from their vast array of food choices. This was not such a big deal for me. We actually went out to eat quite often after our family shriveled from 5 to 3. (Larry had died and Mona got married). But in the life of Char, eating out was a very big deal. She came from a big family. They didn’t go out to eat very often.

 

Me, Sharla, Char, Lin, Ruth, Gloria…

 

On these shopping trips, getting dessert when we finished eating was the highlight. Bishop’s made some spectacular desserts. My favorite was French Silk pie. As I recall, it consisted of regular bottom pie crust, chilled milk chocolate cream filling. Not standard pudding though. The filling was frothier or a whipped texture.Topped with a fancy dollop of whipped cream. And curled chocolate shavings. To die for. Years later in the Quad Cities, a restaurant called The Village Inn made a pie very similar. But for the crust. They used a graham cracker crust instead of pie dough crust. Good, but not quite as special. Holy moly, this story has taken a major detour.

 

A special shopping dessert. French Silk Pie…

 

Birthdays. Since my birthday fell in December (it still does, duh-Neese) one could never be sure what kind of weather we’d be having on the 2nd. Often there was a lot of snow on the ground already in northwest Iowa. I can vividly remember wearing shorts for one of my birthday parties. Maybe my 13th. A huge surprise on my part. Mom really went all out that year. She planned a scavenger hunt through the town of Rock Valley. Clues were handed out at our house to get the hunt started. After discovering the next item on the scavenger hunt, you got the next clue which would lead us to the next piece of the puzzle. The first team back won a prize. Fabulous party that year. Thanks Mom. She invited a boatload of my friends. How she got the weather to cooperate fully remains a mystery. We had so much fun running around town. On the hunt searching for our next clue. That was so unlike my Mom.

 

Wan, Shirlee, Pam…

 

Slumber parties were a common occurrence too. Not just for birthdays either. We had them often during junior and senior high. Six, to 10 giggling, screaming, hormonal teenage girls. Most of whom didn’t fall asleep until dawn. Talking, teasing, gossiping, eating. Not a better way to spend a weekend night for a bunch of girls. Miserable night for the parents who got very little sleep. But a great night for girls.

 

Slumber less party, Wan, Pam, Diane, Joann, 1967…

 

Back to birthdays being a special event. In the life of a kid, their own unique birthday should be much higher on the Richter scale as a very special day in their life than Christmas. Now I send everyone a special birthday card with a check. Bleh. And on Christmas, when they’re already inundated with gifts galore, we add to the stack. Got that one wrong Neese. Should be doing more for their own special day. Celebrating when they were born.

 

Birthday party meal, Sharla, Gloria, Mary. Are those rollers in her hair???

 

Part of the Christmas versus birthday debate was John’s fault. Christmas was a huge deal at the Van Berkum house. Presents stacked up to the ceiling. Hubs was the youngest in his family. Thus 3 of his 4 sibs were already married when we were dating. Two had kids of their own already. In the mid-60’s everyone bought everyone else a present. John’s sister Elly had 4 children. His brother Jim had 2 for sure. Les and Mary Jane were newlyweds. Arly was single and in the Navy. John’s family went all out for Christmas. Something John wanted and assumed we would continue after we got hitched. Since I hadn’t really celebrated Christmas for a decade, heck I was all for it.

 

Joshua, 6 waiting patiently for Santa to come, 1981…

 

I don’t ever remember talking about Santa Claus when I was little. I don’t believe Santa was part of Christmas in our house, even before we lost Larry. After I became a mom, I grew to resent Santa. A lot. Doesn’t that sound childish? Yes it does, but I’m not ashamed to say it. What did Hubs do every stinking year? Made all of our most expensive presents the kids really, really wanted from Santa. Made me nuts for years. Not only buying the gifts we couldn’t afford. But then letting some magical, mystical dude get all the credit. What? I needed the credit for scrimping, saving, lay-awaying, running from store to store for the gift that seemed to be sold out everywhere. Hiding them in the attic, trunk of the car, or basement. Buying special wrapping paper so the little smarties wouldn’t come up with, “how come Santa uses the same wrapping paper you have Mom?” Because. We bought the presents. NOT Santa. Even when we couldn’t afford squat, we bought them anyway. Wow! That makes me feel so much better. What a burden to lug around for 40 years. It was about time they learned the truth anyway.

 

Yup, some disbelief when learning the truth about Santa…

 

When one of our kids was invited to someone’s birthday party, I felt like I was getting a gift too. Drop the little tyke off for a whopping 3 hours. And freedom. Oh I had the other 2 kids with me. But there was still that sense of freedom. The difference between 2 and 3 kids, no matter what their ages, was monumental. Cause for our own celebration. Weird. That’s what we did when one of the rug rats was invited somewhere.

 

Maybe birthday number 30 for me, Spencer, 1980…

 

Families have different kinds of birthday parties for their kids lately. They’re certainly special. Sometimes big, elaborate affairs. But I never really understood the parents coming along. And not just moms either. The whole family comes for a 3 year olds party. I don’t think there was ever a way I could have worded this to convince John he needed to attend a 4 year old friend of Joshua’s birthday party. Nope, that idea would not have flown at our house. Or him ever going to a bridal or baby shower. That would have been much worse. But I’ve been to parties for my grand children when all their little friend’s families attend. It’s actually kind of fun. Our youngest grandson Graham has his parties in a park near their home. The playground equipment is phenomenonal. Plus a pond with fish and frogs. I do enjoy watching the parents chase after their little ones. And I do mean parents. The dads seem much more involved. They really do. In that respect the “whole family parties” are exactly that. Parties of their birth, celebrated with families…

 

Adam flat out refused to believe me, 1980…

 

 

 

I’ll own up to this one. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with trees since I moved to Michigan 28 years ago. Before moving to this tree stuffed state, I never thought about trees much. The last Michigan tree to human census taken totaled 5,691 trees to 1 person. They’re everywhere. Except at Lake Michigan. What a relief. The only place I can really breathe.

 

Lake Michigan on a very windy day…

 

Still, one of my favorite views in the world has to do with trees. Wouldn’t ‘ya know? When I walk up the steep hill on 2nd Street, I see the tops of approximately 2.127 million trees against Michigan’s startling, exotic blue sky. My favorite color combo-bar none. It’s not that I dislike trees. I just don’t like when they hinder any part of my view. Except the tree tops to sky shot.

 

 

Freaky country roads. Have you never heard of the word TRIM…

 

 

I’m telling you, some of the country roads around here are plain creepy. Trees on both sides. They scootch in a little closer to the road every day. Cue Pennywise from Stephen King’s novel, It. Where my nightmares originate.

 

 

Yeah, no thanks Pennywise, I’ll pass…

 

 

Nowhere have we lived thus far though compares to our house in Jackson for trees. True, our lot was an acre, but we had about 50 trees. I had to move every 10 minutes when I laid out in the sun. At least I was getting some exercise while reading and snoozing. The neighbors were aghast when John and our buddy Fred took down about half of them. Ah, the sun goddess lived to rule another day. But it was in that yard when I fell under the mysterious spell of the birch trees. I absolutely love the white bark. And how the shiny green leaves look as they sway in the breeze. We had several in the yard, but thee perfect one, smack dab in the middle of our front yard. Every summer I’d hang a hummingbird feeder in that birch. The tiny birds got so used to me being nearby, I could sit and watch them from a couple feet away.

 

Perfectly centered birch tree, Jackson, Mi. 1990…

 

 

When we moved to North Muskegon, all of our landscaping was new and small because our house was 2 years old. Twenty years later, we have a total of 4 trees. None of which are in the back yard, obstructing our view of Muskegon Lake. Two massive evergreens in the front hide the utilities and cable TV paraphernalia. Actually they were already here with another 6 pines in a very small berm. Which lasted about a year. John yanked out 5. And it was still crowded. The 2 trees we planted are on the west side of house. One’s a pretty maple but my favorite is a tri-color Beech tree. During the spring, the leaves are maroon with hot pink edges. It’s quite beautiful.

 

 

Gorgeous Tri-colored Beech. And neighbors awful fence…

 

 

Our neighbor west of us installed a fence from the street to their sea wall before we moved here. They also planted a weeping willow where their sea wall starts. Now really, why would anyone plant an ugly, messy, dirty tree that eliminates the beauty of living on the water? Not only for them, but on both sides too. Meaning us. Although the tree wasn’t much to look at first, it grew faster than my 2 teenage boys. We’ve had a couple of 100 mile an hour straight wind storms over the last 2 decades. My prayers have not been answered. The weeping willow lost maybe 3 leaves per storm. I was the one left weeping.

Along the west fence line near the lake, but on the east side were some ugly scrub trees that were not very big yet. Cottonwoods. But clumped together in a rather homely fashion. This empty lot and scrub trees belonged to the guy who owned our house. After 2 years in our house, they decided to build just northwest of us. Kind of behind us, but off to the side. There’s an easement in between those two lots which is why they are kind of behind us.

 

 

20 yrs ago this was our view looking west…

 

 

But this also meant no one would be building right next to us either. Yay. Or they would lose their nice view of the lake. When we were buying our house, we insisted on buying a few extra feet from the empty lot. Making their waterfront lot the bare minimum on which to build. At the time they mentioned taking those little ugly scrub trees down. Sigh. It never happened. Now those suckers are huge. As an added bonus we get a month long bounty of cottonball snow storms in June.

 

 

2015 view to the west. Sigh…

 

 

The 3 neighbors east of us, and the west weeping willow folks all had sea walls before we moved here. By not having our lot owner or the empty lot west put in sea walls at the same time was a real bummer for them. At that time the water level was very high, so windy days from the west caused our sandy beach to actually kind of undermine their sea walls. Plus it was eating away at our back yard.

 

Before we put in the sea wall, 1995…

 

 

Soon after we moved, our sprinkling system was hanging in the air near the lake in back. Ugh. We knew we had to do something. (If they had just put in our sea wall 5 years prior to us moving here, we’d have another 40 feet added to our back yard). Major bummer for us. The house due east really got the shaft by losing tons of sand. Their sea wall is steel sheeting. At the time of installation, the top of their sea wall was flush with their yard grass. Twenty years later they have an 18″ step. It’s sunk that much. So a couple years after we moved, we had several semi truck loads of sand hauled in to build up our “sliding into the lake” back yard. Followed by covering the sand with heavy felt. And tons of tons of medium sized rocks. Which I worked on for weeks. I wanted it rather level so you could walk on the top of our rock sea wall, which was a couple feet wide.

