The Grapes of Riddle...

It all started at The Canary, a bar in North Muskegon. Unlikely location for this non-drinker, as I've been in the joint maybe 3 times in the 20 plus years we lived there. It was Hubs. He'd stop after work for a beer a couple times a week, along with the cronies he'd meet there. Shooting the shit about everything from work, hunting, guns, to cars and on certain rare (I hope) occasions, his better half-me.

The Canary Bar, North Muskegon...

His name was Ken. I guess you'd call him a fringe friend. Ken was at The Canary on a regular basis. I don't really know how 'bar talk' works. A group of guys sitting in the general vicinity of each other, joining in conversations now and then. So that's how Hubs met Ken. I really don't remember meeting him the first time. Most likely John came home with stories about this guy or that couple, so by the time I actually met Ken, it felt like I already knew him.

Something Hubs might bring to The Canary. Salsa & chips to share...

John would occasionally bring canned goods to the bar to share. Sometimes our super hot pickled asparagus. He would open a quart and pass it around, accepting the 'oohs and ahhs' on my behalf. Other times I'd pack a box with a couple dozen jars of miscellaneous canned goods, pickles, beets and jams. The guys who happened to be there that day would divide the jars up and take home. Ken admired me (not in a weird way) I guess from the things John said (they never mentioned anything derogatory to my face) over the years. My job as Parish Visitor, visiting the elderly, homebound people from the church. I always brought folks some baked or canned goodies. That wasn't part of my job, it was just part of me. I couldn't visit anyone without bringing them something to eat.

My usual basket of goodies when I went visiting...

Several years ago, Ken called and asked if he could buy and bring over the fixings for a Thanksgiving dinner. Would I see that a needy family get his and Karen's gift? No problem. I'd relay the offer to our pastor. If no one in our congregation needed the meal, he'd pass the offer to an appropriate agency. I'd get the food box from Ken, bring it to church a few days before Thanksgiving. The pastor would do the rest. I never knew where it went, but think I received a thank you a couple of times, and passed that along to Ken, who seemed somewhat embarrassed. Every year until we moved Ken did this good deed.

Much of the bar conversations involved old cars. This is in Le Mars, Iowa, the day John (with Les) bought our 1964 Corvette, 1992...

The same year the food gift box tradition started, Ken had called me in October. "Hey Denise, would you like some of our grapes? It's been a bumper crop. We have way too many." Though I never worked with grapes before, I blurted out, "wow, sure Ken, thanks!" Oh my goodness, what had I done? When I walked out the front door the next morning for my walk, there on the deck were 2 bushels of grapes. Unless you're a canner or winemaker, you have no idea how many fricking grapes that is. Got out my trusty canning books to learn the art of making grape jelly. Although I got Ken's grapes every year for a good decade, they were never again placed at my feet, on the front porch, so to speak. Ken would call John, ask to speak to me, tell me the grapes were ready anytime in the next few days. "Better bring a couple of boxes and scissors along when you come to pick grapes." Some years there were tons, other years the crop was lean for one reason or another. Since I keep a journal of my canning exploits, I believe that first year yielded 500 ounces, about 4 gallons. Yes, that's 4 gallons of grape juice. Way to break me in Ken. During that winter and spring, I never left the house without a few jars of grape jelly to give away. Bumper crop indeed.

The lowly little Concord grape...

About the cheapest product (ok, not counting Ramen Noodles) in the grocery store is grape jelly. A staple for school lunches across America. Since the grapes were free, I could compete. I still needed boatloads of sugar, pectin, jars and lids. But I never realized how much work is involved with grapes. Ken's grapes were a little different too. He actually grew 3 varieties. The Concord accounted for about 90%, but there was a reddish grape and a green grape in the mix. I am convinced that's what made my grape jelly so stinking good. Just added a little zip with those 2 other grape varieties. But grapes are messy. You've got to wash, de-stem, and smash them, keeping the skins and seeds. Throw them in a huge pot with a bit of water and simmer for a few minutes. The house smells incredible at this point. But the work has just begun.

Concords before I start working on them...

