None of us wanted to leave the Quad-Cities in 1987. However, when we moved to Michigan, at least for me, it was with open arms and an open heart. We all loved living in Davenport, but Iowa’s economy had tanked. Michigan’s economy was booming. Staying in Iowa just wasn’t in the cards for us. We did want to stay in the Midwest and Big 10 country. What were we thinking? Crazy. I must not have despised winters nearly as much as I hate them now. I was pumped and ready for a new adventure. Months after our move, the boys were adjusting fine. Shannon, who had just turned 16, not so much. She had a chip on her shoulder the size her hair, circa 1988. She let us know how unhappy she was. Often. In her defense, it was a tough time to move a sophomore. Beautiful. Hormonal. Smart. Snotty. Girl. She missed her friends, school, cheerleading and boyfriend. But that’s a few blogs for another time.

 

There’s something about Shannon…

When you grow up in Iowa, there’s just not a lot of sports teams close by to love and support. I’m not going to name a bunch of teensy-weensy colleges that 1% of the folks adore. Basically the state had the Hawkeyes and Cyclones. Iowa’s answer to the pros. Iowans are a devoted bunch to our college teams. If you wanted a pro team of baseball or football, you were just kind of out of luck. Your closest choices were St. Louis, Chicago or Minneapolis. All still pretty far away for a Saturday or Sunday jaunt. And not one in the state of Iowa. We did have a farm club of the Chicago Cubs in Davenport. I went to several games every summer. Saw the aging right-hand pitcher Rick Reuschel rehabilitate from an arm injury. Also watched rookie Shawon Dunston as a young punk. He got called up to the Cubs and duked it out for a while with Larry Bowa before winning the starting shortstop position.

 

Go Cubs go. Go Cubs go…

 

In comparison, Michigan was like hitting the professional team’s lottery. Lions and Tigers and Bears. Oh my! Oops, sorry, not the stinking Bears. It’s Red Wings and Pistons. And we went to watch them all. John would keep his loyalty tightly tied to the Minnesota Vikings. Me to my hapless, hopeless Cubbies. But the kids were young, impressionable, and so easily swayed. Both boys did the unthinkable after a few years. They became American League fans. Oh the pain. I don’t dislike the Tigers. Like my Frosted Flakes, they’re great! But switch to the American League? Come on. Poor little pitchers only make a piddly half a million dollars per start every 5 days. Why that’s just not a good reason to hold that heavy bat a couple times a night. Might hurt your widdle arm. Spare me please. Just not right. You’re professional athletes. Pick up the dang bat. End of baseball rant.

It was our first game to watch the Hawkeyes play football other than Kinnick Stadium in Iowa City. They were playing the University of Michigan’s Wolverines in Ann Arbor which was about 40 miles east of Jackson. We’d been living in Michigan less than a year. Proudly sporting our black and gold duds. Well the Hawks got the snot kicked out of them. Duds indeed. We were harassed in the stands through the whole game. Not a friendly or civil face to be found. I don’t remember the score, but it was something like 38-10.

 

Granddaughter Ariana in her Hawkeye clothes, about 1994…

 

When the shellacking was over, we were making our way to the car. We were stopped by some “gentlemen.” Except they weren’t gentle. Or men. At the time I was 36. These were old guys to me. Meaning they were about my age now. All sporting maize and blue plaid pants. My eyes, my eyes! Everyone of them so stinking drunk they could barely walk. But luckily for us, they had not lost their ability to converse. Looked at us and shouted, “what the f/*¥ you think you’re doing in our stadium?” Honest these were 60 year old men. I snapped back, “geez guys, you clobbered us. Can’t you be gracious in your win?” For being alumni from such a snippity school, their vocabulary was really quite limited. They followed us for a little ways. Vulgar, taunting and swearing. Pleasant. But they were lumbering along in such a drunken stupor, we were soon out of their range. On the way home I stated emphatically, “don’t ever ask me to set foot in that stadium again, cause it won’t happen. And I never have. John’s gone back for a few games over the years. He actually should go every time the Hawks play. They’ve won like the last 3 times he’s gone.

A couple years later, Shannon’s in her freshman year at Michigan State. Lansing’s about 30 miles north of Jackson. We took the boys, picked up Shannon, and went out for supper. Then headed to the old Breslin Center for MSU-Iowa basketball game. Again, all of us in Hawkeye clothes. Maybe not Shannon. A few minutes after we sat down, the gal sitting next to the boys taps me on the shoulder and asks, “did you drive all the way from Iowa to watch your little Hawkeyes play us here?” Yeah, that’s the difference between U of M and MSU.

Since that unfortunate incident at U of M over 25 years ago, I’ve found it hard to feel bad when unpleasant things happen in their mighty “institution.” When I get a sniff of a scandal, I’m rather happy. Ok, the billboards, infomercials, TV spots advertising their indiscretions might be a little over the top. During the mid-90’s a terrible scandal hit. (I might have worn a smirk for a couple months) A wealthy U of M booster was caught handing out hundreds of thousands of dollars to basketball players. At least one of the players (then in the NBA) lied to the grand jury about it. Because of this, their basketball coach at the time, Steve Fisher got canned. The basketball team withdrew from post season play. They removed all or part of 5 seasons, players names, and achievements from the record books. (Good times Denise) Plus they were put on probation by the NCAA.

 

My favorite Michigan shirt. Worn for all painting and dye jobs…

 

There’s been several other rumored or reported “indiscretions” at Michigan over the years. A professor who routinely offered independent studies in his class to athletes. Their grades averaged over 3.5 when they were lugging around 2.5 in the rest of their classes. Keeping their eligibility. Recently a quarterback suffered a concussion, but was left in the game to play. Not one staff member bothered to watched that play. Last straw for coach Brady Hoke’s tenure as the Wolverine’s coach. He took the biggest hit, got fired. Besides he was a lousy coach. I wanted him to stay for like another 10 years.

But this is 2015. I’ve been hauling around my own set of baggage for years. Each suitcase filled with regrets, guilt and resentment. I’m embracing the overwhelming need to rid myself of the personal stash of poison being held inside. Letting go of my animosity towards U of M should be an easy “to do.” The harder stuff about Mom, Dad, my sister, and my 4-in-a-row-not-so-hot-bosses-who-all-happened-to-be-preachers will be tougher. But I’ve started. Making some headway. Once I get my Red Fish, Blue Fish typed for a blog post, my soul will be considerably lighter. I hope.

We went to many Iowa football and basketball games when we lived in Davenport. The best one ever was a football game in 1985. Iowa was ranked #1, Michigan #2. The Hawkeye’s won it in the last few seconds, 12-10. The only game I’ve ever attended where NOBODY WANTED TO LEAVE. Honestly the fans were delirious. We just stood there cheering in the freezing drizzle. Watching Hawkeye players on the field who didn’t want to leave either. Amazing, electric feeling. Chuck Long was our quarterback and Jim Harbaugh played for Michigan. Now Harbaugh has been hired as Michigan’s coach for their beleaguered football team. (Isn’t beleaguered the coolest adjective when describing any and all of U of M’s teams?) I might still have some unfinished business in the “I’m loving those stinking Wolverine’s to pieces department.”

Jim Harbaugh now U of M’s head coach. Wonder if he wears plaid pants???

I don’t know much about Jim Harbaugh besides he’s an incredibly intense person who’s coached both college and pros. I liked him in the ’80’s as long as he was losing to our Long and the Hawks. I read a neat article on him recently. As a 9 yr old kid living in Ann Arbor, he was just starting to play football. His first opponent was “Ralph.” And Jim was supposed to tackle him. According to Jim, (ha-some old TV trivia, Belushi) “Ralph outweighed him by 50 pounds, was sporting a 5 o’clock shadow and had a unibrow at age 9.” Jim closed his eyes, prayed to God that when he opened them, Ralph would at least be playing in a different position. Well Ralph was in the same spot, which put Jim in a tight spot. He had promised his dad he wouldn’t quit because he just had gotten new $13. football cleats. So he stayed and played. First play, Ralph’s knee slams into Jim’s chest-hard. Jim’s head hits the ground. Ralph’s running, dragging Jim along. Jim’s hanging onto a chubby Ralph thigh for dear life. Plowing a deep row with his shoulder in the football field that would make an Iowa farmer and his John Deere envious as he’s pulled through by Ralphy. Finally Ralph poops out and falls down. Jim checks all his little body parts, making sure nothing’s broke and smiles. He’s just recorded his first ever tackle.

I really admire someone who can tell a good story. And Jim’s was hilarious and touching. It’s just hard to hate a guy who can relate to a story like that. Yup, I kinda admire Jim. Except when his team’s playing the Hawkeye’s. All bets are off. If I find myself fawning over (not counting on it) the nasty Wolverines too much, I’ve got an easy plan in place to yank me back to my senses. Two words. I only need to conjure up these 2 words and any fondness for U of M flies right out the window. Tom Brady…

 

 

To be clear, these are my own lowly layman’s observations and opinions. I’m not skilled, trained or educated. Just someone who’s done a lot of listening and observing. Not always an easy task when you’re going deaf. Often when my head needs clearing to think and write, I drive to Lake Michigan. My eyes are filled with the majestic wonder and vastness of it. Great place to marvel at your own insignificance. And thank God for all your blessings, big and small. And type what’s in my head.