 

 

New rock sea wall and dock, 1997…

 

 

 

Of course we didn’t realize just a couple years later, Lake Michigan would plummet dangerously low, almost breaking low water level records. This was about 15 years ago. Suddenly, the bottom of our sea wall was dry land for 125 feet. A new happy home for snakes, frogs, and yup, you guessed it, more scrub trees. John would head down there twice a summer, cutting down 30 spindly tress, bushes, invasive reed thingy’s. Yuk. We stopped putting our dock out each summer. With only 100 feet of dock, we didn’t come close to hitting water yet.

 

 

Night shot of the moon, and spindly little birch trees, 2013…

 

 

RCG (rich crazy guy) owned the last house east of us (10,000 square feet, resembling a VFW hall, minus the liquor license). Part of his property was the point east of him which jutted out quite far and had fairly deep water. When the water levels dropped, all kinds of unwanted growth popped up on this new dry ground. He might have tried a time or 2 to tame this new forest, but his heart wasn’t in it. It was unsightly and blocked the lake views for everyone. After his bankruptcy, he moved and lost the title of RCG, becoming merely CG (crazy guy). The family who bought his little mansion started remodeling the home and the grounds. Hired workers with wild, crazy, chain saw abandon and cleared the forest point of all vegetation. Except for a cluster of about a dozen, spindly 12-15 foot birch trees. I adored that little group of trees. When I’m in my nest, it’s always in my view. And you know how often I languish here. Constantly.

 

 

My baker’s dozen little green birch trees, 2010…

 

 

Each time I take a picture of a sunrise, or a 1000 foot tanker gliding by, most of the pictures include my (yeah, I got some ownership issues) little cluster of birch trees. Friends of ours thought it was very rude. Living on a lake with the audacity to let trees compromise our lake views. Why I have issues with my non-west views, but no problem with my east views has not yet been answered in my weird head.

 

 

Sunrise over the birch trees…

 

 

One of my all time favorite pictures is that little clump of birch trees. But I did not have my iPad yet. Only my hopeless smart ass phone. It was probably mid-September, 2012. I looked up from my nest, and there it was. My baker’s dozen clump of little birch trees. With a total of at least 10 different colors. It was stunning. The picture lost something after I reproduced it. Last fall I was determined to get a good picture of the fall color change. Didn’t happen. And it took me until this spring to figure out the reason why.

 

 

Birch trees showing an awesome array of fall colors, 2012…

 

 

It’s the water. A couple years go, the water level started rising again. All of the Great Lakes are on the rise again. Yay. Good news for folks who had their boats moored 200 feet farther in the water than their docks reached. Our rising water started out with a couple little puddles here and there near our sea wall. Last summer the water was about a foot deep. This year it’s double that or more. Meaning all my little birch trees are drowning. Half of them didn’t sprout more than a handful of leaves this spring. The remaining spindly few got leaves that resemble October instead of the first of July. First time I’ve ever felt bad about losing .000000000000000001 percent of Michigan’s tree population…

 

 

Clump of birch are drowning after water levels rose, 2015…

 

 

 

 

To infinity and beyond! Here’s hoping for at least another 10-15 good years. My Mom’s life headed south when she was around 70. My Dad though, was about 90. I’ll stick with 80-ish. So we are in the year 2031. My incredible memory is fading. I am somewhat dependent on others, and none to happy about it. Names, faces and stories are on the tip of my tongue, but at times I can no longer retrieve them. Foggy brained and frustrated, I’ve become somewhat cranky. Now there’s a surprise. Visitors tend to forget I’ve lost most of my hearing. So they mumble, or talk when not facing me. This gives them the impression I have chosen not to join in their conversation or answer them. When nothing could be further from the truth. Here’s a snippet of my imagined future life as I age. At least my side of the topics and conversations. And some of my very favorite pictures of those I love. Plus me.

Baby Neese, 1951. Braids, 1955…

I vowed early in life, I will not badger family or friends if they are thoughtful and attentive enough to come visit me. That was a lie. I know. I suck. And lie. But a couple of these reminders are meant to enhance the life I have left. So humor me. For the sake of all that’s good and kind, commit these key essential pointers to memory. Thus making what’s left in the life of Neese, better.

 

Josh and Erica, 2013…

 

 

Everyone at one time or another has teased me about my teeth. Sure, not all of them are my own anymore or snow white. But do me a favor. Help me, or remind me to brush them anyway. I carried a travel toothbrush in my purse for decades. Everyone had to wait for me until I brushed my teeth after we ate. It drove people crazy. But it drove me nuts if I had something stuck in one of my bridges. See my dilemma. Now there, that took all of 2 minutes. Gee that feels so good. Sliding my tongue over smooth, tooth-pasty-clean-teeth.

 

 

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) 2001…

 

 

My glasses. Sure, they might appear sparkly clean, but trust me when I tell you they are not. They’re filthy. Are you kidding me? They not only have a smudge, but an innocuous spot on them. Which my one eye constantly lingers on. Please run them under the faucet, and wipe them dry. Holy moly, not with a Kleenex or paper towel!! That could scratch the lens, which drives me completely bonkers. A clean, dry, wash rag will suffice. Thanks so much.

 

 

My lovely dresser with Shannon’s little dress hanging from it…

 

 

“Would you mind walking over to the antique oak dresser? It is lovely, isn’t it? Still one of my favorite pieces. Remember when we bought it on one of our annual road trips? It rained cats and dogs from Princeton, Illinois to Jackson, Michigan. Poured the whole trip home. But the antique dealer had completely wrapped the dresser in Saran Wrap.” What a hoot.

 

 

Josh and Ariana, 2014…

 

 

“In the top right hand drawer of the dresser is a denim bag. I was once asked a silly question. If you were stranded on a deserted island, name one thing you couldn’t live without? Surely you know my standard answer. It’s been my signature (go to) item for a half century. Get a quick count for me, will ‘ya please? Only 24? You sure you counted right? You know I always like to have about 50 tubes on hand. Tell your brother it’s his responsibility to stop at the drugstore before he comes next week. Make sure you spell it out for him. NATURAL ICE MENTHOLATUM LIP BALM. You know I can’t stand that cheap imitation junk called Chapstick. Might as well use Crisco. Grab me a new tube please. Oh how I love that tingly, burning sensation for a minute after I first put it on. If you don’t mind, update my inventory sheet. And don’t forget to remind your brother.”

 

Getting kind of low. Panic attack…

 

 

“Why do all these places have such dreary drapes? I haven’t used drapes for decades. You know that’s why God invented windows. So I can see out. Please open the drapes and shades so I can see what’s going on in the world. Nah, don’t worry so much. No one wants to watch an old lady get dressed and undressed. Saggy boobs are not in. Or a treat for anyone to see. I gotta be able to see what’s out there. Wow, look at that gorgeous day! Not a cloud in the sky. If it were 40 years ago, I’d take a book along to read, and lay out in the sun. I used to love laying out. But only when it was cool. About 65 degrees was perfect. Those were MY good old days.”

 

 

Watching the Cubs 3 innings when Harry C. was on the radio, 1985…

 

 

“Yes, I’d love to look at some old pictures. Thanks for bringing the photo albums. Refresh me on what year this was in our family’s life. Oh yeah, we were still living in Spencer. But about ready to move to Davenport. Looks like Mother’s Day breakfast. What in the world was I doing in the boys room?”

 

Mother’s Day, 1981. Breakfast on Cameo depression glass…

 

 

“Yup, I like my new hearing aid. Do you think I’m catching any more of the conversations? No? Shoot, me either. But it’s nice to hear the birds singing once in a while. When your sister stops for my Diet Pepsi, ask her to buy some batteries for this new fangled hearing aid? Why can’t they have one size battery that fits all hearing aids? Stupid to have 10 different sizes!”

 

 

Graham in Florida, 2013…

 

 

“No, I haven’t watched anything lately on TV. Nothing good on. Crazy people getting paid for being crazy on their own reality show. Dumb. I got enough reality in my life. Old movies? A new book? Yeah, I’d like either one. Or both. Have your brother bring a couple next week. Oh, I don’t know. Something with Paul Newman and that other hunk, Steve McQueen. You know Steve died way too young. God, Paul had beautiful eyes. Had the hots for both of them when I was in school. But my favorite was Steve. I would like to see Cool Hand Luke and Bullitt. Call and remind your brother. Could you find my old book series by J.A. Konrath? I really enjoyed those Jack Daniel’s books. That Phin was a hottie. One of the neatest characters ever.”

 

Goofy grands, Ari, Landon, Graham and Peyton, 2014..

 

 

“What did you bring me? Good heavens, that was thoughtful. You know I never cared for microwave popcorn. Disgusting smell. But this. Freshly popped and with real butter. You don’t even eat real butter. Yum. And just a titch of salt. It’s so good. You know that’s why your dad and I always had separate bowls. He liked it weird. Too salty, and he added extra butter to his.”

 

 

Ari, the ballerina in Pampers, 1992…

 

 

“Where in the world did you find cotton candy? One of my favorites. You knew that? You think I could squeeze a cotton candy machine in that corner over there? Whadaya mean I can’t have one in here? It’s MY room. I’m down to one measly room, and still I can’t have or do what I want? That’s a crying shame. Are ‘ya sure? But I wouldn’t give any cotton candy to my diabetic friends. Well, Ok. You promise? I’m holding you to that. I won’t forget. I don’t know where you’re going to find it every week, but hey, you offered, right?”

 

 

Davenport Iowa, 1983…

 

 

“Really? It’s that time of summer already? Gospel truth? Yup, I’d sure give up cotton candy for a couple of weeks for some real, fresh tomatoes. Bring some cooked bacon along. Bendy strips. I don’t like bacon that breaks in 20 pieces when I bite into my BLT. My that’s something I’ll look forward to. You know I used to eat them almost everyday during the month of August. Never with mayo. Yuk. That was your father’s deal, not mine. That’s really thoughtful. Thanks.”

 

 

Adam and Sarah, 2015…

 

 

 

“I don’t know where it is. One of the girls read a couple pages last night, but I haven’t seen it today. Oh no! You have to find it. My life isn’t the same without it. How else can I remember? Go to the front desk and ask who helped me get ready for bed last night. Please. Oh wait, here it is. Never mind. It’s on the floor. Must have slipped down the side of my bed last night. I must take better care of my book. Do you think we could have a chip installed inside the cover? You know, the kind they do for pets? I really can’t afford to ever lose the book. It’s my memory maker. Sure I’d love to hear some stories.”

 

 

Breech baby, breech baby give me your hand. Adam, 1980..

 

 

“Did you know one of my kids was a breech baby? Yeah, Adam. He was a surprise. Sure glad we had him. I’m so proud of what a fantastic father he’s been.”

 

 

Diane, Faye, Neese and Kay, 1967…

 

 

“I really loved being a cheerleader in school. The games, pep bus, the camaraderie. Especially the outfits. They were the best.”