After simmering, the grapes are now juice, but still have all the seeds, some pulp and skins in the pot. Carefully I ladle this hot mess in a colander covered with a damp, doubled cheesecloth. You have to be patient here because this step can't be rushed. I don't want to squeeze the grapes or force the juice through the cheesecloth too fast. This makes my jelly cloudy. There goes competing with the grocery store. After a couple hours of dripping juice, I toss the skins and pulp. But I'm still not ready for jelly. I must be out of my freaking mind. Sigh. I pour this beautiful purple juice in plastic jugs and plop them in the fridge overnight. The simple grape produces something after they've been cooked. Just my luck. Why not? It's called a tartrate crystal. Actually pretty but another way to ruin the looks of my jelly (or wine I think). The crystals look like maroon sequins. They adhere to the sides and bottom of the plastic jugs. So I carefully pour (again) the cold juice through another damp cheesecloth, leaving the empty jugs holding the sequin crystals. I know, isn't it easier to spend $1.99 on 2 pounds of Welch's? Maybe, but I'm convinced my jelly has superior taste. And I love to can. Yeah, there's that.

Such a slow process for one of the easiest things I can...

When Ken started giving me grapes, Landon was 6 or 7, Peyton was about 3 and in Montessori preschool. The kids thought it would be fun to come over and make grape jelly with grandma. Shannon brought some fancy shaped jelly jars for their teacher's Christmas gifts. Landon and Peyton were not content to just help with jelly part. To them, the real fun was in the smashing part. So they'd come for the weekend because we had to wait for the tartrate crystals to form overnight, then rid the juice of those little buggars before we could start making jelly.

Cute jar of grape jelly...

Picture, if you will, (I sound like Rod Serling don't I?) 2 kids, 2 step-stools, 2 potato mashers, 2 tubs of sticky purple grapes. Landon and Peyton each wore old t-shirts over their clothes as the grape juice squirted. I mean squirted like a super water gun on steroids. Everywhere. Really. Each year they came to make jelly, there were grape stains. ON MY KITCHEN CEILING. I kid you not. Still some of my best memories and times with those 2. Luckily they grew weary of the smashing part after a few minutes. Shannon and I would finish, cook, strain and clean up the kitchen. Landon and Peyton would watch a movie with grandpa. Usually, Shannon and I would make a dozen apple pies to split after the kids went to bed. The next day we'd make a couple batches of jelly. I'd wait to can the rest after they went back to Jackson. Landon and I would studiously go over the steps of jelly making, so he could convince his teacher he made the jelly himself as a gift for her. That little family tradition lasted about 5 happy years. I really miss making jelly with them. Hadn't thought about that for years. Change. Everything always changes.

Peyton 3, Ari 15, Landon 7, the era of family jelly making...

Funny how I never equated Ken, the fringe friend, good hearted, grape guy with the impact he had on my life, (and the grandkids). How Ken probably overheard a simple conversation about John's-elderly-visiting-canning-wife and was compelled to get involved and offer his own gifts. Ken called and asked me if I wanted his grapes last year. But we had just moved here and still had boxes everywhere. So I apologized and sadly declined. This is the first year I've ever had to buy grapes to make jelly. Ouch. Not sure I'm competitive with Meijer prices anymore. But it was fun and I'd like to think my grape jelly is still better than store bought. Thanks for all those years of grapes, Ken. And the marvelous memories, my fringe friend...

The dastardly tartrate crystals...

Small World...

Just a titch over a year. Wow, it's gone really fast. I equate the 3 years prior like an uncomfortable, never ending 9th month of pregnancy. With the baby still snuggly inside and perched on your bladder. Kneading their tiny toes in it from all angles. Just testing your mettle to see if you could make it to the bathroom in time. Honing their skills with sharp elbows, knees, and feet, trying to earn a black belt in karate before the day of their birth. That one month lasts exactly 1,453 days. Hubs and I were so anxious to be gone from Muskegon. I feel kinda bad about that. We lived there for 21 years, but were ready to move after 18 years. For reasons I still don't understand, we were literally stuck in North Muskegon for another 3 years. A dead zone.

Wish my belly would have looked this good for any of my 3 pregnancies. As if. Where are the stretch marks?

