Can you believe it? For a time this Rock Valley city slicker lived on a FARM. With 2 kids. And no car. Hubby was commuting daily to Cedar Rapids, about 40 miles away. Mid-70’s, John had finally escaped the clutches of the 5-whack-brothers in Dyersville. Neither of us felt like this was a permanent situation, so we resisted the urge to move again. Tough on John because his day was long. Commute wasn’t fun, even less when driving a junker that required constant attention to make that daily drive. But not exactly a picnic for me either. See above: 2 kids, no car and a driveway from hell.

Hanging out a load of wash. Even outside, they smelled of hogs…

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Almost spring when we moved in and the house came complete with their last Christmas tree. Or maybe it was from the year before. The trunk was still upright, but everyone of the 82,467 needles were snuggled deep into the carpet. Since Josh was of the age where eating anything off the floor was his favorite past time, my first job was staying a couple feet ahead of him. The closest town was Cascade, population 1700, about 15 minutes from New Vienna/Dyersville, my Catholic-ville story. Shannon was 5-1/2.

Our first and last time in 45 years of living on a farm. The house was set so far back, I couldn’t see the gravel road. The drive-way was gravel, dirt and large rocks. And long. Very long. The highlight of my day was walking Joshua in the stroller to get the mail. Wrote and received a lot of letters. I actually wore out a set of tires on that stroller, the drive-way was so bumpy. Think it might have been responsible for the loss of a few of Shannon’s baby teeth. Seems like I never had to give that last little tug. She’d step on a rock the wrong way, jarring her mouth, and another payment from the tooth fairy was in order. Many days Josh and I made that miserable trip twice, walking or bouncing along to meet Shannon when she got off the bus.

With so much time on my hands, I did hone some new exciting skills, finally. Cooking and baking. We did not buy a loaf of bread for over a year. I made home made bread, buns, cinnamon rolls twice a week. Baked something almost everyday. Learned to cook some decent suppers. The best thing though were the pies. The yard-grove had several apple trees, and I became a pretty good pie maker. Never did learn the name of that one specific tree, but they were still the best pie apples I’ve ever used. Green, tart, hard, but not a Granny Smith.The house was surrounded by crops. John was in hunting heaven. A mere 50 feet to all the pheasants he and our German Shorthair pointer, Anja could track, shoot and eat.

I was heading to the basement to get some meat out of the freezer. We had an old chest type from the Stone Age, but it kept all my newly found culinary masterpieces hard as a rock. My beautiful assorted fruit pies, numbering around 100, plus meats, and breads were swimming in a big pot of nasty smelling juices and blood. Couldn’t believe my eyes. My old freezer had taken it’s last gasp. No wait, much worse. It was unplugged. Why that stinking, miserable, mister-fix-it-hubby-of-mine had been down there a couple days before trying to improve his master-building skills. The whole basement had one outlet. John had been using power tools, thus had to unplug my freezer. Oh, there would be hell to pay. Hell. To. Pay. Slammed the lid shut and stomped upstairs crying at my huge loss. No way was I cleaning that up. The stuff was irreplaceable. We were through the fruit seasons, and we could barely afford to buy meat in the first place, let alone replace it. But for one blessed night while we lived there, not one solitary hog feeder lid was ever raised or clunked back down. While we slept soundly and noiselessly, the hogs feasted on the contents of my freezer. And I did not lift one finger to help, but sure fumed about it for awhile.

One of fondest memories about the farm was the yard. We had a nice yard and the kids and I were out there a lot. Little swimming pool kept them cool. We bought Joshua a little plastic lawn mower. He followed John around the yard every time he mowed.

We were attending a church in Cascade. The disco-era-church-going-kids.

We were renting a farm house from Bob. Strange dude trying to earn the title for: owner of the most farm land, most cattle, biggest dairy herd, most hogs while moving his family to squalor. I think he won that award. Our newly rented digs was the former home to Bob, wife Maryanne and their young daughter. A nice, sunny 2-story. But Bob needed to be closer to the milk cows, so he packed up his little family and moved to a horribly dilapidated house down the road a piece. (Yes I even picked up farm lingo) Which is why the nice farm house was available. Always felt sorry for Maryanne. Treated much worse than their hired man, who was treated badly she put in long days helping Bob with all kinds of back-breaking, unappreciated labor, all the while being belittled and criticized by “Bob the farmer.” I was watching them one day from the window when Maryanne got kicked by a cow hard enough to knock her to the ground. Bob sang out his sweet, melodious epitaphs for 10 minutes before she managed to get up. Let’s just say Bob and I would not have endured a very long-lasting relationship. There wouldn’t have been a need for birth control on his part, and he would have been known as “steer” throughout the farming community.

Cascade actually had its own public elementary school. Yay. One year old Joshua and mommy would be left to our own devices.

Farm also had lots of livestock. Some feeder cattle but mostly hogs. Long before hog or cattle confinements were popular, but might as well have been. The hog feeders were on the ground, with individual feeding stations. Kind of resembled a cut pie. With a top crust. They were wedged with a lid covering each pie-shape. The hog would stick his snout under the lip of the lid, lift it up, gorge and snort for awhile, then drop the lid back down with a clunk. Hundreds of hogs doing this night-and-fricking-day. Took us about a year to be able to sleep through this noise. (Where was my hearing loss when I really needed it?) One beautiful summer day, about 100 hogs got out of their pen and decided to root through my garden for a nice change of pace meal. My first and last attempt at growing my own stuff. Still think this is what turned me off from growing anything. But that’s why God made farmer’s markets.

Shannon riding her own tractor, 1976.,,

The next night John walked in the house from work with this bit-o-news: “Bob the farmer” had stopped him on the road home. Told him he was having 2 expert veterinarians from Iowa State come to the farm that night. Several of his hogs had dropped dead. The vets were coming to determine what had killed them. My heart just stopped. The hogs were kicking the bucket over my rotten food. (And the only good nights sleep in a year) I’d be arrested! I ran out to the pen hysterical. All the fat little farts were doing just fine. Hubs was yanking my chain. I’m still astounded he pulled that little stunt. He should have been filled with remorse, chagrined-not giving me a ration of shit.

Shannon was going to be in her first Christmas program. John was helping her memorize her lines. She had it down pat, but dad was worried about the volume. She was not comfortable in the decibel range he thought necessary so Josh and I could hear her in the back of the church. He constantly encouraged her to articulate, slowly and LOUDLY. Her part was a sing-songy lyric about advent. There is no possible way to write what she sounded like that night. My face still burns with embarrassment. Sorry Shannon, this was not your fault. I guess the best word describing it is crescendo. The line repeated several times was, “4 candles in a ring.” The “4 candles” part was perfect, nice and loud. The “in a ring” part broke the sound barrier, shattering a couple stained glass windows. Luckily these were on the sides, saving the kids, and us in the back. I was back there in case Josh got noisy. Fear not mommy, nothing could top our daughter’s solo. After a couple trips to the doctor for shattered ear drums for those sitting nearby, the whole congregation was ready to move on and tackle a new year. Good job daddy…

Shannon 6, Cascade, Iowa. 1977…

Gonna be upfront with you. I’ve got issues. I haul around this humongous set of luggage chuck full of guilt and regrets. I have some resentment. Better change some to a lot. About my parents, sister, my former bosses and the church. The Methodist Church. Haven’t been a Methodist very long. About 15 years and 4 ministers. My resentment shows up occasionally in my blogs. OK, need to change the occasionally to many. I realize this is unhealthy for me and I need to move on. But I’m quite famous for my grudges. Holding onto them for awhile. No, let’s forget awhile. We’ll go with years. I’ll stop now.