A tanker out on beautiful Lake Michigan…

It’s been well over 20 years since my friend and neighbor Mike passed away from liver cancer. As an adult, he was the first “young” person my age who I knew and witnessed going through a terminal illness. Since I had nothing to compare it to, I assumed this was the way people fought through this type of battle. Mike was always doing research for another treatment option to consider. Didn’t matter if it was an accepted or legal practice here in the states. If he was convinced a treatment could help keep his cancer at bay, or put him in remission, more likely than not, he was willing to try it. Mike packed 15 years in his last 2 on earth. Traveled, volunteered, oversaw a huge addition to his house. He could not sit still unless he felt so bad it was impossible for him to go on.

Fast-forward about 15 years, and I’m in the midst of my Parish Visiting gig. One of my close and much younger friends, Rosemary just learned that her breast cancer has returned for a second time. When she first got the news, she immediately stated, “I’m getting the hell out of here.” Understandable. Faced with something so horrible, I think I would try and run away too. Our instinct is to flee. But that trip never got off the drawing board. After talking to her oncologist, brother, and boyfriend, she chose a plan of attack, and the trip was never mentioned again. But how she viewed, and the steps she took were very different than Mike’s. And both were going through this about the same age. Whenever my Dad wasn’t feeling well, one of his go-to quips was, “I gotta lay low for a few days.” Probably made famous by Bonnie and Clyde when he was a kid. Well this was the course Rosemary would take. She stayed home, ate healthy foods, took naps. Didn’t really shun life or friends, but kind of went inside herself too. Hard to find the right words to explain. More of an “gotta conserve my strength, get through the treatment plan and take care of myself” attitude.

Rosemary before cancer and Keen’s.

Every few weeks though, she would pipe up with an idea. It was almost like convincing herself if she kept striving towards a normal life, everything would still be OK. Rosemary was absolutely smitten with my Keen sandals. One day she asked me if I would take her shopping to buy a pair of Keen’s. Road trip! We went to our local (but cool) mall. She picked out a black pair identical to my navy pair. For a couple hours, she was once again a normal 40-something, ready for a fabulous summer. We ate at her favorite Mexican restaurant. It was very warm that day. Once we were seated, she complained she was cold. She asked if we could move outdoors, under an umbrella on the patio. I about melted out there but she was finally comfortable. I think the majority of people on chemo treatments are always cold. Plus she had lost quite a bit of weight. She was tickled to be out, and pleased with her new shoes. It was a very good day. After I took her home, she jumped on the computer, and ordered another 3 pair of Keen’s. Different styles, but she was hooked. It felt good to shop. Normal stuff. That’s what she wanted. Doing mundane stuff healthy people did every day.

Rosemary’s Keen’s, now adorn my summer feet…

She also wanted to start cooking again. Wanted more control over what she was putting in. Eating pine nuts, and ground her own wheat flour! Asked me to take her to the mall to buy a couple of those expensive gel mats chefs use. That would make it easier to stand on her slate floors in the kitchen. But not long after, her chemo treatments would start taking a terrible toll on her. A nasty side effect called neuropathy. She was losing the feeling in her feet. Didn’t always pick up her feet, especially one. She fell a couple times tripping over the gel rug, or hooked a sandal on something. Had to start wearing a specialized brace from her knee to the heel of her foot. Inserted in a shoe a couple sizes bigger than she normally wore. Cooking stopped, rugs were removed, and Keen’s were on a shelf in her awesome closet.

A mutual friend of ours was also struggling with her own cancer battle. Her name was Pat and she was a little older than me. She and Rosemary went to a support group together called Healing Touch at Hackley hospital. But Pat’s attitude towards her (terminal) illness was much different that Rosemary’s. At the time I thought it was because she was 20 years older than Rosemary. Pat wanted and needed to squeeze every bit of life she had left by doing stuff. She planned a wonderful trip with her 2 adult children, Lisa and Mark. They took an awesome hiking trip in Yellowstone Park, a few months before she passed away. Then Pat and her husband visited relatives, even did some canoeing, and reunited with some of her old college friends out east. Many times Pat was very sick. Often ended up in the ER for a bit during these vacations. There was still so much she needed to do. Another fierce fighter. But also the kindest and most soft spoken woman I’ve ever known and loved.

Pat and her beautiful daughter Lisa in Yellowstone, 2010.

Pat developed a crippling illness to join her tough cancer fight. It wasn’t really a side effect. It was more the result of surgery because of her cancer. It’s called lymphedema. Happens sometimes when some lymph nodes are removed. Lymph nodes are the little dudes that move fluids through your body. Missing a few can cause fluid retention in your tissue. When the fluids in your body have trouble moving up and down, it puddles in spots. Which can lead to infections. And terrible swelling. And unbearable pain. Pat’s lymphedema settled in her leg and foot. This horrible new by-product, plus her cancer were miserable and debilitating. But instead of it controlling Pat, she turned her own experience and knowledge to her advantage by helping others. She became the local resident expert and advocate to anyone recently diagnosed with lymphedema. Calling them on the phone, sending them the latest literature on how to deal with lymphedema. One amazing faith-filled woman. And I was lucky enough to call her my friend.

Pat passed away one month after Rosemary died. Two of my biggest losses. So close together, it took me a couple years to come to terms and move past. Both close friends. Closure can be very elusive. Tough losses. And during my tenure as parish visitor, the total lives lost of folks I routinely visited added up to about 100. But these were 2 of the hardest.

Another set of vastly different ways of coping with illness that I encountered, were with older couples. It seems quite often health wise, one of them was frail physically but mentally sharp, while their spouse was healthy as a horse physically, but losing it mentally. They sometimes kind of played off each other or complimented each other’s shortcomings. While parish visiting over a decade I’ve seen 2 very different ways of acceptance or denial when one of the spouses is failing. Not so much if the health issues were physical, but if one was in a decline mentally. Sometimes they would cover for their spouse. Even to their kids. I’ve had adult children call me and say, “holy-moly, I had no idea Dad was this bad. Mom always said he was downstairs, in the shower, or out in the yard when I called. She’s been covering for him!” These couples didn’t want their kids to worry. Or worse, start making or forcing them to make decisions they were not ready to make, or even face yet.

Two couples, and friends with each other a few years ago. Both the wives were doing well physically and mentally. But both husbands were in a steep decline mentally. One of the wives was very open about it. “Boy he’s losing it Denise. Honestly he says at least 30 times a day, what should we do now? Enough to drive me crazy. And I love him with all my heart.” The other wife was very private about her husband’s illness of memory loss. If I’d call, she was cordial and polite. We had a nice visit–over the phone. She just wasn’t ready to let me in. Not into the house physically, or into her world and confidence yet. Just not ready to face the issue with me, still pretty much a stranger. Funny, after I’d been visiting with them for a couple years, she actually apologized. “We needed you. I needed you. I’m so sorry it took me years to admit it and let you in. Your visits are wonderful and your support has helped me so much.” Nice to hear. Wish I had gotten in sooner. Both husbands are gone now, but the gals are still doing well.

Wonder what it is that determines how we react to something? John and I have had small health issues. Nothing big, thanks God. And yes, we often keep it just between us. Don’t want to worry the kids needlessly. They’re busy and have their own lives. I vividly remember when I was in my mid and late 40’s. Hard to admit, but I was really kind of angry when Mom and Dad started calling me about their failing health issues. Then feeling guilty about those negative feelings. I wasn’t ready or willing to see, face, or deal with those issues yet. Denial. I didn’t want things to change or go wrong. But nothing stays the same, and we can’t stop time…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dad got involved with prison ministries during the 1960’s, around the same time his hand-painted signs started popping up on roadways. Designed to make you think as you were cruising on Highway 18 & 75 in northwest Iowa. I don’t have a clue why he was drawn to inmates anymore than why I gravitated to the elderly since I was 5.

 

After 30 years of preaching, teaching and the M2 program with inmates, Mom’s non-Hodgkins lymphoma and long term side effects from her stroke would force Dad to give up these activities. He couldn’t leave Mom for any length of time. Plus the hours needed for writing sermons, studying his Bible lessons. After Mom passed away, I convinced my 88-year-old father to move 750 miles east of the only place he’d ever called home, Rock Valley, Iowa. I knew this was the right call but deep down I thought this might be a disaster because we’d never been close.

By the time Dad moved to Muskegon I had done a lot of prep work. I wanted his life to be filled with purpose again. Got him a probationary (ha-ha, some prison humor) job volunteering at one of the local prisons. The Chaplain, Brian Burrel was quite taken with Dad. (He can have that kind of affect on people). Brian gave him a slot every Wednesday afternoon for a Bible study. I never asked if these were “good behavior” guys but that didn’t make a difference with Dad. The prison did have steps in place to help insure Dad’s safety. A push button gizmo Dad carried with him. If he felt ill at ease the button would send in the guards.

A few weeks later Chaplain Burrel asked Dad if he wanted to preach on a Sunday? Dad said yes before Brian finished the question. Thereafter “Pastor Gerritson” would have a service once a month on Sunday afternoon. He LOVED doing this. Dad believed in altar calls which stemmed from being a counselor at Billy Graham Crusades decades ago. Rev. Graham would beseech those who felt Jesus calling to come forward. Whenever Dad spoke, whether at the Rescue Mission or prison he’d end it by fervently asking, “is God speaking to you? Come forward and give your life to Christ, you won’t be sorry.” Dad would get on his knees, lay his hands on the shoulders or head and have a prayer with every man who’d come forward.

About a year after Dad moved to Michigan, someone from the Muskegon Chronicle contacted him. Wanted to talk to him about his prison ministry. I think pastor Brian Burrel called Clayton Hardiman who was a writer at the paper. Dad asked if I wanted to be there when he was interviewed. Ah, no thanks. I made sure the apartment was spiffy. Had an apple pie and his little 4-cup coffee pot ready so Dad could be a good host. Dad assured me they had a great visit. He had talked about losing his only son Larry, his love for the Lord and fulfilling work at the prison.