 

 

Shannon and Superman Tracey, 2014…

 

 

“I bet you didn’t know I couldn’t boil water or make coffee when your dad and I eloped? Heh-tah, I was hopeless. First meal I ever made was red salmon from a can. On bread with lettuce. Your dad was not impressed.”

 

 

Peyton, 2005…

 

 

“I was kind of a rebel when I was a kid. Borrowed, ok I stole a car when I was 13. That was some slumber party out at Mary Klein’s farm. Heck yes, I drove that car. It was a push button automatic. Me, driving all the way to Sioux Falls in the middle of the night. The rest of the girls were in the car. We ate at a truck stop. Then I drove back to Rock Valley. Must have gotten back about 2 a.m. Never got in trouble for that little stunt either. I loved driving since that night. Can we go out for a ride sometime? Do I still have a driver’s license? No? Well, that’s never stopped me before.”

 

Beautiful, brilliant Shannon, 1972…

 

 

“Did you realize my daughter Shannon had her PHD by the time she was 37? Such a smart, determined, focused girl. I know, I know. You’re not the first person to tell me she didn’t take after me at all. I am so very proud of her.”

 

 

Joshua, Cascade, Iowa, 1977…

 

 

Did I mention Joshua has his own successful company in Detroit? Yes, he is amazing. No, you go ahead and pick a couple stories. And don’t forget to read me all the comments. They were the best part about my story telling…

 

 

J and D, Worthington, 1976…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I just read the funniest blog post ever. Of course it wasn’t mine. I’m not funny. Groan. And I don’t write well. Sigh. It’s my lack of vocabulary. Lazy. Plus my inability to put my thoughts down on paper well. Should have made an effort in school. Slacker. I do however, admit wholeheartedly, I am green with envy about her writing ability. Did I mention very dark, dark green? How I wish I was funny and could really write. Not to be. Well, maybe I’d tone down her style a bit. She was fairly free with the salty language. Ok, it might have been a bit raunchy, but the content was hilarious. She wrote about the movement embraced by thousands. On living tiny.

 

Yup, tried it with Shannon in 1973…

 

The mass of folks who have made the switch to teensy-weensy living quarters. Homes, complete homes, barely room size by today’s standards. Kitchen sinks that double as a shower. Might just have to just list that little asset as totally gross. Roomy linen closets holding one bath and one hand towel. Nope to room for that big old wash rag. I loved her sarcasm. She wondered how you ever get away from someone if your house is but 250 square feet? There have been times during our long endurance marathon called wedded bliss, that Hubs needs to be a lot farther away from me than a mere 250 square feet. If his intentions were to remain on this earth for an extended period of time. And if he wished to continue breathing.

 

Maybe a man cave, but not a real house to live in…

 

 

Downsizing has many different meanings. If I’m physically trying to downsize, it means I’ve finally found THEE most elusive man on the planet. Namely Will Power. Can’t shed those unwanted pounds until you find out where he’s been hanging his hat lately. Probably been lead astray by someone else with fairly chubby cheeks, (both sets) instead of helping me out. Men, they’re all alike.

Snuggling early in marriage and parenting. Still had to have some breathing space…

 

When you’re downsized from a company, it’s usually painful. And costly. The job you held for years suddenly snatched from you. The company was bought out, now has too many employees. Closing plants, moving people elsewhere or out. Your number is up. That happened often during our marriage and John’s career. Tough to accept and keep a positive outlook on the future. Most often it meant another move. Uprooting the family, losing touch with neighbors and friends.

 

Downsized from Davenport, 1987. Hated so much to leave…

 

We were recently at Adam’s and Sarah’s, taking care of our 5 year old grandson, Graham. Sarah’s best friend is moving to Texas in a couple weeks. Yeah, Sarah’s really bummed. The Michigan, soon to be Texas family of 4 just purchased a house down south, so Sarah showed me some pictures. Oh my. Six bedrooms, 4 baths, pool, ceilings sky high. Simply fabulous. I think everyone dreams of a humongous house like that now and then. But that’s what it is to most folks. Just a daydream. The opposite of downsizing.

 

Larry 1952. Dad might have started something with tiny housing…

 

Anyway, that crazy blog got me thinking. This is exactly what John and I are experiencing right now. Not that our house is big. Rather plain and small in comparison to most. Our house is 2200 square feet. Still big enough. Especially for 2 people. It’s really not that much fun cleaning 3 toilets. One which goes unused 99% of the time. And there lies the rub. For at least the last 5 years, John and I have lived in 40% of our home, 90% of the time. What a huge waste of space. My formal living room (“the museum” as Hubs coined the room) is off all by it’s lonesome. The room has no other doorways in or out, so you must walk in there on purpose. I love that room. At one time, it was filled with so many antiques, you’d been hard pressed to find room to lean an umbrella against a bare spot on a wall. There weren’t 3 square inches anywhere to be found in that room without a piece of antique oak, a picture wall consisting of at least 100 old photos, an ornament or an antique toy. When we were ready to list the house Mary, our realtor walked in and exclaimed, “Denise, this is just lovely. Get rid of most of it please. People looking at your house are unable to visualize what their stuff is gonna look like when they’re too busy looking at all your stuff.” (I’m telling you folks, peeps looking at houses these days have zero imagination. And want things absolutely perfect). So we hauled out 8, yes 8 pick up loads of FURNITURE from this house. And into a storage unit. Almost 3 years ago.

 

Living room, pre-realtor. It was crowded w/o gifts and family…

 

For months I was in mourning. I missed my stuff. Our master bedroom is a prime example. A massive room (my favorite) which easily holds several large antiques. At one time we had 10 pieces of furniture besides our king size bed. And it wasn’t overly crowded in my (humble but not requested) opinion. My house felt like a dear friend had moved far away. The rooms echoed from emptiness. Gave my hearing aid fits for a few months.

 

Fabulous bedroom, virtually empty now. Bare walls too, ugh…

 

Gradually I’ve gotten used to seeing less of my beloved stuff around. But I still miss the way things used to look. I know once we move, I will have to seriously pick and choose my antique furniture favorites. Way over half are going to have to find new homes.

 

Downsizing this wardrobe would be tough. Massive but I truly love it…

 

 

Which brings me to the downsizing part. In my head, I know what I want. A smaller house, close, but not too close to our 3 adult kids and 4 grandchildren. Who all live within an hour of each other. Except for us, the mom and dad. We’re about 2-1/2 to 3 hours from them. No reason to stay here. Our house is 2 story, (who needs that anymore) too big, too expensive and the only thing holding us here. We need a house half this size, one story, within a half hour of them. But that’s a mighty big area we have to choose from over on the east side of Michigan. The really heavily populated areas don’t do much for us. But schools districts don’t matter to us anymore either. Yay. Hubs still enjoys yard work, or I’d really be pushing for a condo. I am ready and could easily do condo.

 

Keeping this for our spare bedroom. We’ve had the bed over 30 yrs…

 

I think we will probably rent for awhile. Check out all the little surrounding townships. See where we might best fit in. Once we get settled, I will seriously have to whittle down what I love and CANNOT part with. What fits in the new joint, and how to get rid of the rest. My hope is that each of the kids have their eye on a couple antique pieces, and are patiently waiting for us keep what we want, then offer the rest to them. But they’re all pretty established by now. Some really don’t care for the whole antique look. It’s just not their style. (Now that makes me a little sad). What we can’t keep or they don’t want will be sold.

 

Lovely sideboard, but not many years of our history. Going…

 

 

Quite a few will be hard to part with. I have an exquisite oak sideboard. But I’ve only had this piece a dozen years. There’s no family history of one of the kids coloring on it or bonking themselves on the head running full tilt when they were 2. I have no problem getting rid of this particular piece. It is lovely though.

 

Curved glass China closet. One of my faves since 1979…

 

 

In comparison, we bought a curved glass china closet 35 years ago. From a lady in Canton, South Dakota. One of the curved panes of glass was broken. We dickered over the price for weeks. Back then we didn’t have very much money to splurge on antiques. John had lowballed an offer and kinda insulted the gal. I had to tap dance around his harsh offer. She and I finally settled on a fair price. Lugged it back to Spencer. Stripped it. (No I don’t care that I removed some sacred patina. I want to see and enjoy the gorgeous grain of the oak wood. I don’t give 2 hoots if it’s worth 300 dollars less because I supposedly ruined it during my stripping abomination). Maybe added a bit of stain, and tung oiled it for a month. Couldn’t afford to order a new piece of curved glass until Adam started crawling, and pulling himself up, causing me to worry. Now that piece will be one of the last I ever part with.

 

Mag and Jim’s ranch in Rock Valley…

 

 

John and I have very different views on downsizing. I envision a house much like the house John grew up in Rock Valley. Nice size, 2 or 3 bedroom ranch, garage, not a huge yard. But after the last 20 years with a 30 inch deep basement, don’t want to do that again. Full basement please. A quiet neighborhood. John, on the other hand sees himself on an acreage. Ugh. With a pole barn. Yuk. Wants to build a hot rod. Oy vey. Outside city limits. Gross. It’s becoming more clear that renting something for a bit will let us look around for what’s in the best interest of Denise. I mean us. My hope is once he has a smaller yard to mow, less shoveling, snowblowing, no maintenance, he might come to enjoy that lifestyle. We shall see. First we gotta get this sucker sold…

 

21 years in our fairly nice lake home. Ready for a change…

 

 

 

It was the second marriage for both of them. Each had lost their spouse. Hyle was a bit older than Gini. Actually I met them first socially. As Parish Visitor I was visiting Charlie and Opal (blog post, October 2014). Hyle and Gini were friends of theirs, plus members of our church. So I added them to my regular visiting list. They lived in North Muskegon, a couple miles from me.

 

Gini and Hyle, 2008…

Almost a half century before, Charlie and Hyle had worked together for the same company, in different departments. Living about 10 miles from each other, they had remained friends and in touch with each other over the years since they had retired. Now Charlie and Opal were in their upper-90’s, Hyle about 5 years behind them, and Gini a few years younger than the rest. They had not seen each other for a few months, so John and I invited the four of them over for a barbecue. Ribs, potato salad, baked beans and apple pie. John and I didn’t have much to say all night. Honestly, I was tickled pink just listening to their stories. And boy could they eat! Nothing wrong with any of their appetites. Well, Opal was only about as big as my pinkie finger, so she didn’t break any records. But they all packed away the meal pretty good.

Opal and Charlie, 2005…

So Hyle and Gini were now on my list. Hyle had some physical health issues, but was razor sharp. And how he loved to talk. He grew up with a learning disability. Had trouble reading. I don’t know if it was dyslexia. He never said. One of his aunts came over every day after school. She read Hyle’s assignments to him, then he completed his homework. She kept this up even when he was in college. Hyle was brilliant. Graduating from Kansas State with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. On the side he liked buy homes that needed remodeling. He never made a big deal about his reading issues and was rather nonchalant. Which I found amazing, and uplifting. What a story of perseverance and determination.