My first stint as Parish Visitor…

I’m not good at forgiveness either. I’m really not a good Christian. Not going to get me very far when I plead, “God don’t forget all those soups, canned goods, breads and pies I made and gave away.” No, good works are not going to get me past the pearly gates. Besides they weren’t even that good. Plus, this isn’t the way I want to be remembered. Since the blog is about me, if you find my trying to work through my issues distasteful, stop reading. I need to forgive some people from my past. Still detect a morsel of bitterness though. A work in progress.

In the past 20 years, I’ve had 5 bosses. One great McDonald’s owner-operator-and 4 preachers when I did my parish visiting stints in 2 churches. This is about preacher number 1. Really what are the chances of having 4 lousy ministers bosses in a row? Might be noticing a pattern here. Just saying.

We’ll call the first guy, “One Fish.” I have no respect for any of the 4, thus the blog. One Fish did have some good traits. He was the only one of the 4 who did not read his entire sermon. And his sermons were pretty good, until the political barracuda came out on the pulpit. Good job Denise, pointing out his redeeming qualities. On my way!

One Fish liked what I was doing. Just finishing up my Stephen Ministry training in his church. A 50-hour course in the art of listening. Tricky for a deaf person, but my hearing loss was not as bad 15 years ago. A one-on-one program connecting a Stephen Minister with a person from the congregation who is going through a traumatic time. Divorce, health issue, death, job loss. One Fish showed up at our class one night with a dilemma. The retired pastor he had hired years before for visiting was having serious health problems. One Fish (from now on being referred to as OF. I’m already tired of typing it). OF was asking for volunteers to take over visiting the elderly. My hand shot up before he finished the request. This congregation was a healthy mix of young families, empty nestors and elderly. After a few months he needed to hire someone permanently for the job. But not necessarily me. He wanted some pulpit help, an occasional sermon on Sunday and help with funerals, leaving me out. Tough job for 9 bucks an hour. OF gave up looking, and hired me, 20 hours a week. My visiting wasn’t limited to just the older folks though. I’d visit families with new babies, bringing them a meal (can’t forget all my good works God) and new people trying out the church.

When visiting, if I felt the person needed a deeper, spiritual conversation, I’d e-mail OF and request that he please stop by and see them. Several older gals had mentioned that OF never looked their way on Sunday mornings. One lady put it this way, “he’s been here for 9 years and doesn’t know my name.” Yikes. Not good. I needed to get him on board with these sometimes forgotten people. I e-mailed him (he was not a believer in staff meetings) asking if every other Sunday, could he spend 5-10 minutes speaking to those little folks who were already in their pews waiting for church to start? He e-mailed me a long letter on how busy he was trying to run a church of this size by himself. He couldn’t be distracted before, during or after the service. (Really, my little folks were not the movers and shakers. He didn’t want to say, “how are you?” cause he didn’t want to take the time to hear their answers.) I specifically asked him to visit a member in Hospice care while I was on vacation. He did not. When I reprimanded him (yeah, I can be kind of ballsy) he finally did go. But talked the whole time about his kid in college. Never asked the Hospice guy how he was doing, or his wife on how she was coping with it all.

An older member named Phylis lived near me. She had been a widow for several years. She had a son in town and a daughter about a hundred miles away. One Sunday during church it was announced that her son (in his 50’s) had fallen down the basement steps the night before and had died from the injuries. After church John and I went home, changed clothes and ate lunch. Told John I was going to see Phyl for a few minutes. She was home alone. Pretty sure she was in shock. We talked, cried and prayed. The next morning I headed for the disciple class taught by OF. After class I asked him how Phylis was doing? He hadn’t been there yet! They were playing phone tag. It must have been more important to be home that afternoon and night, then class the next day than to stop and see her. She was about a mile from him.

Each minister have their own gifts. I realize that. Of the 4, only 1 enjoyed visiting my little people. Some worked well with the youth, some at running the business end, others were great recruiters. But just because you might not enjoy part of the job, or find it immensely rewarding, doesn’t excuse you. This job involved more than preaching on Sunday. And I really didn’t ask any of them to step in very often. Truthfully, I can say about 95% of those I visited thought more of me than any of the 4 preachers-combined.

The day after all our lives changed on 9/11, I stopped at church to pray for the victims and their families. OF was headed for his office at the same time. As we were talking about the World Trade Center, he said he thought it was our fault. America was getting what we deserved. First time ever, I was speechless. He didn’t want to visit those I loved when asked, and thought the U.S. was at fault when terrorists bombed us. That Christmas Eve, his sermon was 3 love stories of the bible. Smack-dab in the middle, he said American guns were being used to kill Palestinians. Now where did that come from? Got nothing to do with the message. I went home and wrote him a scathing letter condemning his political views and statements from the pulpit. No one else got the chance to voice their opposing views up there. I was in church because I needed God’s word to help me get through the week, not OF’s personal agenda in favor of Arafat. The pulpit was not the right venue, and please keep his views to himself when he was up there.

They say the church is the people. I loved the people of the church. Ok, one cute story. Really not so cute, more of a blundering idiot on my part. I was visiting Marge. Really sharp lady, but eyes problems and walking issues. Getting ready to leave and said, “well I’m off. (most folks who know me are aware of this already) I still have to stop and see Bill and Amy.” Marge countered, “you visit them? I know them both well.” “Yes,” I continued, ” I love visiting them. Bill tells the best stories. I usually try and stop there last in the day cause I stay so long. They’re just about my favorites!” Silence. She nodded, smiled at me, and said quietly, “I hope someday I can be your last visit of the day.” Oh Denise.

Surprisingly they both fit quite nicely inside my big mouth…

Lately going to church was making me angry and depressed. When you’re filled with disgust watching the man up front, it’s time to worship God somewhere else. Heavy-hearted, I put in my notice. We started church shopping. I was gonna sit in a pew, get as much from the sermon as possible, walk out and not get involved again. Of course, that didn’t quite match up to the plans God had for me…

Mildred wasn’t on my “parish visitor list” yet. Close to 80, she was still driving. (part of the problem) But a recent car accident had put her there. I stopped to see how she was doing. She promptly lifted her blouse so I could marvel at the perfect outline of the steering-wheel-bruise on her chest. She was a retired teacher, widowed a few years before, no children. Had a cat named Charlie she had adopted from a friend who moved away.

Mildred, around 2005…

She was fiesty, stubborn, argumentative. A life long Lutheran who had left her church of 50 years in a huff, (her father had been the pastor there for over 30 years) and joined Central several years before. After 3 or 4 visits, Mildred had healed up and leased a new car. Whew, I breathed a sigh of relief. She was ornery. Joke was on me. God, always able to humble you when He thinks you need it, had other plans for me and Mildred for the next few years. She broke her ankle, back on my list. Then she broke her shoulder, falling down her slippery steps, which required surgery and a rehab stint. Back on my list. A second car accident would keep her home-bound, but she relied (demanded actually) on folks from Central to take her to book club, women’s circle and church services. Now she was on my list for better or worse.