 

Dad assumed his “big interview” would be in the Chronicle the next day, but it was a couple weeks before it was published. (Never asked Dad, but hope he didn’t call the Chronicle or Clayton every day) It was Saturday’s edition that had human interest-faith based articles each week. Dad didn’t get the paper because he was new in town and had no history here. I usually brought him ours the day after it came out.

Early in February, 2006 there it was: MAN ON A MISSION. Front page of the third section. He couldn’t stop looking at it, reading it over and over. I was surprised the article was so long and included several pictures. Dad was beyond thrilled. Had me stop at the Chronicle office and buy every single copy they had. Then cruise town to the outside newspaper box thingy’s and buy those. Holy-moly Dad, I’d be mailing copies for a month. He sent a copy and wrote everyone he knew. Honest. When the copies ran low he started to panic. There were still scads of people he thought needed a copy. I brought one of the newspapers to Office Max. They placed the complete article and pictures on a folded sheet of paper, like a brochure. The pictures weren’t in color, but we used a nice cream colored paper and they turned out great. I had to get permission from both the paper and Clayton Hardiman to have this re-printed. But Dad was back in business. More mailings.  

 

Dad tried to convince me to be part of his ministry team since I was a teen, but this prison ministry stuff scared me. I always said, “don’t tell them my last name, where I live or that we have kids. Please Dad, I don’t want them to know anything about me.” I imagine I was mentioned a few times, I hope with a little gratitude for helping him move here, and setting him up with Chaplain Burrel. Or at least about some good suppers he enjoyed at our house. Never got any collect calls, so he probably abided by my wishes.

 

Dad lived in Michigan just over 3 years. His prison ministry lasted a little over 2 years. A couple of hospital stays with pneumonia and a minor stroke caused small hiccups for a couple weeks at a time. I believe those 2 years were the most meaningful in Dad’s life. He felt he’d been called, was needed. Living his purpose driven life.

 

 

A couple months after Dad passed away something extraordinary happened. I received a big manila envelope, accompanied by a letter from Chaplain Burrel. How proud he was to have known and worked with Dad. How much he appreciated this kind, elderly man giving his time to the men in his prison. Then out tumbled 50 cards, some in their own envelopes but many just loose. Most with multiple snippets written by several guys. For me. Scores of inmates moved by Dad’s Christian life. They were grieving his loss too. They wanted and needed to express their grief to me about their appreciation for Dad. They called him “Brother Rich.” How touched they were when he had an altar call, but couldn’t get back up off his knees at age 90. How he smiled and joked about it when they helped him up the last several months he spoke. They did this for someone they didn’t know. Me. Out of love and respect for my Dad. I can’t believe they did this for a complete stranger. There’s not been many instances in my life that have touched me more. I was completely overwhelmed and a mess of tears, but it felt good. When I reflect back about that ordinary day and the cards tumbling out of that big envelope, it still does my heart a world of good…

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t long after we moved to Michigan (1987) before I started meeting the neighbors. These gals were a really friendly bunch. The houses in our neighborhood were not close together like in Davenport. Each property had an acre. It was Pat Olsen, just south of me who had a luncheon to introduce me to a couple of them. First was Mildred. She was exactly double my age. I had recently turned 36. She had just lost her husband and lived next to Pat.

 

A watercolor given to me. Hung in the guest bathroom at Mildred’s

Mildred’s husband Ed had been the president of a large company called Commonwealth. She would keep me enthralled for 20 years with stories of their world travel. In the 40’s and 50’s Ed had worked in Africa putting up nuclear power plants. Back then it was still legal for people to go into diamond mines. When Ed worked there he would buy loose, precious stones, then have them designed into elaborate pieces for Mildred. The first time Mildred got her jewelry out, I thought it was costume jewelry. The stones were so big, they bordered on gaudy. Not the diamonds. The diamonds were gorgeous. Every piece Mildred owned was set in platinum, and not one was a solitare of anything. And they were all matched sets. Never just a ring. It was a brooch, earrings, necklace, often a bracelet to boot. The 2 most exquisite sets I remember were an aquamarine brooch. The main stone was the size of a quarter. Surrounded by diamonds. Matching earrings which I would have made into 2 separate rings. The stones were size of my ring fingernail. The other stunning set were some kind of amber/gold stones, maybe citrine. The color of light honey. There was a tennis style bracelet with rectangular shaped stones, the size of my pinkie nail, and diamonds in between. Beautiful but a little flamboyant for my taste.

 

I got Mildred’s 60 yr. old Christmas Cactus from which I’ve started a dozen new plants…

 

Seven years later, after I moved to North Muskegon, I often stayed with Mildred when I went back to visit. Shannon and her crew were out the door by 7 a.m. most mornings. When I’d visit, I’d go to Shannon’s in the afternoon, make supper and be there when they were getting home from school, daycare and work. Stay until the little ones were in bed, and Shannon and I were done yakking for the night. Then drive over to Mildred’s 5 miles away, visit with her for a comple hours before heading to bed. She loved the company and I really enjoyed staying with her. In the morning we’d have breakfast together. Whole strawberries dusted with powdered sugar. Toasted English muffins accompanied with fancy jars filled with exotic jams. Coddled eggs. Never heard of that before. You butter the inside of the egg coddler, crack and drop in a raw egg. Screw the lid tight, and plop the whole thing in simmering water for a few minutes. Another way for a fancy English soft boiled egg. Told you she was elegant. Then we’d go shopping downtown Jackson at Jacobson’s. A fabulous department store a step up from Macy’s. I never bought much there, too fancy and expensive. The clerks were always eager to wait on Mildred.

 

Egg Coddler from Mildred.

 

The other gal I met that day was Diane. She was my age and had 2 kids about the ages of Shannon and Josh. Diane’s still one of my dearest friends. She’s the second oldest kid in a family of 12! We certainly didn’t seem to have much in common in the beginning. The reason. She’s everything I’m not. She can sew men’s suits and make lined draperies. Me, maybe sew a button back on after it fell off a shirt 6 months ago. That John’s reminded me of 10 times and needed for work. And poke myself a dozen times in the process. She can cross-stitch, embroider, needle-point, knit, crochet, make artistic ribboned bows as big as a table. Design and create spectacular silk floral arrangements and wreaths. It kind of makes you feel inept when you’re around her a lot. You tend to be green with envy, plus feel hapless and hopeless cause you have none of these gifts or skills. Plus she worked full time and kept her house immaculate. Then there’s her yard. She does not embrace the same outdoor philosophy as me. Mine, “when I’m outdoors, I’m reading, not weeding.” And usually in a swimsuit on a chaise in the 2 square feet of moving sunshine in our shade filled yard. No, Diane has a yard that makes even John envious. And she enjoys working in it and keeping it so. Who knew there are women like that alive? (I think I might be a better baker. Not sure. Wouldn’t stake my life on it).

But it would be Diane who would introduce me to the variety of Michigan’s fabulous and different fruit seasons. Within months she had me crawling along sand filled rows, picking strawberries. Really nothing compares to eating a fresh picked strawberry, warm from the sun, even with a couple of grains of sand stuck on it. Our pants would be stained from squashed strawberries when we were done. Then follow the short seasons of cucumbers, peaches, raspberries, blackberries, (the nastiest of the bunch to pick. The bushes will grab your clothes, rip your skin and are about 10 feet tall) finally beets and apples. All within of few miles of where we lived. It was Diane who taught me how to can. Don’t think she realized what an obsession it would become for me. She first convinced me to can my own pickled beets that my Mom and I loved. Then she got me hooked on Bread and Butter pickles. I helped her can Bread and Butter pickles for a few years. When I moved 150 miles west, she happily sent along the recipe and convinced me I could do it on my own. For the past 20 years I’ve accepted praise and kudos for my awesome Bread and Butter pickles. The glory really belongs to my dear friend Diane.

 

The best Bread and Butter pickles in the world. Yeah, I’m bragging…

 

Diane convinced me all her super human abilities were not gifts that she was given from God. She truly thought I could learn some of these skills. (Such a wonderful friend, she did not see or realize the magnitude of all my hopeless shortcomings) She had run into a gal who was holding art fabric painting classes. (This was a popular fad in the early ’90’s) Diane cajoled me into taking some classes with her. I know. I’m shaking my head too. Nothing about me has ever been artsy-fartsy. (If you follow me on Facebook, you know that when my 5 year old grandson Graham and I do art projects, his usually turn out better than mine).

 

Yup, they’re supposed to be iris’s.

 

Anyway we signed up for the classes. We’d look through the pattern books. I’d pick out something that appealed to me, but was way above my level of coloring (painting) inside the lines. We’d each buy a sweatshirt or a tote bag to paint. Hazel, the art teacher would supervise. Not Diane, who was a better painter than Hazel, but me, so Diane could clip along at her own pace. Ugh, I was hopeless. I did sort of learn to follow, (copy) the pattern, but I just didn’t SEE the same stuff as these artists. For instance, if I was painting a bent arm, I truly did not notice the shadows in the crook of the arm. (And I had a picture showing me these shadows). Where the part of the bent arm should be darker. Diane or Hazel would kindly point out the 3-D-ish stuff my eyes did not pick up on. But it was fun. And I still have some of the rather cute things I did finish. But for me it wasn’t a fun gift but a real and often frustrating challenge, and something I would never be very good at.