John thought it would be a neat idea if he could take Hyle and Charlie through their old factory, which was still open. Couple of problems with that idea. First issue were both sets of their 90 plus year old legs. Neither could manage to walk any distance at all. Liability of them in the building was dicey too. But John knew a guy. Mike was the head of their maintenance department. Mike cajoled the owners into allowing Charlie and Hyle to tour the factory. At a quiet time towards the end of the day. John lined up a golf cart for the old gents to get around. Had a few hand picked employees at certain work stations ready to meet and greet. Then explain their various job descriptions. Showed them around, made them feel welcome and important. As they were. They probably knew more about what was going on than the young whippersnappers. Mike and John gave them the grand tour.

Holding Opal’s hand at her 100th birthday party, 2010…

Mike and John brought them back here for supper. I picked up Opal, Gini drove her own car. That night was almost magical. John, Mike and I kept our lips pretty much zipped. Charlie and Hyle were still awestruck. Maybe that’s not the right word. One of them would start telling a story. Something they’d seen or someone they had met and talked to earlier in the day. Something that brought back so many flooding memories. Then they’d both start crying. Just get past those strong emotions, and soon they would be overcome again. How incredible it had been to go through the place. Those young guys who knew their names. It was such a touching night. I’m really not coming up with a very precise description. John, Mike, Opal, Gini and me. All crying because Charlie and Hyle were completely overwhelmed with emotion. About a simple factory tour. It was just the best night for all of us. Everyone was emotionally spent by the end of the night. Buoyant. A nearly euphoric feeling.

Gini and I were great friends. She had suffered through a lot of heartache in her life. Lost her first husband, plus her only daughter from cancer when Sherilyn was a young adult. Gini also had 4 sons, and several grandchildren. For years she had owned a daycare called Gramma’s House, before she retired and married Hyle. And she was an expert knitter. Every bit as as good my Mom. She knit a one-piece, lined snowsuit for a great grandson a few years ago. It was sky blue with kites in the pattern. The little kite strings were attached to the snowsuit, but hanging loose. It was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Why did I not think to take a picture of it? She made me a couple of sweaters too. She’d have 3 or 4 complicated projects going at the same time, lying around the living room.

One of the sweaters Gini made for me, 2008…

Until he was physically unable, Hyle was putzing in the house. He always found something that needed to be re-done. And he was pretty much an expert on anything concerning the house. His mind had all the right answers, but his body was not in any condition to do this kind of physical labor anymore. Hyle just couldn’t and wouldn’t accept that. Or stop. When Gini ran to the grocery store for a half hour, God only knew where Hyle would be when she got back home. His usual spot? Up the ladder in the garage to the attic. Re-wiring the house. He was over 90 years old. Gini had to call the fire department at least twice to help get him down. She ended up removing all the ladders from their house so he’d stop climbing and doing electrical work. Then he wanted new trim for a doorway. Sawed off a good hunk of a finger. During another home improvement episode he fell, tearing his Achilles tendon. Which required surgery, a cast, later a boot and physical therapy. (By this time, Hyle was proving to be Gini’s Achilles heel)

Hyle and Gini had a huge cabin cruiser named Hy C’s. Clever. He just couldn’t get enough of being on the water. Captain duties for a guy past 90, taking friends out to cruise around Lake Michigan just had to stop. He was unsteady, his legs were getting so weak. Location of where his boat was docked was quite a hike too at the marina. For a couple years they still had Hyle’s birthday party on the boat. But tied at their own slip. Finally Gini convinced Hyle to sell the boat. For his safety and her sanity. He remained skeptical. And longed for that boat the rest of his life.

Another sweater Gini’s constant needles produced for me…

This caregiving slowed down Gini’s works of art projects. She was now a full time care giver. She and I actually took a 6 week series on caregiving and burnout together about 8 years ago. Helping me to understand what spouses and family go through when caregiving is all consuming in their lives. (Something I was witnessing first hand with them) Gini, for her new role in caring for Hyle.

Gini was an excellent cook, baker and canner. She loved to entertain. They both enjoyed my potato salad so much, I think there was only a time or 2 in almost a decade when I made it without bringing them a quart. She actually ordered a gallon a time or 2 when she was entertaining their large, extended family.

I brought Hyle and Gini Communion once a month for several years. Hyle always made me move my chair very close to his. He’d hold my hand the entire time. There he sat, smiling, nodding as I read the familiar liturgy. He was quite hard of hearing by then. But I like to think he felt better connected to God and the church when it was a little more intimate.

About 3 yrs. ago, Gini brought me the Bamboo plant on the right…

After a while, Gini’s health wasn’t very good either. She had been in a car accident years before. Had lingering back and ankle issues. And now a bad heart. But when Hyle was nearing the end of his earthly life, Gini refused to move him to a Hospice facility. I sat in Hyle’s bedroom many times, quietly visiting with Gini while she took care of him. Hyle passed away a few months after his dear friend Charlie, in 2011. Gini had couple good years after that. Took a rare vacation cruise with one of her nieces. But her heart was in pretty bad shape. She was watching her 2-1/2 year old great granddaughter for a few minutes while Gini’s son and daughter picked up a bushel of apples they were going to make into pies and sauce. Gini collapsed before they got back home. I wish I had that newspaper article, reporting what happened that day. I’m a little sketchy on the details. I know the toddler was 2-1/2 because she’s the same as our grandson, Graham. And he would not say one word on the phone yet then. This little girl actually dialed 911 and said her granny was sleeping and wouldn’t wake up. Ambulance service traced the call, and saved Gini’s life. Her newly installed pacemaker helped for a awhile. But Gini joined Sheri, Hyle, Charlie and Opal in heaven last summer at age 79. I miss watching her knitting needles fly as we’d sit together visiting…

 

 

I should wait until his birthday on the 9th. But his favorite holiday was always the 4th of July. Jim enjoyed sitting in his front yard, watching and waving as folks drove by. Someone might stop and visit for awhile. He was very fond of cold beer, something grilled, and Mag’s famous potato salad. As it got dark, he’d watch the grandkids (mildly amused) run around like nut-cases with sparklers. Or mucking up his sidewalk with snakes and snaps. The holiday highlight though was watching the fireworks from the nearby ball diamond.

 

Jim in the front yard in Rock Valley, about 1980…

Jim was born on July 9, 1907, the oldest of 8 children. The first time I saw a baby picture of him, I was speechless. He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. Honest. And I’m pretty partial to my own 3 kids and 4 grandkids. But Jim as an infant and toddler was almost too pretty to be a boy. That particular photo is packed away, so you’ll have to settle for my second favorite picture of him. Jim with his only sister Alice. Looks like he might be 2-1/2 or 3. Though the picture is sepia tone, it’s plain to see how dark his eyes and hair were. He was an exquisite, stunning little boy.

 

Jim and baby sis Alice about 1910…

 

Although Jim didn’t attend school very long, he was extremely smart, especially in math. And musical. To me, he just didn’t seem like the musical type. Self taught, playing the harmonica and banjo simultaneously at barn dances in the mid-1920’s. That’s where he met Mag. Who was engaged to someone else. Well, the sparks flew between them (ahem, some other stuff too). When Mag’s father found out she was pregnant with Jim’s baby and getting married, Ralph smacked her good and kicked her out of the house. Jim and Mag got married on his 22nd birthday in 1929. Mag was 19.

 

Wedding of Jim and Mag, 7-9-1929…

 

Jim had various jobs when he and Mag first started out. I probably don’t know half of them. He was a driver for a physician. Carting the doc all over Sioux county making house calls. They moved to Minnesota for about 3 years, tried their hand at farming. This was during the depression. John said his dad used his Model T to fill his silo! Took off one of the back tires and raised the rear end. (Wouldn’t I like to do the same?) Replaced the tire with a belt to get the grain up the elevator, into the silo. If he ran out of gas, any spare vodka, whiskey, moonshine or kerosene worked just fine to finish the job. They used their barn for everything. Storing hay, corn, equipment, cows and pigs. The barn caught fire one night. This devastating event was one of several suspicious fires in the area. The same bank held the mortgage on all those particular farms. Without animals, grain, equipment, there was nothing Jim could sell or use as collateral to get them through the next year. The bank foreclosed on all the farms who had suffered fires. Jim knew in his heart the bank was responsible. He was very bitter about their unscrupulous tactics, but could prove nothing.

 

A very young and pregnant Mag and Jim, 1930’s…

 

So they moved back to Iowa. A rental house they lived in for awhile was so poorly built and insulated, the whole family (think they might have had only Elly and Jimmy yet) huddled in one bed during the most brutal winter nights. No wonder a couple of their kids were spaced so far apart! You could see daylight through the cracks in the walls. In the morning there might be a light dusting of snow on the bed covers. And the blankets were sometimes froze to the outside wall. Nothing ever came easy for them. They had it so much tougher than we did. Our life has been a cakewalk in comparison.

 

Jim’s family, he’s on the left, middle row…

 

He worked for about 15 years as a janitor at Rock Valley Community Schools, working some Saturday’s. When John was very young, he’d wander in the school building, virtually empty, but for his dad. Somewhere. So John would yell for him a couple times. Jim would whistle back, letting him know where he was. Soon Jim would unlock a door underneath the bleachers in the gym. Grab an apple for Johnny to eat while his dad worked. This was when they were living on 15th street, across from the backside of the school.

 

Arlyn, Jim, Les, John in back. Mag, Jim and Elly, maybe 1979…

 

I met my future father-in-law in the mid-60’s. I think he was working for the Hull Creamery on the night shift then. He was just a little guy. Not much taller than me, maybe weighed 160 pounds. Wore a size 7 or 8 shoe. But don’t let his small demeanor fool you. I never did. I was kind of intimidated by him. He was quiet, but gruff. He never let John use the family car when we were dating. Never. Not even to bring me home if I’d been at their house. Jim might drive me home if the weather was horrendous, but John never got his dad’s car. Even for big events like Homecoming or Prom. It was usually one of John’s older brothers who’d loan us their car for those occasions. The rest of the time, we walked. We knew every nook, cranny and make-out hiding place in that little town. Our favorite. The northwest side of the Catholic Church. A little indented spot that just held the 2 of us. But kept us out of sight from the Gerritson police. Yes, Mom sent Dad out every so often on patrol to find their wayward, rebellious daughter. I got in trouble many times. But they never discovered our secret hiding (ok make out) spot a half a block from my house. Sorry, I digress. This is about Jim.

 

Mag w/ Matt, Kelli, Jim with Shannon, 1971…

 

Jim limped most of his life. He had a honeycomb knee cap which kept him out of the army. Never had health insurance until he turned 65. He finally got the knee replaced. Danced with Mag after that and often remarked he should have had it done years before.