Mildred joined Central after 50 yrs at Samuel Lutheran…

It started innocently enough. She had a prescription that needed to be picked up, and would I mind getting a few groceries? Well, it was close by so I took the list. Soon she would have a couple things she “desperately needed” every few days. I wouldn’t and couldn’t count these as parish visitor hours. She’d be the only one I’d see, taking up all my hours for the week. I really didn’t mind helping her. After talking to my PHD psychologist daughter Shannon (meaning she talked, I listened) who said I needed to establish some boundaries. I put on my suit of armor, light-saber-weapon in hand, and marched up her steps. (Costume was very heavy, my legs couldn’t bend, and I was really sweating, bad sign Mildred) 1. I can’t always come when you snap your fingers. 2. I will go to the store for you once a week, exception would be a new prescription. 3. You have to stop calling me all the time. That wasn’t so hard, but kind of scary. She agreed.

We kind of got in a rhythm. She’d have her list ready when I called. I’d pick up her groceries, pills, stamps and greeting cards-birthday-get well-sympathy, by the skid. She truly had an amazing card ministry going on. She sent out 200 Christmas cards each year. I don’t know 200 people. I now picked up cat food by the case and big bags of kitty litter. I took her to the doctor, dentist, and the beauty shop every 4 months for a haircut and perm. What’s with little old ladies and frizzy perms?

Mildred’s cat, Charlie, 2006…

She did find ways to keep herself occupied at home. She had written a couple books about Muskegon years before on Lakeside and Pinchtown. Her new mission was her family history. But it would be me finding a publisher, and making boo-koo trips to the post office to mail them.

I mailed 75 out to 50 different addresses, 2007…

She often asked for my advice which she RARELY took. Example: she had leased a new car months before, then wrecked it, losing her license. Now GM wanted the money to fulfill her lease obligation. I told her to just pay it. Nope, she had lawyers for that stuff. Months later she told me she had to pay off the lease, plus outrageous legal fees. Oh Mildred. This law firm also had power of attorney for her. I did my best to change her mind. Doris was a friend of hers and a wonderful Christian woman who would do what was best for her, but that was-a-no-go-either. Mildred’s lawyers would take care of everything. I did convince her to get an order from her doctor saying it was dangerous for her to go down the steps, trudge through the snow for the mail. Now the mailman brought it to her door (usually waiting for it with an outstretched arm).

Mildred’s L O N G history, 401 heavy pages….

Stopped in wearing my parish visitor hat with communion for her (she wasn’t attending often anymore). Immediately she says, “got a reminder card from the vet. Charlie needs a shot, and he hasn’t been feeling well. I already made an appointment.” Sigh. No, groan. Hauled Charlie to the vet to get his shot, but the vet was too busy for an exam. “Bring him back in 2 days.” (Are you kidding me?) Mildred looked at the vet and asked, “what church do you go to?” (She had that same curious, rude behavior as my dad!) Exasperated, the vet shoots a few daggers her way (I ducked), “Mildred we’ve talked about this many times. I’m here to take care of Charlie. It’s none of your business what I believe, or if and where I attend.” I was shooting a few daggers of my own-at him. Not for his smart-ass answer, but that I had to come back. (You couldn’t just take a few extra minutes to check him out now, while we’re here, cozily discussing religion with our tea and crumpets?)

Mildred & her brother Eugene, about 1928…

Mildred was not walking well, and it took her hours to catch and cage Charlie. I didn’t volunteer for that duty. I told her if she caught him, I would bring him back to the vet myself. Even though she did not feel well, she wanted to come. So back to the vet. Charlie had some tests and we were waiting for the results. The Vet, (still of unknown faith, church affiliation, and whereabouts on Sunday’s) walked in with the x-rays. He explained that Charlie didn’t feel well because he had a large tumor blocking his stomach. He couldn’t swallow, and would die soon, painfully if she didn’t do something about it. We talked it over and she decided to have him put to sleep, but she would NOT have him cremated. Vet brought in Charlie, who for the first time ever, lay quietly in his cage with the door open while we petted him and said goodby. I sobbed through it all. Mildred was stoic. She wanted to bring him back home. I argued, “Mildred, it’s 80 degrees. You don’t have air-conditioning. I’m not going to bury Charlie!” She was adamant. We drove around back and the vet brought Charlie wrapped in a towel and laid him in his cage. The Vet put his hand on my shoulder and said, “thanks for doing this with Mildred and being here for her.” Ok, I take back some of the daggers.

Driving back to her house, she mused, “you know Denise, I was worried about this. Wondered what would happen to Charlie if something happened to me first? Now I don’t to worry about that.” I put Charlie in the spare bedroom (still bawling, what’s up with that?) and told Mildred I wouldn’t leave until she had some definite plans. She called Doris and Dick who gladly came over to help with Charlie.

Mildred and Conrad’s wedding, 1947…

A couple weeks later, John and I returned from a long weekend away. A funeral, (preacher’s mom) and Shannon’s PHD graduation party. I was leaving for Davenport, Iowa in 2 days to visit some old friends. Time to catch up with them and play some double-deck euchre. I wanted to get Mildred stocked up before I left. I called a couple times but no answer. She didn’t always tell me when she was going somewhere, but I usually knew her whereabouts. I headed to her house. There was a thick stack of mail rubber banded to her screen door handle. That does not bode well. She always got her mail pronto. The big door was open, the screen door locked, and a light was on. I yelled, no answer. Please God, don’t let her be at the bottom of the basement steps with a broken hip. I ran over to the neighbors who had a back door key, (“don’t worry about me Denise, the neighbors have a key and will always watch out for me”). Yeah, right. The key lady was gone. Called John. “What should I do? I think she’s hurt, I’m gonna break in.” Didn’t hear or heed his advice to call 911.

I took my car key, slit the screen, slipped my hand in and unlocked the door. Ran inside, but instead of heading to the basement stairs, stopped dead in my tracks. Turned and walked to her bedroom doorway. She was laying on the bed. Dressed, barefoot, her glasses on the dresser. Looked as though she laid down for a nap and never woke up. Hysterical now, I call the cops. Why hadn’t I waited outside on the steps? The 911 operator questioned if she was dead? What? No please, I can’t check for her pulse. She was not a good color, but I did touch her foot at the 911 operator’s insistence. Which was ice cold. I ended up waiting a couple hours while the county coroner cleared me. Well, I did break into her house. He had to rule out foul play. That was oddly disconcerting. This was a Tuesday morning. I had talked to her Thursday night. I think she died on Friday, though her death certificate would read Tuesday. The Thursday paper was on her Duncan Phyfe table, but Friday through Monday’s mail and papers were untouched stuck in the front and back doors. Guilt ridden that she died alone, gobs more guilt because I cried more over my loss of Mildred (and Charlie) than I did for Dad. Too traumatic I guess.

When I was arguing, to no avail, a couple years before to convince her to spend the winter months in a safer environment, Mildred had walked me through her house. Trying to show me how able-bodied she was. She had some neat stories and pictures of her having dinner with Gerald R. Ford at Western Michigan University. She had been on their Board of Trustees for about 20 years. Told me about the big Swedish dinners she used to have in that small house for 100 people at a time. And the story about Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois where her father taught when she was young. He had been given 2 matching antique oak stacking bookcases. Small world. We had lived in Davenport right across the Mississippi, but John had worked in Rock Island at J.I. Case.