Nobody's fault. We just couldn't get out of Muskegon. We had a lovely home with a lovely yard, on a lovely lake. That I grew to dislike. Which is the part that makes me feel bad. That home was part of us for the biggest chunk of our marriage so far. Adam was a sophomore when we moved, Josh was at Michigan State, Shannon was in her mid-20's. A single mom to toddler Ari, they came often to visit on the weekends. But none of the kids ever felt that real tug of attachment to our lake house. That part of family life in a home with 3 growing children belonged to Spencer, Davenport and Jackson. That's where we made the scratch marks on the doorways to show how much each of them had grown during the previous year. Heck, everyone but Adam was done growing by the time we called North Muskegon home. Ok, tiny fib. Fess up time. I wasn't finished growing outwards, but I was done with the upwards part. Sigh.

We did little else but drive across the state for one reason or another. Oh we wanted to do the things the drive required. Watch a middle school basketball game of Landon's. Accept the invitation from Peyton to enjoy a program for (name a holiday). And we watched our youngest grandson, Graham, then a toddler at least once a month, sometimes every other week. Plus visits to Josh and Erica in Detroit or spend time with our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. But all these dear family members lived between 150 and 175 miles east of us. Every one of them.

Graham 3, ready for trick or treating, 2012...

I want to be able to look back, and reminisce about the years in North Muskegon without these negative feelings I still have about living there. Waiting for that stuff to pass. We had some great years there, but by the time Uber-realtor Mary finally hooked up the SOLD sign, we were so far past being weepy or sad about leaving. We just wanted to get the heck out of Dodge. My hope is after awhile the memories I conjure up will be of more happy times. Family get togethers, working at McDonald's, visiting the elderly and enjoying our nice lake home. But those warm fuzzy feelings haven't hit me yet. Still, better than lamenting an unwanted move and being miserable about it.

Which brings me to the present and our little house. I guess the reason the year went so darn fast is because we didn't stop working on the joint for 2 minutes. Just so much to do, before and after we moved in. We knew several years ago if and when we ever moved, we were gonna do a smaller house on one level. I really wanted a condo but Hubs was not yet ready to give up all that fun stuff I call yard work. Crazy goofball. Well, if it was going to be a house, then the yard had to be smaller and easier to take care of. Living on a lake was quite a bit of work. In and out with the dock every spring and fall, upkeep on the sea wall, hard water rust stains, sprinkler heads needing to be replaced. Constant care to maintain green grass (John is anal about his lawn with nary a weed) on 4 inches of topsoil over sand, sand and more sand. With just as many spiders as grains of sand. The spiders never bothered me too much as long as they were smalller than the bottom of my shoe. Once in a while it was hard to tell as they often wrapped all 8 adorable legs around the sides of my shoe as I squished them hard enough to crack the cement driveway.

Steel toed shoes were a must when the spiders threatened to over power me...

So we bought a small ranch in a quiet neighborhood just east of Jackson. It's very close to where we wanted to be. I would have preferred to be another 15-20 miles east, but I swear every mile east from here is another 10 grand per hundred square feet. Insane. Ann Arbor is one of the most expensive cities to live in or near. We got a lot more house the closer we stayed to Jackson. Since we lived in Jackson from 1987 to 1994 before we moved to North Muskegon, we knew the area and have friends here. It was a good choice and fit.

My little ballerina in the early years. Peyton, 2008...

But it was our second choice. We bid on another house a few miles away first and both really wanted it. It needed about as much work as the one we got. The yard was about twice the size as this place, which made me hesitant for all the work that part would entail. For John. Made it clear decades ago, I don't do yard work, unless I'm forced. I don't know how to start the lawn tractor or the snow blower. Never used either one and I'm fine with that. Actually kind of smug about that strange fact. I do a lot of stuff inside the house. If I'm outside, you can safely ascertain, I'm not working.

Mot my idea of fun times. Back yard with leaves-r-us, 2016...

I liked the layout of the the other ranch better when we were bidding. Since we've lived here for a year, I may have changed my mind. The other house had a bigger living room. But no family room. After living in our lake home for 2 decades and virtually using the formal living room only during Christmas season, I thought I was ready to give up that seldom used space. The house we bought has a living room and and a family room. I'm kinda surprised to find myself spending some time each day in the little antique filled living room. I read the morning paper, blog, take a power nap after work in it. After supper I'm in the family room with John. It seems to work for us.