 

Jim opening some Christmas presents…

 

He loved cards and was a good player. He and Mag didn’t play as partners though during penuchle games. They had a tendency to snipe at each other. Mag knew exactly which sensitive Jim button needed to be lovingly smacked to get him going. Actually, it didn’t take much for him to get a little testy, so pushing his buttons wasn’t always necessary. Jim and Mag truly loved each other, but they did get on each other’s nerves. Hardly ever about big, important issues though. At least not that I ever heard about. Just the piddly, inconsequential, you are driving me nuts woman stuff.

Penuchle game, but not with each other as partners, 1970’s…

 

Jim was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. For not being very big guy, he did an unbelievable amount of physical labor. Employed by Rock Valley Cement Block and Tile for years. Jim made cement blocks. He also got the cement powder off the railroad cars. During this task, the echoes of his sledge hammer pounding the bottom of those cars could be heard all through my little town. He had to get every speck of that cement powder to the plant. One day he was working on a big cement project. Laying rebar when suddenly something hit Jim’s hand, almost severing part of a finger. A coworker drove Jim to Doc Hegg’s office. Doc (my hero) never had a receptionist. Just a waiting room with bench seating on 3 sides. You sat down near the front door. Sliding over a couple feet every time another person got called in. Working your way north, then east, finally the home stretch, south. Ever closer to the door where Doc would peak through and say, “who’s next?” There sat Jim, towel wrapped around his pinky finger, dripping blood all over the floor. The next time Doc opened the door, someone said, “Doc, you gotta take Jim ahead of the rest of us.” Jim was ushered in. Doc simply cut the nearly severed half off and stitched it up. Years later, when our kids were little, Jim told them grandma Mag bit off the end of his finger. Yikes.

 

Jim and John in the kitchen, 1975…

 

Jim and Mag never traveled much or very far. Vacations were not affordable, or necessary. Housing, heat and food on the table were their priorities. They had 5 children to feed and raise. Their idea of a vacation was renting a cabin at Spirit Lake, about 70 miles away. Still, this was extra money going out and more than they could afford. Jim’s job didn’t come with paid vacation. So they went in cahoots with 2 other families. Renting a cabin for a week. Get this. None of the dads went along. If renting the cabin was stretching the family budget, Jim sure couldn’t take a week off. So the vacationers consisted of 3 moms and about a dozen kids. Holy moly. Sounded more like a torture chamber. For an entire week. In one cabin. Maybe 3 small bedrooms. With 12-15 people, mostly kids. Smashed together like a can of sardines. It was towards the end of one of these vacation weeks when John was about 9. He was floating on a raft, not too far from shore. Everyone was testy. For him, there were just too many kids. It was stifling. Nerves were frayed, everybody’s tempers were on a short fuse, or already lit. The week had simply been too long. John was sick of every other kid. But even more sick of one of the other moms. So pissing and moaning, John’s ragging about this other mom while he’s on the raft. Suddenly she calls out from shore. “Johnny Wayne, sound travels across the water. I can hear every word you’re saying!”

 

One of Jim’s yearly picture when he worked at school, mid-1940’s…

 

 

You know the 3 husbands/fathers might have thought they died and went to heaven that week of non-family-vacation for them. True, no nightly suppers were cooked, and they probably had to make their own lunch pails. But they could stop for a beer and not expect any angry phone calls from the “little woman” demanding the bartender send them home pronto. The house was so nice and quiet. For a whole week. No fights between kids to nip in the bud. It sure sounds a lot tougher for the moms “on vacation” with a dozen kids, than for the 3 dads. Just saying. It wasn’t all bad for the guys. The men drove up on the following weekend. Then hauled everyone back to Rock Valley. With carloads of truly grateful moms and kids for the homes they didn’t have to share with each other. Until next summer.

 

No one sat in Jim’s chair but Jim, mid-1970’s…

 

We took a vacation with Jim and Mag when we were first married. Must have been in ’72 or 73. Shannon was a toddler. I know Jimmy and Eleanor were there, and maybe Les and Mary Jane. John, Shannon and I were in the same cabin with Jim and Mag. We went to Lake Ottertail, Minnesota. John, his dad and someone else went fishing. The weather was bad, windy and the water very choppy. Jim was in the front seat of the little fishing boat. Practically flying off the bench seat every time they hit a wave. Showing no fear and loving it. Later in the week, we drove to nearby Battle Lake to shop and have ice cream at the Dairy Queen. John and Jim spotted a 1929 Model A pick-up. That ran like a top. For sale for $500. Both of them wanted it so bad they could taste it. We might have been in the running if it had been 50 bucks instead of $500. But we had no business even looking. Jim said he was coming back to buy it. Sigh. Never happened. John and I both still covet that little pick-up. Too bad. And sad neither of them could buy it.

Jim and Mag came to stay with us when we lived in Davenport. John called them before they left Rock Valley. “We’re taking you out to a fancy restaurant, bring some good clothes,” he suggested. The place was called Jumer’s Castle Lodge. We all got spiffied up. Jim was wearing a sport jacket and tie, Mag a nice dress. As our food was coming to the table, Jim sticks his humongous red cloth napkin into the neck of his shirt. Mag just about lost it. She yanked that napkin out, and in no nonsense fashion instructed him to put and keep the napkin in his lap. And no where else. He just stared at her. With those black eyes. Grabbed the napkin and stuck it back in the top of his shirt. What I wouldn’t give to have a picture of that. Mag was mortified. But she did not win that red napkin battle.

 

Eastern Iowa picnic with Jim and Mag, 1983…

 

Everytime they visited us in Eastern Iowa, John had to take his dad to the Mississippi. Jim loved that river and was fascinated by the locks and dams. He’d sit for hours while the barges slowly maneuvered through the locks. I was bored to tears. He’d carry on conversations with the guys going past, working on the barges. Most of them were from the south and Jim loved listening to their southern drawl.

Surprisingly Jim really disliked the farm we lived on near Cascade. (blog post, The Farm, October, 2014). I thought he would have loved it there. Too isolated. He hated the constant clanking of the hog feeder lids plunking up and down 24/7. By then, we didn’t even hear it anymore. He was kind enough to drive back to the farm to help us when we were moving out. We were heading to Spencer Iowa, which was only 60 miles from them and my parents. As we were leaving the farm, Jim stopped the car at the end of that miserable, rock filled, quarter mile long driveway. Opened the car door, spat, slammed the door shut and said, “bah, I’m so glad we’re done with that place.”

 

Jim, Mag, me and John on the farm in Cascade, Iowa, 1976…

 

A few months after we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jim passed away at age 80. We’d gone home a couple months before to see him. John was taking him to Hegg Memorial Hospital for his leukemia treatment. He had been getting regular blood transfusions which had helped for quite awhile. But the time in between the transfusions was getting shorter and shorter. Plus Jim never felt good anymore. He told John, “I’m done. This is my last treatment, and the last time I’ll gonna see you Johnny.” I hope he enjoys my timing with his favorite holiday. Happy 4th of July, Jim…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

During our 45 plus years of wedded bliss, we’ve moved a lot. About 15 times. If you factor that we’ve been in our lake home for 21 years, that’s not letting much grass grow under our feet anywhere else. Many were rentals. We’ve only bought 4 homes. And I’ve liked them all. This house was only 2 years old when we bought it. All the rest were significantly older. I always felt I was born to have a boatload of antiques (I do) and live happily in a 3-story, 1890’s Victorian. (Never have) Now my nearly 65 year old knees sees the writing on the wall about that little bucket list item.

 

Not to be. Too old to covet a 3 story house, sigh…

We’ve gone through a lot of neighbors. Some so forgettable I can’t conjure up names or faces. Others, dear friends whom I still keep in touch. Though we’ve lived here the longest, I have not had one truly close neighbor. It’s kind of a snooty little town. Since we’re rookies with only 21 years under our belts, I’ll use that as the excuse. My point. I’ve lived in places like Leeds outside of Sioux City for a year, and consider Carolyn, who lived in the other half of the duplex a close neighbor friend. After living next door to Pam for 20 plus years, she continues to be a nice acquaintance.

The playground with a soccer net in front…

 

When we moved here, our house had been the 4th one built. A narrow private drive butting up against a park. Consisting of a baseball diamond, couple soccor fields, small playground, and a boat launch. We now have 7 houses, with 2 empty lots owned by 2 of the homeowners. Muskegon Lake is on our south side. The first house built is due east of us. It’s stucco and looks like a Spanish hacienda. It’s cute, though more of a cottage feel with only 2 bedrooms and maybe 1,000 plus square feet. This was the style they had planned for our small cul-de-sac. Since there’s only one, I guess that idea didn’t fly.

Side view of hacienda. The shadow is from our house…

Until about 5 years ago, only one house of the 7 had changed hands. But repeatedly. About 30 years ago, the house was a summer cottage. The owners were having a party and one guest became infatuated (obsessed) with the little Spanish hacienda. Soon after the party, the same guest, lacking just the right amount of sanity, returned. We’ll call him RCG, (rich, crazy guy). Offered an outrageous sum of money for the hacienda. He wanted it all. Everything but the clothes on their backs. RCG bought it, lock, stock, barrel and boat dock. Included in this deal was a fishing boat.

Adam at our beach before dock and sea wall, 1996…

You can’t (or probably shouldn’t) stop a bass boat quickly. The front end of that style boat is quite low. So if you’re going really fast, then try to stop, a wave of tsunami proportions will gush over the whole boat. First time out, RCG went 50, then pulled back on the throttle. Sunk the boat. He was incredibly rich, but dumb as a rock. I own some rocks that are considerably smarter.

 

My rocks. Definitely brighter that RCG…

 

After living there a couple of years, RCG wanted to buy the empty lot east of him. He loved the hacienda but it was cramping his style. He was used to living large. The lot he wanted had been sold to a couple with building plans. No matter what RCG offered, they would not sell and started having their new home built. So RCG bought the corner lot east of the (normal) folks, Dale and Carol. RCG put up a 10,000 square foot house resembling a VFW Hall. But without all the frills. On a lot suitable for a 2500 square foot home. Everything in RCG’s new pad would be black, white or red. And he ended up redoing most of the red stuff. After walking on the new red living room carpet, the bottoms of his white socks were pink. RCG had the carpet tore out a week later and black and white tweed installed.

The 10,000 sq. ft VFW Hall house. Not pretty…

Wasn’t necessary for RCG to sell the hacienda. He didn’t need the money so he rented it to a friend. That’s who was living in due east when we bought our home. A nice guy with a dog named Sasha. Who ran away from him every day. Every. Single. Day. Sasha would run up to Josh or Adam and start playing, but as soon as Gene got within 10 feet, she’d take off. Gene didn’t stay long before buying a home in the country. That way, Sasha could run a lot farther away from him. Crazy dog. Next RCG rented to a couple who were here short term too. Don was the general manager of harness race track about 10 miles south of us. They were only here for the racing season.