Mildred removed beds to seat more folks at her Swedish dinners…

A few weeks after her death, the “law firm” called and asked my opinion on what I thought should be done with all her possessions? I suggested an estate sale and gave her the top 3 dealers in the area. She called back and said they had decided on an auction instead. Huh, they didn’t take my advice any better than Mildred had. What she said next left me speechless. I was in Mildred’s will. Stunned. When could I pick up what she left me? Needed to get it out of the house before the sale. Her will stated it was my choice of the antique oak stacking bookcases. Then it read, “she is not to have any of the contents.” Bookcases were filled with mugs from various places she and her husband, Connie had visited. I thought that was kinda funny.

The auction was a bust. They could have doubled the profits had the lawyers listened to this long-time-antique-nut-who-loves-estate-sales. I had been in her house hundreds of times but was amazed at how much neat stuff she had. Lots of dishes and serving pieces for those big dinner parties. I wanted to buy something, but not spend a lot. I really liked one of her china patterns (felt like a blushing bride) The set was huge with lots of extra platters and bowls. Told John I didn’t want to spend more than a hundred bucks. Dipstick auctioneer from Hicksville couldn’t even get a bid on it. Bought the whole set for $25.00. A shame. When I brought it home, checked what it would cost to buy at Replacements.com. I had over 3 thousand dollars worth of china.

Haviland Brothers Apple Blossom pattern that I bought at Mildred’s sale…

Several months later, John was at church on business as a Trustee. They take care of the building, land parsonage, land and endowments. A big shot stopped to tell him about an influx of money in the general fund. Mildred’s money. John disagreed. “I thought the money was supposed to go for the youth?” “No, it’s been put in the general fund,” he countered smugly. When John got home, he asked me about the will, since the not-taking-my-advice-lawyers had sent me a copy. It specifically stated the money be used for the children and youth of the church as an endowment. John brought my copy to boss-preacher-man-#3, who righted that little wrong. But if I’d gotten a copy of her will for a little bookcase (sorry Mildred, it is one of my most treasured pieces) certainly the church had a copy too. Deliberately not following her wishes. Ah, church politics, ruthless business…

Big changes were coming for this little family of three in the year of 1974. Celebrating anniversary # 5. Shannon was 3-1/2 and acquiring all the necessary skills (cooking-cleaning) for me to warm up to the idea of adding to our brood. Me, now a master chef could make: 1. Tuna salad 2. Tuna casserole 3. Coffee.

Shannon 4. Look at her hair length…

Mom sorta doted/smothered her and it was time to put a little distance between them. Eastern Iowa appeared like northwest Iowa, small towns, each a few miles from the next one. But it was very different from where we had grown up and what we were used to.

John liked his job. We had great friendly neighbors, but were having a big problem with the craziest of the 5-brother-bosses at work. First, he bought us each a new set of gold clubs. Neither of us golfed. Then he stopped by the house a couple times during the day when John was still at work. When I mentioned to hubby this was the second time, his-all-alarm-fire-bell-tripped. That dirty-low-down-sucker was hitting on his little woman. EEUUWWW. Whack-job was old, (maybe late 30’s, but I was 23). John barged into his office, threatened to remove his heart, balls and everything in between. Funny, it never happened again. I can’t believe John didn’t get fired. We assumed no one had ever talked this way or threatened one of the bosses before. They were revered in town. The biggest employer by far, but 4 of the 5 were pond scum. Found out later this crazy dude had 2 “alienation of affections” lawsuits against him. I was so naive. Did not have a clue. I do remember I was not flattered, just grossed out.

Me, Josh, John and Shannon, 1976…

Since Protestant churches were few and far between, we were trying out a big, beautiful Presbyterian in Dubuque, about 25 miles away. Definitely not the right choice. As we were walking in, someone handed John a sealed envelope. Told him to keep it and respond at the appropriate time. About half way through the service, one of the ministers started reading a list of names. Boys and girls, all about 12-14 years old lined up next to him. Then preacher man asked anyone holding an envelope to come up front. Oh boy. Reluctantly John shuffled up with several others. A quicky-5-minute-sermon reminding folks what you actually vow to do when a baby is baptized. That with the help of God, you will nurture and teach these children to become disciples for Christ. All adults were individually asked to open their envelope and read the name. That kid then marched right up and stood next to them. Preacher asked John to explain what he had “personally” done in the last decade for this child to become a better Christian? Though John was a tad embarrassed for being put on the spot, the dozen-egg-splatter on the preacher’s face for not knowing that John was a first (and last) time attender was worth the price of collection.

We were expecting our second baby. Shannon, now 4 was responding well to her responsibilities and had just finished wallpapering the nursery. Things were going good. This was our first Thanksgiving away from family and we were excited to attempt stuffing and roasting a turkey. Shannon had read the directions, and I helped her load the bird in the oven (just kidding, she was really strong). We were amazed at how pretty it looked in the oven. Golden brown and I was ready to accept the compliments on my culinary skills. Not. Took it out, ready to carve, but the sucker was hours away from being done on the inside. I could see Shannon still needed to brush up on her math skills.

Newborn Joshua, 1975…

Joshua, our first amazing son would arrive on his due date. Besides miserable heartburn and some very strange cravings, (lemon meringue pie and sauerkraut, which I ate straight from the can, cold) this pregnancy and labor were uneventful. Weighing in at 7-1/2 pounds, he had rather large feet and a beautiful head of hair. Shannon tried unsuccessfully to move into the mothering spot, but lost that position when she walked into the house after making mud pies, spotted her newborn baby brother fussing on the couch, and promptly stuck a filthy finger in his mouth. He did stop fussing, I’ll giver her that.

We ended up living in eastern Iowa about 4 years. Wasn’t really sorry to leave, though we had established some lasting friendships. We absolutely loved our next move to Spencer Iowa. Looking forward with trepidation at being a mere 60 miles from my folks again. John was only 2 when his sister Elly had gotten married. Living near them and their large family was a wonderful experience. Our kids thought they gained another set of grandparents.

We grew very close to Elly and Dewey, bowling with them on a mixed league, antiquing and road trips, plus sharing many suppers and some holidays together. Mom viewed this relationship about the same as the “alienation of affections” lawsuits in eastern Iowa. Someone, (Elly) was trying to steal the love and affection that belonged to her and her alone from me and the kids. Not a good time for her. No, not much had changed. A few years later it was time to move on, nomads that we appeared to be…

I’ve always been drawn to “older folks.” When I was very young, one of my favorites was my neighbor Bessie Jacobs. If I was sick and couldn’t go to school when Mom was working, I’d stay with Bessie for the day. Then there was the little-off-kilter, but utterly fascinating Rozina Henningfield. She was different, but had very cool stories to share. Kathy lived at Valley Manor when Mom worked there and I was in school. As I walked in, Kathy would grab my hand and off we’d go, stopping in most of the rooms to visit residents, but I did all the talking.