 

My one attempt at a portrait. John a month after he quit smoking…

 

One other neighbor would have an huge impact on my life while I lived in Jackson. Her name was Elissa and she was several houses south of us. We did not know them well. They had one son in college. BJ was Joshua’s age and Elizabeth was in Adam’s class. We’d see them at school’s open house, and parent-teacher conferences, but knew them just to say hi. Elissa taught high school in a district 20 miles away and Mike owned a successful business. They did not travel in the same social circles as us. Well, we had no circles yet, but they were a couple notches above us however long we would have lived there. Josh and BJ were becoming good friends. Adam and Elizabeth would never see eye to eye on anything.

One morning about 10 there was a knock on my door. It was a weekday, kids were in school. We’d probably been living there almost 2 years by then. To my surprise it was Elissa at the door. I invited her in and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee. She was visibly upset about something. I sat across from her at the kitchen table and waited. It was like she didn’t know how to start talking. Geez, she taught English and was the advisor/director of their high school class plays. Couldn’t imagine anything bad enough that she couldn’t just spit it out. Doubted it had anything to do with Josh or BJ. Both good kids and not troublemakers. Hope Adam hadn’t decked Elizabeth. She was kind of a diva, even back then. So I waited. All of a sudden words just start spilling out. Her 39 year old hubby, Mike had just been diagnosed with liver cancer that morning. Through sobs she’s asking advice on how she’s going break this news to their kids after school? Devastating, but how in the world could I be of help? Actually, I didn’t need to do much. Elissa was working these issues out in front of me. I guess kind of like a sounding board. We had no history together, and no baggage. I think it was easier practicing on me, virtually a stranger that morning. If there had been any kind of social caste system before this day, it was gone now. I had seen her in a way not many ever would.

Mike and Elissa would embark on a 2-1/2 year ferocious fight. Journey from chemo, to colonics, to Mayo Clinic, to a specialized cancer treatment center in Houston, to some radical, not legal here in the states stuff down in Mexico. Mike NEVER accepted he was dying. Much like my dear friend Rosemary, he fought so hard, and tried everything he could to stay alive. He had an addition put on the house, doubling the size of it. He went to the Masters Golf tournament in Georgia which had been on his bucket list. Sometimes if Elissa was teaching, I’d drive him to Ann Arbor for appointments. He signed up with John to be co-leader of Adam and Elizabeth’s class of Odessy of the Mind competition. Had to stay busy, doing, doing, doing. If they were gone for a few days, BJ would stay with us, and we’d keep watch over their menagerie of animals from destroying their beautiful home.

But Mike continued to get sicker and lose ground. He passed away in September of 1991, a couple years before we moved to North Muskegon. He had just made an appointment for another cancer treatment option in Mexico to try something else. The hardest fighter next to Rosemary I’ve ever witnessed. Don’t know if I agree with their thinking, logic or methods. But I’ve never been in their shoes either. From where I was watching, Rosemary should have been in Hospice Care months earlier. Mike never even considered it, and should have. I admire that kind of fierce fighting spirit. I wonder if I have that kind of fight in me. Hope I never have to find out…

I got Mildred’s 60 yr. old Christmas Cactus. I’ve started a dozen new plants in 8 years…

 

 

When we moved to Jackson, Michigan in 1987, we bought a ranch on the outskirts of town. A nice neighborhood which was a big loose oblong circle consisting of about 50 homes. Most of the homes were built in the 50’s for mid-level executives working for Consumer’s Power Company. The landscaping was overgrown and hiding the house. This could hardly be called the green, green grass of home. And it was summertime. Something John was compelled to repair. Right away. He was mortified how bad the yard looked. Not an easy fix. But fix it he did.

Mag VB admiring lousy grass, over grown shrubs

This was a neighborhood in transition. Many of the homeowners were retired, but were about to downsize, or move closer to their families. The homes being sold were too big for retirees, so most were snatched up by younger families like us. Our house was owned by the little old lady next door named Stella. She was a widow, in her upper ’80’s and the original owner of her own house. She bought our house for her step-daughter who was fighting serious cancer, and had just lost her long battle. Stella was a charming retired school teacher. She and her husband had owned and operated a motel/resort for decades in upper Michigan. At the end of the school year when Stella was done shaping young minds for the summer, she and Lester would open up the motel. It was mostly Stella’s responsibility though, since Lester worked all week in Jackson, then would drive up on weekends to help.

These homes all had spacious lots. Each one was about an acre. And since we were now in forest covered Michigan, most of the yards were filled with trees. We had 9 majestic oaks that stood on the lot line in our front yard. Gorgeous. Then add at least 30 more trees. We were lucky to see 2 feet out of any window, or catch a fleeting ray of sunshine now and then. Right in front of the oaks was a ditch along McCain Road. In late fall you could no longer see the ditch for the leaves. It was level with the road, sometimes higher. We raked them up the first year or 2. Took us about a month. Then John bought a Cub Cadet and sucked them up. Took him about a month (but at least it wasn’t me raking anymore). One of our neighbors had a friend who had a multiple acre garden just down the road. John brought them 100 trash bags of leaves each fall that they used for garden mulch.

3 oaks and a ditch full of leaves

Early that first spring, Stella waltzed over to John. He was working feverishly in the yard. Stella asked John to please start treating the weeds. She didn’t want the dandelion seeds flying on her yard. What a hoot! She had owned the property for a decade, but was now concerned that our yard work be done in a timely manner. As in the first 2 months of moving in. John is a lawn nut. He’s always wanted and needed to have the nicest, greenest, weed-free lawn within blocks. Make that miles. And with no help. He was insulted when companies like True Green would stop and offer services. When we bought the house in February, it was covered with a couple feet of snow. After it melted, John was devastated by the condition of the yard. Not a lot of healthy grass. But this could not be fixed in a quick spray of weed killer. It took him 3 years to whip that baby into shape. Weeds weren’t the only problem either. Tough to grow grass in constant shade. Ain’t no sunshine where there’s trees. And our yard was like an umbrella. Hiding the sun with the trees. Hard for this Iowa sun worshipper. Yup, it’s usually all about me.

The house and yard needed updating. You could see this was the original landscaping. If the house was built in ’53, the bushes were now 35 years old. It showed. The shrubs were overgrown, and there were way too many trees. Diane, one of our neighbors said her hubby Fred would be happy to come over and help trim our stuff. He drove over with a BACKHOE. Two hours later, every shrub and bush around the house had been ripped out. In their place were huge holes with rusty colored clay-chunks of soil. That too was different than the rich, black dirt from Iowa we were used to seeing and working with. Our yard looked as though a tornado had hit. Loud gasps could be heard as folks drove by. But to me it looked better already. Fred and John loaded up 2 flatbeds with the yanked out shrubs, then started on the trees. Ended up cutting down about a dozen of our 40 plus trees. We had 2 fireplaces, so we kept and burned the wood. With sunshine, water and fertilizer, the grass flourished. We had so much fun picking out new landscaping. We chose what appealed to us. A weeping larch, Japanese maple, grafted bonsai, weeping cherry. Seems like everything we bought had to have an unhappy sobbing, or crying word ahead of it’s name. I think I really just liked stuff that hung over or down. Then we spent hours deciding where everything should go. You could see the beautiful brick on the front of the house again.

 

New landscaping. Josh & Jody going to prom

Everything looked awesome. We poured a new patio in the backyard, put in a privacy fence and added a hot tub. This was our reward because we stopped smoking in May of 1990. Yay. Figured the cost of the hot tub was about a year’s worth of smokes.

 

Stella meanwhile had decided that being a homeowner was no longer in her best interest. I was bringing supper over to her almost every night, but she felt it was time to make a change. She was moving into a ritzy independent living facility about 5 miles away. She needed to downsize considerably, and asked me to help her price her belongings for a sale. I spent a lot of time at her house going through my antique books to get a bead on what some of her glassware was worth. I had no computer, EBay or Google back then. I was knowledgeable in any kind of antique oak furniture. I hadn’t stuffed my house so full that I had quit collecting yet. Wouldn’t be long though. That’s why I started collecting Waterford crystal. I had absolutely NO MORE ROOM for another piece of oak furniture unless I could hang it from the ceiling. Stella gave some of her heirlooms to step-grandchildren, kept many of her nice things, but sold a lot. She offered me anything she had for sale as payment for my pricing and working with her at the sale. I chose a scale she had used for years at motel/resort. It’s a black cast iron Fairbanks, and was used to weigh letters, and postcards for postage. It’s just the cutest thing. It has been on my mantle for 25 years. Until I had to strip my house of anything meaningful when we listed it for sale. Just an awful way to live. All my shelves, knickknacks, family pictures, half my furniture is in storage. Don’t get me started. Scale is there too, but this is close to what it looks like. I keep a picture postcard of Stella’s resort on the scale.