Adam on North Muskegon’s baseball team, 1996…

This was kind of a tough time for Adam. Moving here at 15, not knowing a lot of kids yet. Our first time living on the water. He became quite a fisherman. On our spanking new, blindingly white dock. Dale and Carol now lived in between the RCG’s hacienda and his VFW Hall frill-free home. Adam and Dale became good friends and fishing buddies. Dale and Carol had a black lab named Junior. Junior would beg Adam and Josh everyday to throw sticks in the lake for him to retrieve. Hour after hour, from the time the ice melted until the lake froze over again. If you didn’t start throwing sticks, Junior would knock you to the ground. But Junior never picked on our pooch Chico, who was getting up in years.

 

East side of Dale and Carol’s home…

Dale became a fishing mentor to Adam. Muskegon Lake offers walleye, perch, steelhead, salmon, trout, catfish, sturgeon, large mouth bass and pan fish. Plus some less desirable species. Wouldn’t ‘ya know, that’s the one Dale and Adam enjoyed trying to land. They’re actually called bowfin fish, but around here they’re called dogfish. A vicious breed that eats anything that swims near their mouth. Adam left his mesh metal fish basket loaded with small bait fish hanging in the water, from the dock one night. Next morning, gaping holes and a couple toothpick long metal threads were all that remained of the basket. Demolished by hungry dogfish.

Water was so deep when we moved here, 1994…

So Dale and Adam started a weekly contest. Called it, “Doggin’ for Dollars.” Neighborhood guys, minus RCG cause fishing was beneath him. Plus he couldn’t touch anything as disgusting as bait. Each of the guys threw in 10 bucks. Which was a lot of money for Adam. John, Adam, Joshua, Pat, Dale and Don. Once in a while a friend of someone would also come down for the contest. From 6 until 9 pm. Whoever landed the biggest dogfish got all the money. Sixty or 70 bucks every week. Plus it help rid the lake of these nasty predators. The next morning there might be 10 or 12 dogfish lying on Dale’s yard. Still breathing cause they have lungs. Dale buried them deep in Carol’s flower beds. One of the reasons her flowers are gorgeous 20 years later. The guys came close to the dogfish state record several times. I think some of them were close to 10 pounds. The first biggie Adam caught ended up biting right through Adam’s thumb nail as he was holding it up with pride for all to see. Dogfish have teeth that resemble canines. Pain was worth it cause Adam won that night. Goodness, that got kind of long winded. Forgot this was all about the house due east. Not the going’s on outside. Still, makes me smile remembering all those summer Thursday night fishing contests.

Dogfish. My memory is much more eel like…

So RCG decided to sell hacienda. Bought by a retired lady who moved here from Chicago. Named Carol. Sigh. What are the chances? Two Carol’s next door to each other. Chicago Carol lost her husband, but all of her grown kids still lived there. Odd. She had a step mother-in-law here. Chicago Carol brought a Vizsla with her. Small, beautiful hunting dog who was crazier than a loon. Bit everything and everybody, including Carol. She ended up having a wooden fence built around her deck. Virtually blocking her whole view of the lake unless she was standing up. So the dog would stop snacking on anything with 2 legs. Chicago Carol wasn’t here long. Decided she needed to be out in the country so the dog could snack on bears and badgers.

New dock 20 yrs ago. Our house on left, hacienda with fence for crazy dog on right…

Next owner of the house due east was a single retired lady. Yeah, there were 3 or 4 retired ladies in a row. This lady (can’t remember her name) was a retired commander from the Navy who moved here from San Diego. She had a nephew who was a colonel at the Pentagon. He came to visit quite often. One of his chores was planting flowers in her yard. The colonel and John were good friends. She soon needed more care and attention, thus moved. The house due east was sold again. Another single, older gal. Surprise. She had a lot of family around town, but did not stay long because of failing health. Two years, tops. About the going rate for the place.

Next in due east was an older widow named Mary. She had been living in Washington state but her daughter (pain in the ass) lived here in a ritzy condo across the lake. According to PITA (see above) John mowed our grass too short, and we had too much shrubbery. Which her mom’s cat like to ruin with cat pee. Our dock was stacked in the back yard at this time because Lake Michigan’s water level was down about 4 feet. Our lake flows into Lake Michigan, so our lake was down at least that much. If we put our 100 foot of dock out, we weren’t even close to water. Those low water levels lasted more than a decade. Ugh. It’s back up now by 2 to 3 feet. Anyway, a couple of the top stacked dock sections had shifted and were hanging over about a foot on PITA’s mom’s property. Not touching her property, but John had to move them. A year or 2 later, PITA’s husband went bankrupt. They lost the fancy condo, and sold Mary’s house at a huge loss just to get out of town. They all moved back to Washington state.

Our stacked dock precariously close to house due east property line…

So up until about 5 years ago, only one home in our little nook had changed hands. But that didn’t last. An older couple built a small ranch on the corner as you turn into our private drive. The woman’s daughter, Pam lives in between them and us. Pam also owns the lot just west of us. No one will be building there because it would block her lake view. Pam’s mom, Jayne passed away suddenly. Not long after, Russ, Pam’s step dad passed away too. So that house is now on it’s third owner. RCG went bankrupt. No longer RCG, now just CG (Crazy Guy) lost his frill-less VFW Hall home, so another family bought it. Now the new VFW Hall family is going through bankruptcy. The VFW Hall house might be cursed. CG (formally known as RCG) has been married 9 times. I kid you not. We went to 3 or 4 of his weddings. Don’t know why he kept getting married. He NEVER looked any of his brides in the eye when repeating his vows. Plain to see, he doesn’t like or respect women. But he knew the wedding vows by heart.

View due east over the water…

Which brings us to Sandy. Who bought the place for that rock bottom price about 6 years ago. Appeared normal at first. Sigh. A divorced teacher about 10 years younger than me. Living with a decent guy. She has 2 sons, oldest one is handicapped, other was in high school then. Sandy completely remodeled the inside of house. Great job. Vessels instead of sinks. Planted flower gardens that completely surrounded her house. And she kept them up. Gorgeous. Added a pea gravel, meandering path from the deck to the sea wall. Breaking up her already minuscule back yard, which is only 50 feet wide. Then she lost her job. She had not yet sold her previous condo residence. Which they moved out of, to due east when they couldn’t get along with any of the neighbors. Ding, ding, ding. Warning bells, red flags, and radar going off here folks.

Three years ago, we came back from visiting our kids and noticed a strange couple in Sandy’s hot tub. Found out Sandy had moved back to their condo and was renting out the hacienda as a beach home for $1,500 a week. Every Saturday she and Lenny came back, drained and refilled the hot tub, cleaned the house and waited for the new weekly renters. They had no dock, so they used Dale’s. Showing renters around the waterfront, which was dry as a popcorn fart back then. On cleaning day, Sandy would go down to the beach with a big rake, sweeping the seaweed away from her shore line, leaving it smack dab on Dale’s shoreline property.

A gar pike Adam speared off our dock, 1996…

I asked Dale if Sandy or her renters used his dock and had an accident, who would be liable? Dale’s dock is a permanent one. It’s very high off the ground, especially when the water was low. Dale asked Sandy to please stop using his dock. She did not. So he literally had to block it off from her. After the first summer renting the hacienda, Dale suggested strongly to Sandy that she not leave that big pile of seaweed in front of his house anymore. Fine. She then left it in front of mine. Every week for most of one summer. When the pile got about 5 feet high and across, I had enough of Sandy and her seaweed. She now had a couple sections of dock, so the renters could keep a small boat or water toys. I put on old clothes, shoes and gloves. Carol volunteered and came over to help. It took us a couple hours but we hauled every last piece of stinky seaweed to her shore and completely covered her first section of dock. With her own seaweed. She never raked it over here again.

Our lake view due south…

Sandy’s at it again. She finally sold the condo, and moved back to due east last fall. Joy. Last week she took a can of paint and casually sprayed her lot line on both sides early one morning. Had a landscaping crew in for a couple days. Thought maybe she was installing a fence to block our lake view. Or installing an invisible fence for the yippy-yappy dog she just got. Who runs everywhere. Nope, they trenched along every couple of feet and rolled up 95% of her sod from the yard. Put down black weed control landscape fabric. Honest, she kept about a 6 foot circular spot of grass in her front yard. I think I could count the grass blades without too much trouble. Why she would keep that itty-bitty strip to mow I cannot venture to guess. That’s where it’s at for now. I’m sure this week several tons of pea gravel will be arriving. Then perhaps planting an English garden. A perfect match for the hacienda due east…

The way I imagine the yard due east will look soon…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve never been the brightest string of lights on the tree. I’m not an over achiever in any endeavor. Often don’t even compete or complete. Shouldn’t complain. Mostly content with my fair-to-middling life. I have been very lucky and blessed. No serious illness, and have a wonderful family. So when something so foreign and alien nicked me with a good right hook, I felt 3 things all at once. 1. Wow, I sure didn’t see that coming. 2. I think I just got clipped along side the head with a Louisville Slugger. 3. You coulda’ knocked me over with a feather.

Looks soft and delicate. Ha! Knocked me for a loop…

 

I started writing my blog story a year ago. Since doing this, I have felt oh-so-much-better about life in general when I write. But I’ve recently experienced the strangest phenomenon. Causing me a real rough patch. Not about writing. About life. My life. This “feeling” is different. And not a good different. Makes me feel strange, and a little wacko. Uneasy, unsure, weak. Icky. It’s kind of hard to share these feelings and weaknesses. And I’m weak in so many ways. But I hope it will hasten the recovery.

Usually I’m pretty optimistic. The glass is definitely half full, and it’s also refillable. I am a fierce defender of all things negative. To a fault. When someone makes a derogatory statement about almost anything, I feel compelled to defend, protect, and advocate the other side. The under dog. The little guy. The runt. Give me your tired, your poor, yada, yada. But my own recent smack down has put me on some pretty rough terrain. I’ve been unsure of how to react or respond. It actually scares me a little.

Reflecting back, it started late this winter. Not unusual for me to have a mini case of the doldrums. The winter blahs. Frozen lake, 4 feet of snow during the shortest, most miserable month of the year. February. But I always eagerly anticipate the month of March. The weather gets better, lake ice melts, and it’s time to start my daily walks again. I used to walk during the winter too. But after a few falls, I’ve learned if it’s nasty out, just stay inside. Plus I’m part slug, part sloth. And then there’s the plain lazy part.