The doll quilt Bessie Jacobs made for me in the mid 50’s…

Ivor and Gertie Dearborn were an elderly couple who lived 2 blocks from my house. Ivor was spry, but Gertie was frail and needed help. Mom worked for them caring for Gertie. Fixing their meals was a bit of a challenge for Mom because the Dearborn’s still used a cook stove. Ivor would tell Mom what kind of wood to use for what she was cooking. They were a devoted couple who were a joy to listen and talk to when I was a kid. Clarence and Ida were an older couple who lived next to us in Hinton when we were young, inexperienced parents. Their only “child” was a yippy-snippy-coffee-drinking-cigarette-smoking-chubby-Chihauhau named Ginger. She used to sit on a “throne” about table height with a lit cigarette in her mouth. Head tilted way back to keep the smoke out of her eyes. I kid you not. She had her own coffee cup, although she preferred to lap it out of the saucer. Had to watch baby Shannon like a hawk around Ginger. She (the ornery dog) was used to being the only princess in the house, and truly did not play well with others or cared to share the affections of her 2 biggest fans.

I was working part-time as the Parish Visitor of a large Methodist Church, once home to 1600 members during the ’50’s and ’60’s, our congregation had shrunk. Wealthy folks who lived, worked and worshipped in the downtown area had moved out to the burbs. The total membership hovered around 500, but half that attended.

I had noticed this odd couple in church several times. To be truthful, I thought they were homeless and came in to escape the cold. Pretty sure they were a mother-son duo. She was quite old and frail. He was tall, skinny as a rail, and used a walker. Then there was his hair. He dyed it pitch black, but every week looked as though another dye job was 6 weeks overdue. The mom passed away and sonny stopped coming.

Preacher-boss-#-2-passing-through-my-life asked me to add a new name to my growing, ever changing parish visitor list. A man named Charles. He lived just a few blocks from me. Until he opened the door, I didn’t know he was the tall-skinny-walker-bad-dye-job-guy. And he was just a few years older than me. Hmmm, that was different. Charles was suffering from a very serious kidney ailment. Soon learned what foods I had to steer clear of when bringing him anything edible. Nothing with bananas, beans or potatoes. This was part of the reason I kept such comprehensive journals to help refresh my memory on folk’s backgrounds.

Wasn’t exactly sure what was different about Charles. Our chaplain thought he might have Asperger’s Syndrome. Charles had detailed, vast knowledge that he enjoyed sharing on certain subjects, but trouble relating one-on-one-with-what’s-going-on-in-your-world-today-conversations. He had some dear friends, Al and Nyla who came to visit every Wednesday, which was Nyla’s day off. She was still working full time as an R.N. They ran his errands, paid his bills, looked out for his best interests as guardians and advocates. I discovered it was more enjoyable to visit Charles when Al and Nyla were there. If I arrived before they did, Charles would bark out orders like a drill sergeant. “Start the coffee, take out the trash, turn down the heat.” (He did keep it 85 in his house most of the time. No meat on his bones, he was always cold) Once Nyla and Al got there, Charles appeared to be watching a tennis match. His head would bob back and forth, listening and watching Nyla and I talk. He would contribute to the conversation on occasion. I learned that Nyla had grown up just a few miles from me!

Charles had a collection of paperweights. I bought this at his estate sale…

Charles had an enormous pipe organ in the basement of his house. He was so infatuated with the organ that he had a special furnace and de-humidifier installed to keep it from going out of whack. He used to beg Nyla to play some of his favorite hymns when she came. I never heard him play. He was too sick to go downstairs, but he must have been pretty talented. He once played the organ at the Crystal Cathedral in California.

Al, Nyla and Charles on vacation to California…

As his health failed, Charles was hospitalized and had a procedure fitting him with a permanent feeding tube. I stopped in and saw he wasn’t doing very well. He had lost so much weight. Dialysis, though keeping him alive was taking a huge toll, and it took several hours 3 times a week. Just getting in and out of their transport van was exhausting for him. He looked miserable. I made small talk for a few minutes, soon he fell sound asleep. I sat by his bed, then got twitchy thinking of the rest of the folks I still wanted to see that day. All I did was pick my purse up off the floor. One of his eyes peeked open, he stared at me, then made this peculiar statement, “don’t go gettin’ your eagers,” (which I understood to mean, please sit still and stay with me awhile longer-even if I’m sleeping). Never heard that before, but it was what I needed to hear and where I needed to be. So I stayed.

Charles continued his downward spiral. Although it’s been many years since he passed, one of my biggest regrets is that he died alone in a nursing home about a mile from my house. He must have been so scared. I know he was never alone-God was there, but to a man like Charles I think he would have been terrified. He had many child like qualities. He would have felt comfort (and me too) if I’d been there to hold his hand when God took him home. I visited him a couple days before, he was on his side, groaning, eyes closed. I touched his shoulder, “Charles, what’s wrong, are you in pain? What can I do to help? Do you want me to find a nurse?” He shook his head, “no, don’t bother. I’ve got so much pain in my legs. Will you put a pillow between my knees?” I did and the pain seemed to ease somewhat. He stopped moaning, grew still and fell asleep. I sat for a few minutes, said a prayer and left. It was the last time I saw him alive, but not the last time we will meet my friend…

Just tapping out the following first real sentence, especially the 45 part, seems impossible and surreal. I’ve somehow managed to lose 20 years. Huh, here I was trying to lose 20 pounds. I may want them back soon-years not the pounds. So without further ado: FORTY-FIVE YEARS AGO TODAY, 2 snot-nosed kids from Rock Valley, Iowa, drove to Elk Point, South Dakota in my ’68 Ford Mustang (a lemon). This is a picture of us in the mid-70’s, so maybe 5 years down, 40 (+we hope) to go.

We nervously walked into a beautiful county courthouse at 6:57 p.m. followed by 2 somewhat reluctant witnesses. One witness, Dale was a good friend, the other was his co-worker, but a stranger to us. We are still unable to read his name on our marriage certificate. No matter. We get a good laugh about that once in a while. At 7:04 we walked out a married couple. Couldn’t get married in Iowa because the Sioux City Journal published all the marriage licenses during your 3-day waiting period. The waiting period allowed the results of your blood work to come back, making sure you didn’t have siphilis. Yikes. John passed out after the needle prick for his blood work. How come after 45 years I still derive such immense pleasure from that? Sadistic I know, but-unabashed-giddy-joy-nonetheless.

The Elk Point part was to throw off our scent for my folks. They had both spent the majority of the previous 5 years trying and periodically succeeding in breaking us up. We didn’t want to tip our hat of the big secret plan. Wouldn’t put it past Mom to call out the National Guard to “save me from making the biggest mistake of my life!” After a beautiful and lengthy 4 minute ceremony by the judge, (most of it getting our signatures, some legible, some not) the four of us headed to a local restaurant for steaks. A small token of appreciation for services rendered.

 

Memory trip through Elk Point, 2004…

 

John and I drove to Sioux Falls. Original destination was the Black Hills, but we lacked sufficient funds for a real honeymoon, plus there’s-the-let’s-get-to-the-hotel-quick-part. The next night we did have a great time dancing to Stan Kenton at the Macamba Club. I was too young to drink, even in South Dakota. That was ok, didn’t the taste (still don’t). Back then it was, just buy me a pack of Tareyton’s, cause I’d rather fight than switch. Next, the reality check back in Sioux City to face the other kind of music. Had to call the folks with the good (gulp) news. John’s folks were fine, mine, of course not. Mom hung up on me, something that would happen rather frequently over the next few decades.