Fairbanks postal scale

Although we’d only live in this house 7 years (a new record for the nomad Van Berkum clan) it’s the last place where I really got to know all my neighbors. Three reasons in my case. School is number 1. Adam was in 10th grade when we moved to North Muskegon. Once he graduated, I no longer went to parent/teacher conferences, school activities or sporting events. You lose that connection with other parents, teachers and community. Another reason is age I think. Partly my fault too. The older I get, the harder it is to make friends when you move. People my age already have plenty of friends. It’s easier for me to just stay home and be content in the kitchen and my “nest.” We’ve been in this house in North Muskegon now over 20 years and I know a handful of folks. The town is about 4,000 people and a little bit snooty. I’m still an outsider. Wasn’t born and raised here. The last reason I was so well aquatinted with this group of Jackson/McCain Road people is I went to each and every house several times to get a petition signed. Yeah me, the most non-confrontational person on the planet. But that’s a blog story for another day. And it’s a doozy…

The back yard finally discovers the sun…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Christmas tree is coming down for another year. I really enjoy having it up, but I get twitchy after Christmas and want my living room “back to normal.” I’ve never minded people who put up their decorations early. The ones that drive me a little nuts are those who cling to their tree and outside lights through January, sometimes February. Time to move on folks. This is about my fascination with ornament collections, and growing to love my Christmas tree. (A favorite, my Lladro collection. Kinda pricey which is why there’s only 3)

 

Lladro’s

I didn’t think my relationship with trees was that complicated. Gee, I rarely thought about them. Until I moved to Michigan almost 30 years ago. Suddenly they were pushed to the forefront. Trees, who knew? I don’t dislike trees. There’s not much that compares to the spectacular colors that nature offers when it comes to trees during the fall. One of Mom’s favorite saying’s was the first couple lines of Joyce Kilmer’s poem, Trees. “I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.” (A little copse of birch trees I watch daily from “my nest.”)

 

Neighbor’s Birch trees

 

It all started when we bought our first house in Michigan. A rambling ranch on an acre plot. Overflowing with trees. This was disturbing because I was born and raised for 36 years as an Iowan who loved the sun, and could see for miles. (Iowa is and will always be my home, no matter how long I live in Michigan) Michigan has trees everywhere. I had trouble finding a spot of sunshine in the yard to plop my chaise lounge. Wound up moving my chair every few minutes. (Part of my Lenox collection)

 

Lenox

 

To me it’s just such a closed-in, cooped-up feeling. Almost like I couldn’t catch my breath. Or breathe deeply. I still get that feeling. Looking at Lake Michigan helps. I can see for a long ways when I’m at the big lake. Our house is on Muskegon Lake which flows into Lake Michigan. Looking across our lake is ok, but there’s a drab city across the water. And it feels like I’m not very far from the city when I look out. But that “ben-out” (Dutch word for stuffy) feeling does not totally go away until I cross the Mississippi, heading west. It’s like my constantly constricted chest that’s been in spasms since I left Iowa, finally lets go and is loosey-goosey, free at last. (Homemade ornaments from the kids and grandkids. Truly priceless).

 

Priceless ornaments from kids and grands

 

Trees were just never a big part of my life or thoughts. Not even Christmas trees. I barely remember having a tree for Christmas when I was very young. I’m pretty sure my brother Larry brought them home from Koster’s Market. After he died in 1958 there were no more Christmas trees or celebrating in our house. I had just turned 8. Years later when John and I were dating, I realized Christmas trees were still a big deal in most homes. For the first 2 decades of our marriage, we bought real Christmas trees. Sometimes John took the kids out to chop down our own, for the whole “Griswold family Christmas tree experience.”

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

John’s sister Elly has had an artificial tree for at least 50 years. Yes, the SAME one. I noticed her tree held and displayed ornaments much nicer than real trees. They handle the heavy ones better. She has the most beautifully decorated tree I’ve ever seen. Not one of these “theme” or only stick to one color ornament either. She’s been collecting special one-of-a-kind-ornaments for over 60 years. She wanted me to love Christmas trees the way she does. When we were living in Spencer she made me this adorable tree skirt. Depicts different scenes of Santa. That was about 35 years ago. Doesn’t seem possible. (Elly’s gift to me in 1980. I bunched it together so you can see 2 of the 4 Santa’s).

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

 

We got our first artificial tree about 25 years ago. I did miss the smell of pine at first. But we had 2 kids with allergies and asthma, and a dog who liked to lap the water out of the tree stand. Plus John was forever hacking off the trunk until it fit in those old tree stands. In and out of the house until it fit properly and was level. Then about a week later, the needles would start dropping off by the thousands. There’s not much about a real tree I miss.

My first Christmas ornament collection started by accident. Maybe most collections happen like that. Adam, who was about 6 bought me a Precious Moment upside down clown ornament for Christmas in the mid-80’s. A couple days later I had my Christmas party with my bowling/Euchre/Secret Sister gang and got another PM ornament. This one was a gal carrying a pie. (I Had 150 Precious Moments at one time. Got them down to about 50 now).

 

Precious Moments faves

 

The rest is history. At one time I had so many in certain collections I had to get a second and third tree to hold them. Then I started searching for unusual, one-of-a-kind ornaments. Hand blown ones that were very fancy. I bought several small wrought iron shelves/hangers so I could keep them up all year long. Hand painted ones, too pretty for only displaying a couple weeks a year. (Rhyne-Rivet collection, all hand painted)

 

 

My friend Diane had an oddly-freaky, felt Mr. and Mrs. Claus with hand painted faces. She rescued them from the trash collectors one year when her mom was throwing them out after Christmas. They each stood about 3 feet tall and Diane nestled them standing near her tree. My whole family thinks they’re homely. But I thought they were cute, and had to get some ornaments. (My Anna Lee’s. They’re different, but I like them)

 

 

Once we moved to the west side of Michigan and shopped at the Dutch Village in Holland, I discovered Blue Delft ornaments. I’ve collected Blue Delft since I was a teen, but not ornaments. Soon Lenox and Waterford ornaments were added to the mix. I had to stop. Decorating started feeling like a chore. Most the pricier ones have their own boxes. Takes a long time to get them unwrapped. At least when I’m decorating the tree, it’s fun to reminisce when I got it and who it’s from. Taking them down after Christmas is not nearly as much fun. So I started paring down the collections. Kept only the ones from each collection that really meant something to me. Went back down to one nice tree with multi-colored lights. (My gorgeous Blue Delft ornaments)

 

 

But it’s the family hand me downs, and the ones the kids made in school that mean the most to me. Now the grandkids are making ornaments. I really love getting those out each year. The smeared dried glue, with yarn hangers that are a foot long to hang on a branch. Those are the ones that get the prime spots on the tree each year. It’s not the Waterford’s or Lladro’s that give me a lump in my throat when I unpack them. It’s the little laminated yellow star with Adam’s school picture. The back of it that reads; 1986, Adam. I am 7. Those are the ones that make me cry (but in a good way) every December when it’s time to decorate my tree…

 

 

 

 

 

Joshua. Our middle kid. Only one of the 3 who arrived on his due date without much fuss or fanfare. His name was the only one we did not have to compromise on. We both loved the name Joshua. He had so much beautiful hair I took pictures of the back of his head. Probably got all that hair from the strange cravings during my pregnancy. Lemon meringue pie and sauerkraut. Not always at the same time, but more often than not. I could and did eat whole cans of sauerkraut. Usually right out of the can, cold. Kind of surprised I still like both those foods. Though Josh arrived on time, he was pokey with everything else. I guess the word is contented. He was not in a hurry to do anything too soon. Crawl, walk, or talk. Except get rid of his bottle. From day one on this earth he always preferred his thumb. At 8 months he gave his bottle a major league toss across the room, strongly indicating he was done with that thing.

Joshua 1976

The summer Josh turned 3, we noticed he was having trouble getting some of his words out. He’d hesitate, kind of stutter over a word, then finish the sentence. Usually his sister Shannon, age 7-1/2 would just finish the sentence for him. That fall, once take-charge-of-everything-big-Sis was back in school during the day, all stammering stopped. Josh was our second child to get through life unscathed on the killer rocking horse.

My little cowboy Joshua, 1979…

We were living in Spencer, Iowa. Great little town. Often the second coldest spot in the country during the winter. Right behind International Falls, Mn. Really not my favorite trivia tidbit about the town. I was having a major tooth problem. Had been to the dentist several times trying to clear up the infection with an abscess. My regular dentist was out of town when I woke up one morning, lip and gum very swollen. I saw the guy filling in for my dentist who ordered some different antibiotics and a pain pill. After 3-1/2 year old Josh and I got back home, I took both new prescriptions. Wasn’t long before I felt really sick. Fell and passed out on the kitchen floor. To this day I don’t know how Josh managed to call his dad at work. On a wall landline phone, dialing 7 digits, getting through the operator to John’s extension. He calmly told Daddy that Mommy was on the floor sick and wouldn’t wake up. John flew home, only a couple miles away, and carried me out to the car. Loaded up Josh and zipped us to the hospital. I was fine after a few hours. Combining the new and old medicine with the pain pill was just too much. Thanks Josh. Pretty sure you saved your mom that day.

Joshua practicing his fine motor skills, 1980…

The summer before he started kindergarten, we were frantically trying to figure out how to get 5 year old Josh to stop sucking his thumb. Something he did unconsciously when he was tired or watching TV. There were some nasty products available with a guaranteed success rate, but using them seemed mean (and nasty). John and I decided we would first try good old bribery. Told Josh he could have anything “in the world” if he would stop sucking his thumb for 7 days. “Is there anything you really, really want?” “A Hershey candy bar,” he said quickly. We laughed. Who couldn’t love this kid to pieces? John got out the Christmas catalog. Remember those catalogs? Kids went through them with a fine tooth comb, circling or checking off all the things they wanted for Christmas. John told Josh to look through the catalog and choose the biggest, best present of all time. Then if he would stop sucking his thumb for 7 days, we’d order that present for him. Took him a couple days to decide. Probably a ruse while he sucked his thumb, contemplating if giving it up was really worth it. Finally he picked something out he felt worthy of giving up his favorite thumb for a whole week. A-Super-Duper-Double-Looper. In other words, a race track where the tiny cars literally took loops. It was fancy and expensive. We should have quit while we were ahead with the Hershey Bar. As I remember he had to start over after a small thumb-sucking flub-up and had already made it through day 2. Smooth sailing after that. Must say that race track was worth it to us and certainly to him. Don’t know if there was a toy he loved or played with more.