 

In my opinion, there is no beauty here…

 

But spring finally arrived. My life is immeasurably better when I walk. Everyday. One of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. (Besides having 3 pretty awesome kids). And have seriously kept it up for over 15 years, barring a variety of boo-boos. Donning headphones the size of M-I-C-K-E-Y’s ears. iTunes blasting out Pitbull, P!nk, Maroon 5 or an Enrique song. And I did start walking again in March. For a couple weeks. Nothing physically wrong with me, but one day I just didn’t go out for my walk. Or the next day, or the next. Sprucing the joint up for a house showing a couple weeks later, I gathered my folded walking clothes from our master bath’s usual perch and slid them on the shelf in my closet. Haven’t looked at them since. The sheer magnitude that this seemingly inconsequential event didn’t buckle my knees and commence me blubbering in a full blown panic attack is truly alarming. Just writing about it makes me cry. A good habit I’ve adopted and sincerely don’t want to give up. But for some reason, I no longer crave that awesome feeling I’ve grown accustomed to when I walk. I’m without an anchor, drifting, no sense of direction. I definitely should have seen this coming though. I’ve followed the Cubs for 30 years. I know all about slumps. I’m in the middle of a slump. I’ve lost my mojo. And I didn’t have that much to start with.

 

I can almost hear them begging to worn with regularity…

 

It’s mostly about the house. Our nice lake home. That I’m beginning to hate. With a deep passion and every fiber of my being. The place we’ve lived the longest since we got married. And it’s the only thing holding us here in west Michigan. I retired, anticipating a move closer to all the kids and grandkids over 2 years ago. No, nothing major physically or mentally wrong with either of us. (I sure hope this slump is temporary) We just want to be able to visit, babysit, pick up one of the grands from school, activities, or attend little events without driving 3 hours first. Getting antsy and twitchy about über-sports-jock, 14 year old grandson Landon. Sneaking suspicion he might be playing varsity basketball as a freshman this winter. I will not be driving 175 miles one way, twice a week to watch him play. And I am going to watch him play. Every game, unless slippery roads stop me.

 

It’s a nice house. So why are we still here? It hasn’t sold…

 

John and I were handed out different play books on issues surrounding our house. He seems unperturbed, unfazed and casually says, “oh Denise don’t worry, it will sell eventually.” But I am in a constant dither. Which really bugs me. It’s getting on my nerves. I want to be rid of the house. Now. It’s nearing the point where I would almost walk away. From this house. Today. (Hey, maybe that’s the incentive I need to start walking again. Win-win). My house is making me nuts.

Do I realistically think I’m going to be deliriously happy in a much smaller home? No I don’t. Do I think we’re going to be inundated with constant visits from the family? Heck no. They’re busy with their own lives. But I also wouldn’t have this too big, too expensive house weighing me down. Sucking us dry. Plus being 180 miles from everyone I hold dear. Ok, except Hubs. This house is now a virtual noose around my neck. I want out. I need out. It’s an albatross. A miserable, stupid cross to bear. And I’m tired of it. Limbo hell. I get up, drink coffee, read the paper, write for awhile, shower, read some more, cook supper, watch some TV with John and wait for the day to be over so I can go to bed. But I hate sleeping, so I’m up before the crack of dawn. A vicious cycle. And it never ends. It feels like my whole life is passing me by or on hold while I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. I should have kept on working. Hindsight.

I want to lower the selling price with regularity (or just drop it big-time right now) until someone buys it. John has a very hard time with this. Is the house worth what we’re asking? Yup, it is. But it hasn’t sold. In well over 2 years. Always ready at a moments notice to show it to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Who all seem to dislike something about the place. Honest, potential buyers these days want the house perfect. From wall colors to eliminating flotsam near the sea wall. Now I’ve got the added responsibility of dealing with an irate Mother Nature. Who doesn’t take criticism well. I fear John is going to resent me big time if I force him to accept a low offer. But if I stay much longer, I think I will go stark raving mad.

I told Hubs a couple weeks ago I’m not going to can much this summer. I’d like to think the idea comes from my ever-present optimistic outlook that we will be moving sometime soon in my lifetime. Why move hundreds of filled jars? But this “no canning” business doesn’t feel right. I love to can. Yet I have not gone to the Farmer’s Market once this summer. And it’s almost July. This makes me think something’s wrong in the world of Neese. Why am I not giddy with anticipation about going to my fabulous Farmer’s Market?

It kind of reminds me of a very unusual aspect of my hearing loss. I have the great advantage of remembering what something sounds like. Even if I can’t hear it anymore. As opposed to someone who has never been able to hear. Not long ago I was holding an ink pen. Making one of my ever present lists. (Why does everyone hate my lists except me? Especially John. How can the world work in any semblance of order without a “to do” list? My brain is much too inadequate to remember all the mundane crap in my life if it’s not written down). Anyway, it was early morning and I was not wearing my hearing aid. I was deep in thought when I noticed I was unconsciously tapping the ink pen against a button of my flannel shirt. I looked down thinking, I know that makes a sound. I know what that sounds like. Yet I am unable to hear the sound it makes. Fundamentally I realize what issues are bothering me. (Mostly house) But so far incapable of implementing a remedy.

 

The original mute buttons are on my flannel shirts…

 

What the heck is going on? Deep down I want to make apricot jam, bread and butter pickles and pickled beets. Really. I just don’t feel like it. At all. That’s such a strange, weird feeling. I don’t like it. Seems like all the normal things that fill my time and keep me content are leaving me high and dry. I’m tired. Tired of living in limbo. I’m so ready to move forward, but nothing else is ready or moving. Plus add one more quirky thing into my slump.. I find myself on the verge of tears. Often. Little inconsequential things, not worth a plug nickel now gnaw at me. Never have tears been so close to the surface frequently without cause or reason.

 

Almost apricot season. Searching for my anticipation app…

 

I’ve sunk into a hole. Not too deep, but it’s scary. It’s not all encompassing. That’s a good thing. Although I’m not mired in a pit of despair, I’m not in a happy place either. I’ve got a lot of good stuff in my life, and so much to be thankful for. But that hasn’t eliminated this sad, morose, overwhelming, can’t keep my shit together feeling that’s been plaguing me lately. I made a bold statement that may come back to haunt me. Told John, one way or another, I will not be living in this house on my 65th birthday. Five months away. We either lower the price until the house sells, we rent it, or he stays here by himself. I’m out. If he needs me to sign off on the house title, give me a pen. I’m done.

So now I have a goal, unrealistic as it may be. Moving forward. I will be setting up the Christmas tree somewhere else. New beginnings. I started purging again. Always makes me feel better. No, not the hurling kind. Hate that. Paring down all the cumbersome “stuff” that’s been weighing me and my life down. Went through a couple of closets. Now going through my kitchen cupboards.

 

Same dishes, 20 years. Ugh…

 

 

During our married life we’ve always used Corelle dishes. I think we’ve had at least 4 different patterns of Corelle since 1969. Well maybe one set of bendable Melmac before Corelle. Worse. My last Corelle pattern has delicate little flowers that make me want to hurl. Yes, the projectile vomiting kind. I’ve had these suckers for 20 years. They had to go. I needed something totally different. No more Corelle! I wasn’t ready to embrace the whole new wave of square plates. I’m square enough already. But I bought some dishes that chip if I’m not careful. I got this pretty set of Pfaltzgraff. Gave me new enthusiasm while I was cleaning out my cupboards. I got rid of my 20 year old, scratched Corelle dishes. Had to shake things up a bit. Now I’m going to my closet and get out my walking duds. Again. I’m eager and ready to put one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder out of this hole. Onward and upward…

 

Yeah, I’m wild and crazy these days. New and chip-able…

 

 

 

 

Jean was a member of my women’s church circle for several decades before I joined. Quiet, petite and very nice. She was also a Stephen Minister for our congregation. Taking a class consisting of 50 hours of training in the art of listening. Meeting one on one with someone going through a traumatic experience about an hour a week. These ongoing sessions sometimes lasted a few weeks, sometimes years. Loss of a spouse, job, illness, divorce etc. Jean was vibrant, active and busy. I was drawn to her immediately.

 

My dear friend Jean. About 2005…

She was in her mid-80’s when I met her. No reason to go visit her, because she clearly wasn’t on my Parish Visitor list. But I couldn’t help myself. There were maybe a dozen singles or couples from church with whom I cheated. They really didn’t need my duties as their Parish Visitor. Yet. But I needed them. Several people I routinely visited were not the most talkative folks. Most through no fault of their own. In nursing homes with health issues or worse, memory issues. There just wasn’t a lot of flowing conversations on some days when I went calling on folks. But these were necessary visits. Just checking on them, watching, observing, and advocating their needs were being met. Keeping track of their progress or decline, painful as it was at times, was part of my job. But group of few of these mostly non-verbal (at least on their part. I did most of the talking) visits together over a week’s time, and I’d get antsy or down a bit. That’s when it was necessary for me to get a cheaters fix in. Help for Denise’s psyche. Most were folks who were older, still fairly active, but didn’t need my services.

The first time I stopped at Jean’s house, I almost broke down and wept. She welcomed me and didn’t seem surprised at all when I just showed up on her doorstep. Ushered me into the living room as if I were one of her oldest, dearest friends. She said, “find a comfortable chair!” I admired her beautiful cat. The most unusual polka-dot, camouflage, black, white, cream and brown cat I’d ever seen. Then my eyes wandered a couple of feet past the kitty. And there it was. On the couch. A John Grisham novel. A recent hardcover one. OMG. She knew and read a top selling author. Be strong Denise. Don’t start crying for pete’s sake. Right then and there I pledged my life long devotion to this amazing, wonderful woman. We became fast friends. Soon enough it would be necessary this frail little woman would really need my visits. But until then, I needed her. She still cooked, she canned, she might have been playing golf for a short while before she started having health and balance issues.

 

Jean, hip and reading best sellers, 2005…

 

Jean had lost her husband a few years before I met her. She had 6 children. Where in heaven’s name had she carried those kids? In her apron pocket? I swear if she had swallowed a pea, it would have been noticeable. Most of her kids lived nearby. One living about a hundred miles away was having some health issues. (Maybe this was the real reason we needed to see each other) It would take a year of testing with various specialists at different clinics, but when the diagnosis became clear, the results were devastating. ALS. Every parent goes through 7 kinds of hell and anguish when serious health issues face their children. It’s bad enough that Jean was experiencing her own aging health issues. Ten times worse when it’s one of your kids.

Jean did slow down. Drove less, stopped coming to monthly circle meetings. And so I continued to visit (now visits were on the books, since she was added to my list. Sad that she now needed me, but the visits were cherished by both of us) and love her with my all of my heart. We’d sit in her enclosed back porch chatting. Watching the birds. Her yard had many mature trees (not many found in our yard, living on the lake). I spotted a new, different bird. “Jean, what kind of bird is that? I’ve never seen him before.” She followed my eyes near the top of a massive tree. “That’s a Rose-breasted grosbeak!” “Isnt he beautiful? Look at those striking colors!” Often with Jean, we might sit for several minutes in silence. It was never awkward or uncomfortable. We had the kind of friendship that didn’t always require yakking a mile a minute.