John worked at KTIV, me as a nurse’s aid. First day back after I got out of work, I called John, “is it ok if we just have sandwiches for supper?” “Sure, love of my life” he gushed. The Gerritson’s were not really good sandwich making people though. I opened a can of red sockeye salmon, drained most of the juice, removed all those nasty little vertebrae bones, and shiny silver skin. Found out later these were the things he loved about canned salmon. Who was this guy-eats fish bones? Flaked it apart, got some iceberg lettuce, real butter, and Hillbilly bread. Good-to-go. “What the heck is this?” John was not impressed with my sumptuous 4-course meal. Salmon-bread-butter-lettuce. I cried. I didn’t know how to cook. Anything. Never made a pot of coffee, mopped a floor, or ironed a shirt. We’d dated a long time, but this stuff never came up I guess.

Next night I was bound (figuratively, not literally) and determined to do better. Bought a couple of pork chops. Fried them. We were just sitting down to eat when John speared a chop, or tried to. It dropped on his plate with a loud clunk. He took one bite, glanced at me, again near tears-weepy sap, and slowly walked to the fridge. Calmly got out a bottle of Heinz. Shook out a mountain-sized glob on his dinner plate. Then sprinkled on lots of salt and pepper. The Gerritson’s didn’t use much of these 3 things either. Proceeded to choke down my feast, and didn’t say a word. I start crying again. He shook his head, “now what’s wrong?” “You didn’t have to crunch it so loud,” I sobbed. Yup-a-happy-go-lucky-start-to-wedded-fricking-bliss!

It did get better though. During the night the first few months, I’d catch him, his head propped up on his elbow, watching me sleep. He was so romantic. Nah, are you kidding me? That’s just the way he slept. He was so used to laying on the floor to watch TV at his house. All the chairs and couch were always taken. He’d fall asleep with his head propped up on his arm. Same thing goes for fried chicken. He was the youngest, all the choice pieces were gone when the platter got around to him. He still prefers backs, necks and wings.

It’s the following summer, 1970. Our first anniversary was looming. We were living Leeds, a suburb of Sioux City. A fairly new brick duplex, small though, only one bedroom. Might not work for long as we were expanding our total by 1 by the end of the year.

 

Coolest thing about this place were our neighbors, Lee and Carolyn. They were newlyweds too, expecting their first baby a few months before us. Hubby’s both worked nights, so Carolyn and I spent a lot of pregnant time together. They were a couple years older than us, and seemed so put-together compared to us. When I watched them (ok, I believe the biblical term here is covet, happy?) it felt like John and I were playing house. They had family support, earned more money, just a lot more of everything. They bought their first house a couple months later. At this point we had squat besides each other.

The urgent need to get prepared for this baby hit us. We started shopping for a crib and dresser. Holy-moly, major case of sticker shock. Sears wanted $69.00 for a painted, thin plywood dresser. That wasn’t going to work. We had like 20 bucks total for the nursery ensemble. We found a dilapidated crib at Goodwill for 5 bucks. Painted it bright yellow (really, what was with Dad and I and the color yellow?) and bought a mattress at K-Mart. Yup, only the best for our first-born! Hadn’t found anything yet to hold those newborn t-shirts, sleepers and diapers.

 

One day John was driving to work and passed by a garage sale. Noticed a dresser in the driveway so he stopped. It was old, oak and stripped. John inquired, “how much for the dresser? “Dude shrugged, “it’s not worth anything because all the drawer handles are missing. You can have it for 5 bucks.” This baby thing was turning out to be a cheap date, until she got here anyway. John hauled his bargain home. I was intrigued. Nice roomy drawers, and a pretty beveled mirror. John said he would look for new handles when he went to the hardware store for stain and varnish. I was sliding a drawer in and out when we heard something clink. There in the bottom drawer were all the antique handles. Made this bargain even better. The dresser turned out gorgeous. Shannon still has it. Not bad for our first attempt at restoring an antique. This 5 dollar steal would have a huge impact on the rest of our married lives. We never looked for “new furniture” again. We had discovered something we both enjoyed doing together. Our first hobby-obsession. Although we were on a very limited antique budget for a decade. This is one of my favorites, my 7 ft. oak bed in the spare bedroom. John won a baseball pool in the World Series 30 years ago, and I ZHAN-ICKED (begged and whined) till he bought it for me.

 

The fun was in the hunt, haggling, and trying to haul it home. Really didn’t matter what kind of shape the piece was in. This guy I married was incredibly handy. I once bought a curved glass china closet without the curved door for yup, you guessed it, 5 bucks. Took John awhile to figure how to make the curved door part. Oak does not like to bend. He became an expert on stripping and repair work, veneer, pieces or hunks that were missing. He was not good at detail work. No patience with a brush for the finishing stuff. That became my speciality. As the years passed, we would cram, literally wall-to-wall, our home with beautiful oak furniture. Some pieces we only kept for a few years, spotting something prettier or fancier, but many of our first finds still have a place in our home. When Shannon got her own place and needed furniture, we were happy to supply her. Walking through her house looks like ours did 20 years ago. (where did those 2 decades go?) Gave us another excuse to go antiquing for new-old-pieces together. I’m beginning to think this marriage thing might work out after all…

Mom was used to running the show, and had the starring role. She was also executive producer, so had a lot to say to contents of programming. She adored some of her family, often in a mentally unhealthy way. But if things didn’t go according to her plan, even tiny details, watch out. Visits within months of each other from two of her favorite people in the world had Mom getting exactly what she longed and prayed for. Never enough, she shot herself in the foot both times. Unable to stop herself from going so far over the top, it ended the relationship with one of them, and came very close with the other. She needed to be in charge at all times and would not relinquish any control, even for her favorite grandchildren.

2 of Mom’s favorites, Shannon 23, Joshua 18, 1993…

Shannon’s fiasco happened first, winter of ’01 or 2. They were using Ari’s short school break to fly to Iowa and visit the grandparents. Ariana was about 10, Landon a baby or toddler.

Mom, needing to gain control over the trip before it even started, called Shannon to inform her that grandpa would pick them up in Sioux City. Shannon, concerned her 84 year old grandpa would be driving 60 miles in February argued, “grandma, I don’t want him driving that far in the winter. I’m renting a car at the airport.” “No,” Mom insisted, “I don’t want you to drive, grandpa’s coming to get you.” Shannon continued firmly, “I need my own car. I’ll have the car seat for Landon, and I want to go visit Aunt Elly.”

Ahh, there’s the rub. With her own set of wheels, Mom would lose control of the mini-vacation because Shannon could come and go as she pleased. That would not work for Mom. Honestly, with 2 kids in tow, the middle of an Iowa winter, Shannon wasn’t going to venture very far. She’d always been close to Elly, and wanted to take the kids to see her for an afternoon in Spencer. Mom was insanely jealous of how much all of our kids (and me) thought of John’s only sister. When grandma felt threatened, she could push back very hard in order to maintain control. Grandma pushed the envelope, stating, “Shannon, if you are coming to visit me, and not staying here the whole time, don’t bother coming at all,” and hung up. Shannon called me, sobbing, “what should I do?” I advised her to spend the extra bucks to change the tickets and fly to Davenport and visit her high school friend Angie. So Mom had won the battle, but shot herself in the foot over a car rental. But it really wasn’t the car rental. This was about Shannon pulling rank over her grandma in what was best for her and the kids.