First day of kindergarten for Josh, 1980…

Soon after we moved to Davenport, Josh was just old enough to show an interest in sports. We signed him up for little league. Josh and Dad went shopping for equipment. Cutest little leather glove. And his first ever–cup. He begged us constantly to play catch with him. The diamonds these little squirts played on were nothing but weed filled dust patches. Looked like they were playing during a blizzard with all the dandelion seeds floating through the air. Josh was playing seldom used left field. Boys this age had the interest span of 30 seconds, max. After closely examining the nearby 40 varieties of weeds, and blowing off so many dandelions seeds he was turning blue, Josh plopped down on the ground, barely visible way out there. Might have been bored with his fast paced, exciting baseball game. He was sitting with his legs sprawled out like a frogs. Don’t know if he had a chigger bite, dirt in his pants, or was chaffed, but suddenly he raised his right hand high above his head, swung it down, smacked himself on “the cup.” Shock and almost delight spread across his face cause it didn’t hurt. Wow. It didn’t hurt. Decides he needs to try that again. Hitting his cup in amazement and wonder. Amazement wasn’t the emotion I was feeling. Thankfully the other team only scored 17 runs during their half of the inning, so he wasn’t out there all day.

Our house in Davenport had an octopus type furnace in the basement. Gigantic, with all these “arms” that fed heat to different parts of the house. The kids really didn’t play down there very often. The rest of the house seemed huge after our year long stint in the tiny rental, and the lure of playing outdoors almost always won out. But that day they were playing dodgeball in the basement. Josh came up from the basement, went over to his dad and quietly admitted he had kicked the ball hard and it had hit the furnace. Now it was making a funny hissing noise. “Please don’t be mad at me Dad. I didn’t mean to break it.” John had the good sense not to switch the light on when he went to examine he damage. Yikes. When Josh kicked the ball, it hit a small pipe. The pipe had split and was leaking gas. John shut it down, flew to the hardware store to get a section of replacement pipe and had it fixed in an hour. I still wonder how many kids Joshua’s age would so easily admit their mistake. He probably saved all of us that day from a gas explosion. He was and still is thoughtful, truthful, tolerant and one of a kind.

Josh was in driver’s training and was anxious to get his own set of wheels when he turned 16. He talked to John and said he would like to get an old truck. John thought this was a great idea. Trouble was, neither one talked to each other about what the word “old” meant. This was 1990. To Josh an “old truck” was about a 1983. To John an “old truck” was something older than a 1960. Great minds not always thinking alike here. John’s brother Les had a friend, who had a friend, who knew a guy. Yeah, one of those deals. When we went back to Iowa for spring break to visit parents and relatives, holy smokes, there was an old truck. Really dirt cheap, through this whole maze of virtually unknown people. A 1949 Ford pick-up. Kind of a mess, but it looked pretty good. Bed wasn’t attached, tires were shot, but some restoration had been haphazardly started. The bench seat had been recovered in a dark maroon fabric. That was the extent of the work done. But hey, the seat looked great. John was intrigued, excited and ready to put in some bucks and back-breaking work to get the thing running by Joshua’s 16th birthday. Josh was not quite as enthusiastic, but that didn’t damper his or dad’s spirit.

The engine was shot, but John had talked to a guy in Detroit who knew where there was a wrecked ’49. It was still stored indoors in Bad Axe, Mi. Yeah, one of those deals again, and yup that’s the name of a real town. Next business trip the guy stopped and convinced the old man to sell him (us) the engine for $500. The motor purred like a kitten. New brakes, tires, headliner, paint, oak bed-boards, and a year later the truck was done. Looked sharp and ready to go. Josh finally and carefully worded his reluctance about the truck. Admitted to his dad he thought he would be laughed off the face of the earth if he drove that old truck to school. John assured Josh he would be the coolest guy on the planet once they saw his amazing truck. Good old Dad was right for a change. Josh was the envy of all the guys at school with his own, very cool, vintage truck.

Joshua’s 1949 pickup, 1992…

 

A couple of years and semi-crummy jobs after college graduation, Joshua decided to start his own company with his partner Tim. 15 years ago they opened Sourcepath. Computer software networking systems. Back then, Josh had to work the oddest hours. If he was doing “an install” it usually had to be done when the company wasn’t open for business. Josh would go in at closing time on Friday and work solid through the weekend. That way, new system would be up and running by Monday morning when everyone came back to work. Sourcepath continued to thrive and grow. A few years ago they changed the name of the company to Motor City Technology. A true commitment to working in and with the city of Detroit and it’s long standing Big 3 car history. Josh loves Detroit, always has. I really can’t tell you much about his company. I’m almost computer illiterate. It’s all Greek to me. They manage IT services, network, server, desktop. Backup disaster recovery, and filtering and firewall protection. They now employ quite a few people.

A little over 3 years ago Joshua met “the one.” It was a fast and furious romance. Josh was 35, and beautiful, smart engineer Erica, a couple years younger. Neither had been married before or had kids “from a previous relationship.” Very unusual in this day and age. They had a beautiful wedding in Cancun with 45 of their closest friends and family in November, 2012. Now happily married, a CEO, with a successful business. I really couldn’t be more proud of my middle kid.

Josh and Erica’s Cancun wedding, 2012…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It started in 1998. My life changed. I woke up several days in a row and just felt different, strange. Couldn’t put my finger on anything specific. Not physically sick, but I felt weird, especially my head. Head felt full and crowded. Not the typical spot people usually insinuate where I’m full of it. Went to see my family doctor. She found nothing wrong. She referred to a local eye, ear, nose, throat specialist, Dr. Fox. After some tests, he concluded I was suffering from a temporary or permanent hearing loss in my left ear. He wanted me to try some prescription steroids. Sometimes massive doses of steroids will kick start a nerve that’s gone off the reservation in your ear. You start gradually, increasing the steroid amount per day, then decrease just as slowly. So this wasn’t a quick fix. Took a couple months before I was done taking them. Unfortunately there was no change. Notice how well my hearing is in this picture.

Me and Shannon, 1992. Perfect divinity!!!

Just as troubling as the apparently now permanent hearing loss, was all the noise in my head. You’d think if you’re going deaf, there would just be silence. Not so. I have constant, distracting noises that nearly drive me to drink. Especially at night when I’m trying to fall asleep. If I really listen to all the noise when it’s totally quiet, I’m sometimes surprised that I don’t go insane. The doctor explained this is my brain’s way of compensating for stuff it no longer hears. My brain makes noise of its own for me. One side of my head sounds like the “snow sound” of a TV station that’s off the air. The other side varies between a chain saw that never lets up or a dentist’s high pitched drill. Look, it’s dueling brain noises! Thanks dipstick brain. If there was a nerve that would sever the constant noise in my head, I would have surgery today. No scratch that. Would have happily insisted that be done at least 10 years ago. There’s not. Doc suggested trying some white noise. Turn on a fan when we go to bed and see if that helps. It did a little.

I got a summons for jury duty. As I was filling out the questionnaire to send back I wondered what would happen if I was seated on a jury. If I were on the left of a witness testifying, and it happened to be a child or someone soft spoken. Would I be able to hear and understand what they were saying? Called Dr. Fox’s office for advice. The nurse said they would write a letter that I should include with the paper work when I sent it in. I could pick up the letter at his office the next day. The letter was in an envelope but wasn’t sealed. So I read it when I got back in my car. “Please excuse Denise from jury duty. She suffers from a profound hearing loss in her left ear.” I was stunned. Sat in my car and just sobbed. “Profound.” It was seeing the word profound.

There was no explanation of what was causing my hearing loss. No illness, accident or blow to my head. None of my family was deaf. My Mom’s hearing was exceptional. (Honestly she could hear me talk about her when I was in Michigan and she was in Iowa.) About 25% of the people who suffer a hearing loss just wake up one morning not being able to hear like they did the day before. I had worked for McDonald’s for 6 years, and often wondered if that environment contributed. I worked in the kitchen with very loud exhaust fans, grills, ovens. People yelling special grill requests. It was noisy. Doesn’t really matter. What did matter, now after a couple of years my hearing had steadily gotten worse.

Dr. Fox decided it was time to see an ear specialist. Sent me to a fabulous guy. Dr. Daniels practicing in Grand Rapids, about 45 miles away. Since my hearing loss was only in one ear, he thought a special hearing aid would benefit me a lot. It had a tiny microphone going from my (good) right ear, sending the sound to the hearing aid in my left (bad) ear. This only works if the hearing in one ear is really good, and mine was. He also discovered a couple other problems with my head. (Yeah I bet John could have easily filled him in on a few things in that department without charging a couple hundred bucks.) I had an MRI to rule out a somewhat common problem associated with a sudden hearing loss. A tumor behind your ear. Nope, no tumor. Thanks God. He did find an Easter egg sized cyst in my head near my ear, but assured me it was not the cause of my hearing loss and not to worry about it. Not so sure about that one Doc.