 

Rose-breasted Grosbeak…

 

One winter night about 5 years ago, the phone rang about 10:30 pm. It was Jean. She said a couple of her children had just left the house. I could tell something was very wrong. But this was not the time to push this private woman. “Denise, the reason the kids came over tonight was to break the news to me that my 10 month old great-grandchild had a terrible accident tonight. Taking a tub bath and slipped under the water. Still alive but brain dead. They are going to keep him alive for a couple days to find recipients for his organs.” Well, what can be said at this point? Told her I was on my way over to spend the night with her. “No, I’m alright, but would you come over tomorrow?” “Of course Jean. Do you want me to bring the minister along?” “No that’s not necessary,” she went on, “I don’t even know him. But I would really appreciate you coming over in the morning.”

A week or 2 after the baby’s memorial service, I asked my boss, via email, to stop and visit Jean. He never responded. (Red Fish story. Interested? Blog post, Red Fish, Blue Fish, April, 2015. He was the third in line of 4 lousy bosses. Ministers all). And our discussion that followed. It wasn’t pretty.

Jean’s children were about the most devoted family I’ve ever encountered. As her health declined, they stepped up to the plate in a major way. It was easy to see how much their mom meant to each one of them. They took turns staying staying with Jean at her house. Not just a few hours at a time, but for days and weeks at a time. Making Jean’s house their home. Cooking, cleaning, welcoming guests and old friends. And not just her own children either. Jean’s in-laws and grandchildren took turns too. Not out of obligation, but out of love and sincere devotion to a woman they all clearly adored.

I last saw Jean a few weeks before she passed away. She still recognized me. Sitting up in bed, gazing out the window at her beautiful back yard. Watching the birds. Clutching my hand tight. God welcomed a truly amazing woman into His fold when she left us. I was one lucky gal who knew and loved her while she walked among us. Thanks for lending her to me God…

 

Reminds me of my dear friend, Jean…

 

 

Had I known how disillusioned and disgusted we would be about the public education system in Michigan after living here a couple years, I never would have consented to move at all. Adam was attending a small elementary, consisting of kindergarten through second grade. So before he started 3rd grade, he moved to a much larger school building. He was now in the same facility where big brother Josh had been going since we moved to Jackson.

Joshua 11, Adam 7. Around the time we moved to Michigan, 1987…

This elementary housed several 3rd through 6th grades. It wasn’t until Adam started 4th grade that we discovered a disturbing cover-up of sorts. Adam had been put in a trial program during third grade. But we were unaware of it at the time. Funded by a nearby college for an accelerated classroom. We were not informed, included in any discussions, or asked permission. The trial program ended after one year, so our 4th grader was now knowledgeable in doing 6th grade work, mostly math. But that was no longer an option, because he was doing regular 4th grade work, and bored spitless. When we voiced our concerns about the lack of parental input before the experimental trial, the superintendent of Jackson Public Schools gave me this quote, “you don’t realize in the state of Michigan, I have much more say in the decisions about educating your child than you do.” Wow. We immediately asked Jackson Public Schools to release Adam and Josh. There was a much smaller school district closer to our house where we wanted to send the boys. This was several years before Michigan adopted schools of choice. Well, we needed to prove that Western offered classes that were not available at Jackson. Jackson did not want to lose their state stipend from our boys. It really had nothing to do with the best education for our kids. Or what was important as parents. It was always about the money. And control.

We thought long and hard about selling our house. Seriously. We were about a block from the border that put us in another school district. It just didn’t seem right. We honestly didn’t have much say in our kid’s education choices. How could they possibly have more say over our children than John and I? We were already struggling with Jackson and Michigan’s education system with Shannon.

Living in Jackson wasn’t all bad. Heading to the hot tub, 1990…

Shannon was a very good student. She always had the best study habits. When she got home from school, she immediately went to her room and did homework. She taught herself to read when she was 4 and never stopped. If she were sitting somewhere, she was reading something. Whatever was within reach. A book, cereal package, Kotex box, bible. Didn’t matter. She’s been a voracious reader since she latched onto my Dick and Jane books. She was a sophomore when we moved to Michigan. From the get-go, Jackson didn’t have much to offer her in the way of classes. She was quite far ahead. Not that she was extraordinarily brilliant, just very smart. She ended up doing independent studies by herself most of her last 2 years of high school. And taking some college classes from the Jackson Community College, which were free to high school students at the time. This actually helped Shannon (and us) tremendously once she was accepted at Michigan State. She didn’t have to take several of the usual freshman and sophomore required classes. But that wasn’t the point. Jackson Public Schools had no idea what to do with Shannon once she enrolled. Guess that should have been a big red flag. But what were we going to do about Josh and Adam’s education? No way they were staying in Jackson until they graduated.

 

Summer fun. Shannon reading, but wet, cool feet. With Josh, 1979…

 

Someone told us there was another way to get our boys released from JPS without moving. You could petition the State Board of Education. Since our house was so close to another school district’s boundary line, we could petition our neighborhood be moved from one school district to the other. Wow, sounded like a great idea. However, this idea/option would now play a major roll in our lives for several years. (Had we realized this, we probably would have opted to just sell the house and move a couple blocks away). We needed to get the vast majority of neighbors to sign a petition saying they had no objection to becoming part of Western School District instead of Jackson. This included a lot of houses here folks. About 100. We had our work cut out for us.

 

Outskirts in Jackson. The start of the homes we were petitioning, 1989…

 

 

There were other neighborhood families just as unhappy with Jackson Public Schools as we were. Several parents were sending their kids to private schools. So we formed a group of ticked off parents. Just kidding, but we did seek some allies who wanted to help. We had petitions typed up and started knocking on doors. We knew this was going to take awhile. There was no way Josh and Adam were going to continue at JPS. We yanked them out of Jackson and enrolled them in Western. Which was illegal. Our address was in Jackson’s school district. So we rented an apartment a couple miles away in Western schools. We claimed John and I had separated.

In Michigan, public schools have Intermediate School Districts (ISD) throughout the state. A building full of employees, covering several local school districts. They oversee all aspects of these individual school districts. Lots of overhead. The local ISD would have first dibs on approving or denying our petition. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going to happen before our petition was even submitted. There was no way they were going to approve this. It would mean taking thousands of tax dollars away from JPS (already hurting financially) by losing all of our homes from their district. Not a surprise when it was a quick no from the ISD. They decided to set an example with us and play hard ball. Using the Van Berkum’s. But they didn’t realize who they were dealing with either. Semi-smart Iowa parents, used to having a voice in their children’s education decisions.

The ISD hired a former retired employee as a consultant. His job was to make the lives of the Van Berkum’s as miserable as possible. His name was Jerry. And he was very good at his job. We now claimed to be separated and the boys were attending Western. Every afternoon Jerry parked his car on Pioneer Road, which was our side street. Sitting in his car, watching our house and back yard to see if Josh and Adam got off the bus at “my” house. Instead of their newly established address of the apartment, where they were supposed to be living. Taking notes if they were in the house or went outside to play. I started getting numerous phone calls daily, starting about 4, ending around 9 pm. All were hang ups right after we answered. It was the ISD. Speculating the boys just might answer the phone after school. How could I prove this since the caller never said a word? We were one of the first people to fork out an extra 7 bucks a month to have caller ID installed on our phone. The calls all originated from the ISD office. Ruthless, miserable, despicable people.

 

Josh and grandma Mag. Near where Jerry watched our house, 1989…

 

We rented the apartment for a year. Decided to take it a step further while we waited for our petition to be heard and ruled on by an Administrative Law Judge. A woman who had been assigned to our case by the State Board of Education in Lansing. The second year we bought a used mobile home in a huge trailer park in Western’s School District. We got cable TV, and their own phone number. I still can’t believe we went through all this. I really was kind of living by myself in that big, old rambling ranch. It was almost impossible not to fight what the superintendent said about our lack of rights as parents. Once we got past 4th Friday count though, the ISD usually let up some what. Fourth Friday count determined how many kids were in the school district and how much money they were getting from the state for the year. The boys were now legally enrolled in Western and state dollars from owning the trailer supported that. But the tax base from our home on McCain Road was still going to Jackson Public Schools. Which we were trying to change.

Well, the Administrative Law Judge agreed fully with our petition. Our whole neighborhood consisting of about 100 homes would now be included in Western School district instead of JPS. Yay, we won. Ugh, if only it had been that simple. Jackson appealed of course, not wanting to lose the tax dollars from 100 homes. We appealed our petition claim to a state judge, who threw it back to the Administrative Law Judge, who advised (“to get it right this time.” Meaning, figure out a way to change the decision in JPS’s favor. BTW, the ALJ, who had supported our petition of the neighborhood moving into Western School District had been fired). Stinking-wimpy-state-judge. The only time in my life I’ve been called as a witness in court. Jackson’s superintendent had called me a racist during a speech he had given. A couple of acquaintances of John called him after hearing say it at a public meeting. Claimed I didn’t want my kids enrolled in Jackson schools because they had a much higher ratio of black students than Western School District. In court, our lawyer held up a picture of a strikingly beautiful baby for all to see. “Who is this child,” Rick asked? I smiled, “Why that’s my granddaughter, Ariana. She is perfect. And I would not change one hair on her head.” Well that didn’t matter or the ruling come as any big surprise. This time the ruling was in Jackson’s favor. We lost. All this took over 3 years.

 

Ariana, 18 mo, 1992…

We spent years and thousands of dollars trying to get Joshua and Adam legally in Western, while remaining in our home. Which was one short block from where it needed to be. Josh did graduate from Western in ’93. Adam was a freshman when John was offered a job 150 miles west of Jackson. I should have seen this coming much sooner. We moved to Michigan when Shannon was a sophomore. We started this whole petition fiasco when Josh was in 9th grade, so he changed school districts when he was a sophomore. Only fitting that poor Adam would have to switch schools when he was a 10th grader. I will say we thoroughly researched the local school districts in west Michigan before we bought our house. None of the nearby schools seemed sub-par (well besides being much lower on the education totem pole, state wise, compared to Iowa). But some of the districts were huge. It would seem more likely for Adam to get lost in the shuffle or easier for him to get in with the wrong crowd. So we decided on North Muskegon Schools. One of the smallest districts in the state. But with some very good creds and high graduation ratios. There were only about 50 kids in his class. We were satisfied that we made the right choice when we bought our house. But what a painful learning experience and a wake up call. Determining what was in the best interest for our children’s education. A concerned mom and dad who insisted on having a say…