This was a whole new style of power struggle for Mom. She was used to having my kids visit, but they had never questioned her views or authority. Now they were adults who had lived without her domineering, manipulative behavior for 15 years in Michigan.

Joshua hadn’t seen my folks for a few years. He was in his mid-20’s, graduated from college, moved to Detroit and started his own business. (which is still doing great) He was dating a nice girl,

(but not the ONE, our fabulous daughter-in-law Erica, who was not yet in the picture). Josh and Colleen decided to drive to Iowa over Memorial weekend. They planned to camp at Lake Pahoja, a man-made lake/park close to Inwood, practically next door to my sister Mona’s farm, about 20 miles from Rock Valley. They drove all night, stopped at Mom and Dad’s so they could meet Colleen. Visited with them for several hours. Finally J and C left for the campground. Got their campsite, set up the tent, then proceeded to the farm to say hi to Mona and Ed. Soon Ed was showing Colleen around the farm, handing her newborn piglets. The weather was miserable, cold, rainy and windy. Ed suggested that J and C sleep in their camper instead. It was parked on the farm, complete with a heater and queen-sized bed. After 36 hours of no sleep, this offer was tempting. They accepted, got a good night’s rest. In the morning they showered in the house, and had breakfast with Ed and Mona.

Grandpa and grandma started in on Josh as though he were guilty of high treason. Accused him of lying, intentionally planning to stay with their aunt and uncle instead of them. Josh had the foresight to take actual pictures of their campsite, but it was all for naught. They told him he was going to hell, and they were cutting him out of their will. Josh insisted that Colleen go wait in the car. Then he finished severing the tenuous thread of what remained between him and his grandparents.

How can you treat family you claim to love like this? Josh drove 1,100 miles to see his grandparents, this is what happened in less than 24 hours. What do I say to these crazy people after they treat my adult children this way? This was so much harder than when they treated me badly. God they were hard to be around, let alone love.

I’d known quite young, soon after Larry died, that Mom had some serious mental issues. Once on the way to Sheldon, she told me that she was “sot” of living and was going to kill us both. This was after me “zhanicking” (begging and whining continuously for several days) for new shoes. We were in our ’63 Chevy on hi-way 18, heading east at about 100 miles per hour. I was 12. Never been so scared. Terrified of my Mom. I knew how fragile her mental state was, still, to me, it was Dad who kept dropping the ball. First, not getting the help she so desperately needed years earlier. Later, when Mom continuously got cranked-up with these bizarre, out in left field, crazy ideas. He should have calmly pointed out these were their beloved grandchildren. They should have been ecstatic that ANYONE still wanted and would come to visit them. But he bought into her crazy shit ideas, which doubled-up the looney bin.

Really, after these things happened I can’t believe I encouraged him to move here when Mom died. And I’d do it again. But I feel really bad for my kids. Unstable couple of nuts for grandparents who tended to go off the deep-end frequently. Still, for the most part though, we had loved them…

When Shannon was 3, something strange happened. Other people’s babies were suddenly cute again. To me that meant one thing: I was ready to have another child. Went off the pill. Still took a few months to get pregnant. That was ok cause Shannon was not quite self-sufficient yet, or very good at cooking supper. Getting there though. But this isn’t a story about Joshua, our middle kid. (Don’t get a complex Josh, your stories are coming). When Josh turned 3, babies still weren’t cute. Instead, he was starting pre-school, and would be gone a couple hours, 2 mornings a week. Shannon was in grade school. I felt a giddy sense of freedom. No more diapers or cribs.

Joshua 3, 1978…

A few months later though I was having a health issue. A couple days a month I couldn’t sit, sneeze, cough without considerable pain, or wear anything besides loose clothes. Stomach hurt bad. Went to the doctor. He wanted to know why I was on the birth control pills I was taking? (Who’s the doctor here? Trying NOT to get pregnant dipstick) “They worked fine after I had Shannon, so I asked for them again after Joshua was born,” I said. “Those pills are 10 times stronger than we’re giving women now,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons you feel so rotten in the middle of the month. Your body is not able to cycle right because they’re way too strong. You have to stop taking them.” “But what should I do about birth control?” I asked. He shrugged, “you don’t have worry about getting pregnant again. I don’t think you’re even ovulating.” Guess my baby days were over at 28.

Couple months passed and I was back in his office. Dizzy, queasy, seeing black spots before my eyes. He hardly dared walk back into the office after some tests. First thing out of his mouth, “hope you’re not going to get hysterical when I tell you you’re pregnant!” I was not excited. All I could think of was diapers, cribs, and my fleeting freedom which lasted like 2 minutes. John was ecstatic. Sigh. (Side note: Joshua spilled the beans about this pregnancy early to my mom. She was furious that we were adding to our family and didn’t speak to me for 5 months. Peaceful, but short-lived).

Soon I had a change of heart. If I wasn’t happy that God was giving us another baby, that was just wrong. I zipped down to Sernett’s, a small department store in Spencer and bought a couple packs of some new-fangled baby wear. Novel idea, Onesies, in pale yellow, mint green and baby blue. Yup, I was over the doldrums. Another baby would be great. I was 8 months pregnant in August. Big as a barn, literally. See for yourself.

No one in their right mind tries to have a baby in August or September. Going through a hot, humid Iowa summer, wearing the tent instead of sleeping in one. Went in for routine check-up and had my first pelvic exam in several months. Dr. Quack looked concerned and said the baby’s head appeared very small, and he needed an X-Ray. It showed baby’s tiny feet deep in my pelvis, his head under my right boob. “Not to worry,” said Quack. “I can turn the baby.” He put his hands around the baby’s head (on the outside of my belly) and slowly worked his hands down to my pelvis. Ok, needed another X-Ray. While waiting for that to be developed, I watched baby’s head moon-walk the other direction to his favorite hang-out spot. Quack came back in, saw where the stubborn little twerp was and said, “I think there might be something wrong with the baby. His head should be tucked down towards his chest, but he’s looking straight up your throat with his head tilted way back. It’s not normal or right.” You can imagine what I was picturing in my mind, worried sick. Quack then said he was done trying to turn the baby. This was my third baby, I shouldn’t have any trouble giving birth.

Joshua 4, Shannon almost 9, 1979…

John thought otherwise. He was STRONGLY opposed to me having this baby in Spencer. Small town, little hospital, plus the Quack thing. John wanted to take me to Sioux Falls or Sioux City, each about a 100 miles away. That didn’t sound appealing. Too far from the kids. Shannon was almost 9, Josh 4-1/2. I got my way, but there wasn’t much to feel good about in this decision.

I’ll try not to freak you out with too-many-objectionable-graphic-details-with-the-rest-of-my-story. I was advised to get to the hospital pronto when labor started. My water broke in bed a few days past my due date. (Only Josh arrived on time and easily) We hustled to the hospital. After 4 or 5 hours, baby decided it was time to s-l-o-w-l-y make his grand entrance. One foot popped out. Just the one. Facing the wrong direction. (Little Dude really, could have used some help here) Quack had the answer for this too. He reached in (ouch) grabbed the other foot, took both feet and twisted hard to turn the baby facing down. This was 35 years ago, but the description of what that felt like remains the same and spine-tinglingly vivid. Getting hit in the lower back with a sledge hammer.