Easter egg size cyst? Yikes…

The other issue I was experiencing was dizziness and a balance problem. Couldn’t look up or down quickly, climb a ladder or walk up and down stairs without hanging onto a railing. When I laid down, the room would spin out of control. (Nope I was stone cold sober). And my eyes would do the weirdest thing. Either opened or closed, but usually closed, they flutter underneath my eyelids in an uncontrolled, rhythmic cadence. Makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. If you hold the edge of pages of a book and let them fly through your fingers fast, that’s the movement of my eyeballs. So sickeningly gross. I have to raise my head quick so it’s not down flat for several seconds, until that icky moving stuff stops. Often happens when I’m changing positions while sleeping during the night. Nasty thing to wake up to. The name of this new phenomenon now part of my life is called Meniere’s Disease. It affects my hearing and balance with vertigo and tinnitus (that’s dizziness and weird noises in my head which have nothing to do with my warped personality or those odd voices) I’m lucky, my case is mild. There are people with Meniere’s who vomit for 12 hours straight when they have an episode. I take a diuretic that helps stabilize my fluid in my inner ear, limit my salt intake (easy one for me) and have gone caffeine free.

My hearing loss started affecting different facets of my life I didn’t even realize. Darkness now freaked me out. I’m sure this is caused by my balance issue. Soon I had night lights all over the house making me feel more sure of myself and my wobbly balance. I have listened to music as soon as I start the car since I was 16. Not anymore. Now the radio makes me edgy and distracted. John and I were unable to watch TV together. The volume I required made his hair fly backwards as though he had just weathered a bad storm without an umbrella. It was also going to cause him to go deaf soon. He bought me a set of wireless headphones for the TV. He listens at normal range, while I pump up the volume on my headphones.

The only way I can enjoy a movie at a theater is through headphones. And I still miss a lot of dialogue. Some of this is not my fault though. Dang movies have such loud background music, even during quiet dialogue. Although I can hear they’re speaking words, it’s all muddled gobbledy-gook which I can’t decipher. Can’t spend big bucks on certain venue tickets unless they have headphones for the hearing impaired. Not for concerts like Lady Gaga, or P!nk. (Yes I’ve attended both in the last few years. Next up is Maroon 5) I actually take out my hearing aid for those. But then I’m unable to carry on a conversation with anyone around me for the whole night. When we attended “Book of Mormon” in Detroit with Josh and Erica, Josh had reserved headphones for me well in advance. Thanks Josh, you’re the best.

Soon I started missing stuff again. Blamed the TV, headphones, John talking too soft, and the movie theater but John insisted, “sorry honey, it’s you.” Back to Dr. Daniels. Discovered since I had seen him a couple years before, I’d lost another huge chunk of my hearing. No wonder I couldn’t hear the “white noise fan” anymore. Now get this. John got so used to the fan, he can’t sleep without it. The hard part for me to accept this time was the hearing loss was in my “good” right ear. Now my type of hearing aid was a hindrance. “Forget about your left ear, it’s hopeless. Let’s concentrate on your better ear,” Dr. Daniels encouraged.

Honestly I was about to give up Parish Visiting. Missing a lot of the conversations. Typically the elderly are a pretty soft spoken bunch. One guy was always kind of nervous and had a habit of flitting his hands around his mouth. Never realized before that I was (unconsciously) starting to read lips. Except his of course. Dude put your hands down. The grandkids are hard for me to understand. Anyone who doesn’t move their lips very much when talking around me is literally falling on deaf ears. Same thing goes if you turn away from me and continue to talk. Adam is much harder for me to understand than Josh. His voice is a little deeper, so I miss a lot of what he says. End up saying “what” 50 times. Frustrating and maddening for both of us. Never thought I’d say this but I now hate talking on the phone. I mostly text with the kids.

Every day I lose more hearing the smaller my world gets. Already a loner, I’m becoming much more isolated. This is not a good thing for me. If something’s gonna shrink it should be me, not my little world. While there’s nothing that gives me more pleasure than having the family around, if 4 or more of them are in a room together, I usually just keep walking until I find a quiet place. Can’t keep up with noisy conversations, so I end up not contributing at all, or answering inappropriately. I do that a lot. Adding my 2 cents worth, then look at everyone’s confused reactions. OK so I might have misunderstood what was said a minute ago. Restaurants are miserable for me. So much background noise that I can’t concentrate on the conversation in front of my face. Being deaf is probably the biggest reason I enjoy writing. I write my part of the conversation, then wait for the rest of you to join in with your comments. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very blessed. I haven’t experienced any major crippling health issues yet. No cancer, ALS, MS, Arthritis or Alzheimer’s. All my internal organs are still playing the right notes so far. A brain hiccup now and then, but that too seems to function at somewhat a normal level for me. (Here’s my funky “zebra” hearing aid. Much more important than my credit card. I truly never leave home without it).

I’ve had this hearing aid almost 4 years now. My hearing hasn’t continued its fast decline, just a much slower, steady pace. So far I’ve lost about 2/3 of my hearing in my left ear and 1/3 in my right. Still scary. Dr. Daniels says if it gets much worse, a choclear ear implant is about the only thing that would keep me connected to the hearing world. Then instead of sound waves traveling through the air into my mostly deaf ears, it would be bouncing off my skull bones in the back of my head. After this devastating news I was feeling kind of low on my trip back home from GR. OK really, I was in a funk and wallowing in self-pity. Almost home and still crying, I turned west on Ruddiman for the last 2 miles before our house. It was mid-December about 5 pm. God was trying to get my attention by sending me a not so subtle message. Right smack-dab in front of me was one of the most beautiful, magnificent sunsets I’ve ever seen. Wow. Would if it was my sight I was losing instead of my hearing? No more sunsets, driving, reading, canning, baking, or daily walks without significant changes in my life style. Denise, for heaven’s sake, pull up your big girl panties, and thank the Almighty you’re still capable and able to do so many things. Enjoy and appreciate your wonderful life. Yeah, that was an “ah-ha” moment for me. Thanks God, Sorry, I can be really dense sometimes…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom and Dad tried camping when I was a kid. Maybe some kind of bonding therapy after Larry had been killed. Mona was married and out of the house. They bought this tiny camper and decided our family should experience the joy and quiet contentment of the great outdoors. I don’t remember a family meeting deciding that the Black Hills (since none of us had ever been there) would be the destination of our first ever camping trip. So where did the Gerritson’s choose to go on their great family adventure? Let’s go to Minneapolis! The biggest city within 300 miles. What on earth were they thinking? Mom, who dusted the dining room and kitchen floors on her hands and knees DAILY. Camping-really? This was way too primitive a life style for her. It would be the only time we used the camper. It disappeared from the back yard not long after that strange trip.

 

1962. Neese in camping clothes???

“I wouldn’t give ‘ya a plug nickel for the first 2 years.” I’ve used that phrase when describing our early married life forever. It’s probably time to retire that statement. I’m still trying to put some meaning into those first wobbly years. (Shannon was the best thing) Even though we had dated for a long time, it’s very different once you get hitched. Two personalities trying to meld together. His family was big, loud, played cards and drank. Mine was small, somber, and subdued. He was way more social than me. I’ve always been pretty happy and content with my own company.

John was out-doorsey. He grew up hunting. Tagged along with his older brothers to learn the ropes. If you can imagine he used to routinely take his shotgun to school. Kept it in his locker all day, then would go pheasant hunting after school. Wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes he’d ride the bus on Friday to Dave Grossenburg’s house for a weekend of hunting on their farm. Then it was back to school on Monday morning with his shotgun. He also did a lot of fishing in the Rock River.

Once we got married, John was determined to make me “one with the outdoors.” This was difficult for both of us. I have always been rather resistant to change of any kind. But I did try. We started out with an 8 x 10 tent. John was off work from Friday supper until Monday supper. So a-camping we would go. A lot. Usually to this small, isolated, quiet place called Lake Shaokatan, in southwest Minnesota. I don’t remember how we stumbled upon it the first time. But until we moved to Eastern Iowa in ’74 we spent many, many weekends there. Looks like we took everything BUT the kitchen sink.

 

Camping 1972. Our green Vega and Lawn Darts….

 

Marv and Mamie owned a resort aptly named “Fisherman’s Hide-away.” They were a couple in their late 50’s, and had several one room cabins. After I got used to being away from civilization, I grew to like the whole camping experience. Ashamed to say at first I made John take our massive 13″ color TV along when we stayed in a cabin. Never turned it on, but it was more like a soothing pacifier should I need it. But I was always too busy to sit in the cabin and watch anything. Soon, it felt great to “be away from it all” with our rustic weekends. The cabins were really quite primitive. Not much different than the tent. It did have a bed which was nice. No bathroom though. You had to hike up to the office/restaurant/shower area. We usually stayed in our tent, it was cheaper. The campground back then was not busy at all. Many weekends we were virtually alone in the camping area.

We could rent a small fishing boat with a motor for a couple bucks. The perch fishing was unbelievable. The nice pan-sized fish practically jumped in the boat themselves. Marv had a couple grandchildren who stayed with them during the summers. These kids would clean, pack and freeze your fish for half a penny a piece. Yes, many times we would stand on the shore to catch just one more fish so we didn’t have to cut that penny in half. The summer I was expecting Shannon, I literally had bruises on my pregnant belly from giving the pole a good tug after I felt each nibble. When I had to go to the bathroom at night, (who doesn’t when you’re pregnant?) there were a million little frogs hopping all over the small dense pathway leading to the communal bathroom. Freaked me out. I made John bring along a 3 pound coffee can to use in the cabin instead. I didn’t want to squish any little froggies. Gross.

 

Shannon fishing at Lake Shoakatan, 1973…

 

I don’t remember the resort’s small restaurant being open for supper, but you could get a delicious breakfast or lunch for practically nothing. Out of this world pancakes were 50 cents. They hired no help in the restaurant either. Marv was the waiter and Mamie the only cook. Wish we wouldn’t have lost track of them. They were truly a wonderful couple.