Nature intended when the biggest part of baby (shoulders) were out, the cervix starts closing. (This is where the song, head & shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes got invented) Unfortunately for this-feet-first-baby, after the shoulders came his head, which now would not and could not come out. Quack’s assistant, Messup jumped on the table, straddled me (not in a kinky way, honest I wasn’t doing very well at all) pushed and pushed on my belly, (black and blue weeks later) and finally the Van Berkum’s had their new baby boy. His head was a little smashed, he had newborn tremors, I couldn’t stop bawling, but we were both ok. Thanks God, appreciated your help that day. Had I been living on the prairie in the 1800’s, I don’t think either one of us would have made it. In retrospect, I should have gone to a specialist and had a C-section. Something John still brings up once in a while.

The addition of little Adam marked the beginning of our-elite-family-of-5. We no longer fit in a restaurant booth without an extra seat. Four-per-pack-tickets didn’t cut the mustard. If you thought there was a big difference between having one and two children, the difference between 2 and 3 was enormous. For the next decade, anytime any one of the 3 were gone for ANY reason, school project, grandma’s house, day trip with a friend’s family, using the bathroom, it was an automatic reason for celebration for the rest of us. Didn’t have to be a biggie, just something. Go out for ice cream, or sit in a restaurant booth and order water. Nothing against any one of the 3, but everything was easier in our family when there were equal amounts of parents versus children.

Josh 4-1/2, Adam 3 mon. Shannon 9, 1979…

Adam might not have been planned, but he certainly wasn’t an accident either. Getting him here was tough, but we were so lucky to have him. He deserved the game ball. We had our 5-man-roster…

We were in for some big changes when we moved to Michigan in 1987. One I still can’t get used to is Eastern Time Zone. Mid-June it doesn’t get dark here until 10:30. Then the news comes on at 11. Just not right.

Muskegon’s Lighthouse, Lake Michigan…

Michigan’s weather was similar, but Iowa was still the winner in heat and humidity during the summer, and colder temps in the winter. Michigan might get the nod in the we-got-more-snow-award-nah-nah, but Iowa usually wins any “extreme” category. Soil was different too. I was used to seeing inky black Iowa dirt, best in the world for growing crops and feeding millions. Now we were surrounded by sandy beige soil everywhere. Looks like a spec house, let’s-keep-all-things-neutral. Great though for all the fruit growers here, and a canner’s paradise.

Sunset looking west from Muskegon to Lake Michigan…

Education was a big wake-up call after we moved. Shannon was 16 and had been in an accelerated program in Iowa. Basically, there weren’t many classes that Jackson Public Schools could offer. I don’t remember where Iowa and Michigan were on the state’s education ranking scale, but Iowa was closer to the top than Michigan. Shannon spent most of her 2-1/2 years there by herself, doing independent studies, or taking courses at Jackson Community College. Worked out great when she tested out of almost 2 years of college by the time she was at Michigan State. Things you take for granted until you don’t have them anymore.

The most beautiful resource in this part of the state is Lake Michigan. Part of the 5-pack-Great-Lakes that accounts for almost 20% of the world’s fresh water. (Nothing against my favorite spot east of the Mississippi, Niagara Falls). Lake Michigan is the only one of the “Greats” that is wholly contained in the U.S. She can be as flat as a pancake, or have 15-20 foot waves, ranging in color from sage to olive green, steel grey to brown, turquoise to royal blue.

Breathtaking isn’t it? The color grey usually means trouble in a weather sort of way. Brown means strong winds from the west and we’re getting tons of sand from Milwaukee. I have been smitten with her since we moved to North Muskegon 20 years ago. Although I love LOOKING at her, doesn’t mean I like BEING ON her. She’s 600 feet deep. Who needs that? Not this keppi-strunt Iowa Dutch girl. Plus I have a huge problem with boats without brakes! Where’s the engineering genius in that?

Guess the main reason I love being by the big lake still has deep ties to my upbringing in Iowa. No one ever gives much thought to looking across the horizon in Iowa. Try it, you can see FOREVER. Once I moved to Michigan that huge difference was very apparent. We have a lot of water in and around Michigan. The Great Lakes, (each one totally awesome) plus hundreds of smaller lakes. But what isn’t doused in water seems to be covered with trees. Billions of trees. Going down a 2-lane hi-way reminds me of a Stephen King novel. Trees on both sides of the road, filling up the ditches, getting all touchy-feely in the middle of the road above you.

Creeps me out. Wasn’t what I was used to, not being able to see 2 feet in front of my face. The only place a good old Iowa girl can see any distance at all is by Lake Michigan. Trust me, they’ve probably tried to grow trees there too. Days that are very windy, first thought that pops into my head-gotta go visit the big lake. Huge white-caps rolling in, sounds of the waves, and blowing sand reminds me of very fine snow (fine as in small, not as in wonderful) of an Iowa blizzard.

I’ve gotten quite demanding with my wind issues here in west Michigan. Love it windy during the day, but want it calm at night. Then the city lights from Muskegon reflect off the water and ripple right up to our back yard. Absolutely stunning! Hey God, don’t ask for much do I? Always surprised (and thoroughly disgusted) when I happen to mention I’m headed to “The Lake.” Folks around here casually say, “gee, haven’t been there for a couple years.” What? We’re a tad over a mile away by boat, maybe 4 miles by car. How can you not go gaze at one of God’s most awesome bodies of water-ever? (Gotta learn how to compel people like in True Blood, but without becoming a vamp) When the wind is howling, there’s something very peaceful about watching the lake just for a few minutes. Makes me feel small, even insignificant, but in a very good, spiritual way.

I’ve always maintained that Lake Michigan has some identity issues. She’s so big, she likes to throw her (water) weight around by making her OWN weather. (She’s been pitching for her own series on The Weather Channel for years). This puts her on a major power trip. We don’t get a lot of sunny days here, another biggie I miss terribly about Iowa. The day may start out sunny at 7 am, but before noon the clouds are everywhere. Many days are glum, and we’ll have several in a row. Depressing. During our long, seemingly endless winter, the rest of the state will be getting the predicted 4-6 inches of snow. Most winters though, Lake Michigan’s open water temperature is warmer than the air. So as a cruel joke on us for living so close to her, she produces extra snow (lake-effect) by the lakeshore. Ha-ha. Yup, she’s a card alright with a wicked sense of humor. We may get 12-20 inches instead of the 4. She’s pretty powerful and knows it. Tends to flaunt it now and then. I’ve always thought it was either an inferiority complex because she’s not the biggest, or she’s just pissed off because she wasn’t named Superior…

We moved to Michigan in 1987. This was by far the best thing ever for our marriage. Put some distance (about 750 miles) between me and the folks. We still saw them often. Mom and Dad were in a competition with each other over our kids, odd quirk of their marriage. They each preferred to visit us alone. Mom came for a visit, Dad stayed home. Whenever one of them returned to Rock Valley, they would make each other jealous by repeating cute grandkid stories, weird, but that’s the way they did it. When Dad came he usually had an ulterior motive. Yup, me and the fam were in hot competition with 7,000 inmates at Jackson’s prison. We lost every time, but he was happy and fulfilled. He planned months in advance for a speaking engagement there on a Sunday. When he was visiting he often helped with improvements on our house too. Always a good handyman, except for those odd steps of his.

Lots of trees and leaves. Jackson, 1988…