One weekend we got a late start from Sioux City for Lake Shoakatan. It was pitch dark around midnight. We were still driving, but almost there. All of a sudden we heard a gunshot. Scared us to death. Pulled off the road, got out and cautiously checked out each other and the car thoroughly for the stray bullet. Nothing. Must have missed us. We were both pretty shaken up. Out in the middle of the boonies, very late at night and random gunfire. John got the cooler out to get us a snack and discovered the real culprit. Remember when the first glass 2 liter pop bottles came out? Well, a Pepsi bottle froze and shattered inside the cooler. Broken glass and slushy pop throughout the cooler. What a mess but a huge relief.

 

John setting up for a day of fishing at Lake Shoakatan…

 

The summer after Shannon was born, we headed to Shoakatan for a week vacation with John’s brother Arlyn. He had completed a couple tours in Vietnam, and just been discharged from the Navy. He had finally rescued his fancy stereo, speakers, and all of his cool music that we had been keeping for him. The huge reel to reel tapes consisted of his 2 favorite groups, The Beatles and The Doors. We were really going to miss that stereo. Good thing he was taking it though. Shannon was just starting to crawl and getting curious about sticking her little fingers in every available hidey-hole.

Arly brought along Vicki, his girlfriend of a few months. She was from Hull and the most perfect Dutch girl I had ever seen. Tall, blond, leggy and beautiful, about my age. We had also invited one of our best friends, Dale Duits. Dale was one of our witnesses when we eloped. Soon after that auspicious occasion, John and Dale were in a bar in South Sioux City, Nebraska. Dale was ogling a cute, petite, dark haired chick. As she was walking past later, John swatted her on the butt, and quickly turned around. She swung around, royally pissed, and gave Dale the stink eye and a piece of her mind. Just what John the matchmaker had intended. Soon Dale and Beth were dating. Now cute little Beth joined us on vacation that week too.

Arly and Vicky, 1972…

 

A couple of the guys knew how to ski and made it their mission on this vacation to teach the rest of us how to ski. I think we might have had John’s brother Jimmy’s boat along that week, because the motor was big enough to pull someone on skis. We all took turns until we each managed to stay up at least for a few seconds. I swallowed gallons of water, causing the lake level to go down a foot, but I did get and stayed up a couple times. I vividly remember being in that boat and watching my new friends Beth and Vicki. Shannon was about 8 months old at the time, and I was feeling pretty good about my post-baby-bod. I wasn’t looking too bad in my 2-piece swim suit. Single and beautiful, both Beth and Vicki had little tummies about the same as me. But I was the only one with a kid. Yup, feeling pretty good about myself during that vacation. Learned a couple weeks later, both of them were about 3 months pregnant. Boy did that deflate my fragile ego fast. For me, par for the course…

 

 

 

Nothing about me has ever been elegant. I’ve never had an ounce of fru-fru in me. Wasn’t really a tomboy, but didn’t care for ruffles and lace either. In high school I thought my short cheerleading skirts were really cute. But I always hated garter belts, nylons, slips, skirts, fancy shoes and dresses. I haven’t worn a dress or heels since Shannon got married in 1998. I’m more comfortable in a Nike t-shirt and jeans with my Keens’s and Merrell’s. Sweats at home are even better. I do admire women who are feminine, and dress to the nines. I’m just not one of them.

At John’s house, 1965. Hand knit sweater from Mom…

 

I’ve known 2 elegant women in my life. This gal’s name was Barb. A member of our church when I was Parish Visitor. They had moved about 30 miles away a few years before, so I never had a chance to meet her before. She ended up moving back to Muskegon because of her husband’s health. Barb was in her upper-80’s when I met her. She wore her salt and pepper hair in a small, neat bun. She’d regally glide down the main aisle of the sanctuary in heels, a Pendleton wool skirt, angora sweater. Always wearing a beautiful string of pearls. A dainty hankie hidden in the belt of her skirt. Manicured, tapered nails with clear polish. Her own nails, not chunky, squared off fakes. And usually a fancy hat. And it was because of the hats that I noticed a tremor in her head and hands.

Ray and elegant Barb. Around 2000…

Her husband’s health was failing and he had to move to a nursing home. That’s how I met her. Barb was no longer driving, so she depended on her daughter Cindy to pick her up from her apartment and drop her off at the nursing home each day. I stopped to see her husband Ray who was now on my parish visitor list. Barb was livid when I got there. She literally couldn’t talk. After she calmed down a bit, she explained. When she arrived a few minutes before me, Ray was missing his glasses, had his sweater on inside out, and his hair was sticking straight up every which way. It was almost noon. He should have been cleaned up and dressed nice by this time. I suggested she talk to the administrator. I walked her to the office where she elegantly voiced her concerns over the lack of personal hygiene help for Ray. After we got back to Ray’s room, she asked me about other nearby facilities for him. This was kind of dicey because her daughter was a social worker. I told Barb which places I felt were the best in town. She jotted the information down.

Suffering tremors but still wrote me letters in 2007…

Ray passed away before she could move him to another facility. Barb was lost without him. Because I got my foot in the door by visiting Ray, and helping her voice her concerns about his care, she considered me a friend. I started seeing Barb on a regular basis. She always wanted to know in advance when I was coming. Once as a surprise, she made a fresh blueberry pie for our visit. All the proper silverware, cloth napkins, beautiful china. Never coffee, always tea in dainty cups I could finish in one big sip. Elegant (her) versus (me), not so much. We had wonderful conversations, a growing love and respect for each other.

Barb moved to downtown Muskegon, very near our church. A renovated old hotel. Cute apartments with a washer and dryer in each unit. Most with a small balcony. She called me up and asked if I would come over and help her make some of Julia Child’s, Joys of Cooking dinner rolls. We had so much fun that day. She wore a beautiful apron and heels. Never got one speck of flour dust on her. I looked like Pigpen with an aura of flour and yeast surrounding all of me. The rolls turned out fantastic. Wish I could remember the name of them. They were special. Had little bits of real butter throughout the dough. We baked them, then each ate one, (yup, with real butter) just to be sure they were perfect. She sent a couple home with me to share with John. The rest she froze for her contribution to the family get together for Thanksgiving dinner at Cindy’s house.

One day when I stopped (yes, I had called ahead) she had lunch waiting for me. Not a surprise. She loved to entertain. The sandwiches were already made, wrapped up in the fridge. Barb had 2 oblong trays with china, and silver, all ready to go. And a sauce pan on the stove. Tea was steeping in the pot. She had ham and cheese sandwiches on big round slices of dark bread. I could see some kind of spicy dark mustard on the bread. Boy they looked good. She unwrapped them, and got out a pair of tongs. What’s this? Slid off the top slice of bread from each sandwhich. Took the tongs over to the saucepan and carefully took out long spears of asparagus. Patted them dry with a paper towel. Put a layer of asparagus on top of the ham and cheese. Replaced the top slice of bread and carefully cut each sandwhich in odd shaped thirds. They looked exquisite, but who in the world wants to eat asparagus on a ham sandwich? Guess what? They were delicious. Teaching this hick a thing or 2 about the finer things in life.

I had volunteered to host a small event at church during lent. Not a big deal. Preacher/boss #2 had a short, late morning service in the chapel. My job that day was to make and serve a simple meal. Homemade soup, bread, and bars for dessert. A couple dozen folks showed up every week for these mini-message-lessons. I called Barb when I got to church that morning. Explained that I had to serve the meal, then clean up, but I should be done by 1:30 or so. Was she up for a visit? “Why yes darling. (yup, that’s what she usually called me) That would be lovely!” She gushed. “I WILL PENCIL YOU IN FROM 2-5!” One of my favorite lines of all times ever said to this Parish Visitor. (That’s a 3 hour tour, Gilligan)

Barb wanted to be in charge, like most of the rest of the folks I routinely stopped to visit. Always wanted more of my time. My visits usually lasted about an hour. Oh Barb. Gotta admire their resourcefulness because they knew how to get their needs met. Had to smile about their motives and justification. Guess what else she did after I stepped through the door? Threw the deadbolt! (Denise-sit-stay) Still cracks me up. They routinely hustled me to spend more time with them. I was fine with that. Most were alone nearly all the time, so they were ready to explode with conversation once I got there. And they didn’t talk about themselves all the time either. There were several who frequently asked how my family was doing. But even more than that, they wanted to know what was going on in “the church.” Longed to stay connected with other members who had been dear friends for decades. Many of them were going through the same ordeals and no longer saw each other.

Barb attending a luncheon at church. About 2009…

I kept them in the loop. Once a lady from church had described me like this, “Denise is the umbilical cord that keeps us attached to each other and the church.” Humbling, makes me cry to think of her saying that in front of a big group of people. They absolutely hung on every word when I was giving out information on other members. How so and so was doing after surgery. Who had moved where. These separations were very hard on dear old friends. They could no longer simply hop in the car and just drive over to see them. Many still had some sense of independence, but most things we take for granted were now out of their control. Some parts of growing older are hard besides constant health issues.

Well you know where this is going. Friendship after friendship ended. Often slowly and painfully for me. Barb fell and was no longer able to live alone. She moved to a nursing home about 20 miles south of me. At least once a month I’d drive down to see her, then visit folks on my way back north. She had her elegant little bun cut off. All the angora and Pendleton were replaced by pull on slacks and knit tops. I had never seen her in pants before. The heels she lived in for 60 years were no longer safe. Grippy bottomed slippers now adorned her feet. Some months I was greeted with, “darling, where have you been? I’ve missed you so!” The wonderful memories of going out for lunch, baking rolls together, a surprise fresh blueberry pie, ham with asparagus topped sandwiches are still fondly remembered by me. But now forever lost to my elegant friend Barb…