You ever put on an old shirt you wore several years ago? Sometimes it's kind of an uncomfortable feeling. The back across your shoulder blades seems unusually tight. You keep wanting to pull the sleeves down a little, they're just not long enough anymore. You tug at the front of the shirt because your unattractive muffin-top shows off the rolls of your belly that you swear weren't there just a few months ago. That feeling is similar to one I experience once in a while about our house. I'm gonna burst out of this house completely because it's just not quite big enough. I want the bedroom to be a couple of feet bigger. More walking around room because I'm selfish and have insisted on keeping too many antiques. Plus I'm still missing the one antique I swore would fit at the end of our bed. Well it doesn't, unless I want to climb over the bed to get out of the door. The kitchen can drive me a bit batty when I'm in the middle of a baking or canning spree. There is literally no more room. I cannot find one square inch to put another baking sheet of cookies or 7 jars from the canner. If the family room was just another 2 foot longer, or wider, the humongous flat screen would appear less domineering (that's my job). It's like Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. Busting out of his little Bill Bixby denim shirt.

Hulk-less and not quite so green. Bill Bixby...

But those 'wearing a shirt that's too stinking tight' are rare occasions. For the most part, I smile everyday and thank the good Lord the house in North Muskegon finally sold and we are here. Close to the family. We can watch Peyton in choir, volleyball or ballet. She's dancing in The Nutcracker in a couple weeks. Enjoy Landon's sporting events. His first basketball game is in early December. Not to worry, I'll keep you posted. I'm giddy with anticipation. Or I can hop in the car for 30 minutes and be at Adam, Graham and Sarah's house. A bit longer and we're at Josh & Erica's new place. Here. Right here. It's a smaller world after all. And I'm loving it...

Sing a Song of Six Pence...

It was in one of the last boxes from the storage unit Hubs found in the garage. We're both still missing specific items, neither of which unfortunately, were in this box. Dang. I've long been fascinated with old toys ranging from pedal cars to rattles, and have had oodles of miscellaneous toys over the years. But as we've moved and downsized, I've have gotten rid of most of them. This little cutie was somehow over looked and sat forlornly on the bottom of the box. I was tickled pink to see it again.

To the babies, this is what nightmares are made of. When I sing...

The 'pie' was made by Mattel in 1953, so it's pretty close to my age. When you wind the little crank, black birds pop up through the holes while it plays the tune to the song. You know when you hear a song from your past if you're in the mall or your car? The melody or lyrics instantly bring you back to the people, times, feelings and emotions, even smells that single tune meant for you at one time. Sometimes a euphoric feeling, while another song may still cause pain after all these years. Well, Sing a Song of Six Pence did none of that. It did however, make me smile. I don't even remember where or how long ago I bought this little toy. My guess would be a garage sale with my friend Mary Ellen when we lived in Davenport 30 years ago. Might have paid a buck or 2 for it.

Here I am in 1953 with my Dad. Same time as the pie was produced...

I found the Sing a Song of Six Pence pie in the box about 3 months ago. Since that day, the song tune has been popping in and out of my head. That's 90 days and counting. One might think this is debilitating. Au contraire. The new tune merely plays havoc with the loud noises already in my head. 24/7. A chain saw on one side and a dentist drill on the other. The song has actually been a nice distraction. But I'm not the one who's really feeling the pain of that monotonous little ditty so much.

I thought 'my problem' with said song had something to do with the dinky town of Dyersville, Iowa. I know that's just weird, right? When John and I drove through Iowa in September, some of our stops were in the surrounding little towns near Dyersville. We lived amongst the Catholics during the mid-70's. While I was feeling all nostalgic about some of our former residences, Hubs was determined to visit the movie set from Field of Dreams, which is right outside of Dyersville. If you've not seen the movie (what's wrong with you 2 anyway?) it's really endearing and worth a couple hours of your time. A magical baseball movie. Kevin Costner, Amy Madigan and one of my favorites, Ray Liotta.

Kevin makes the best baseball movies. Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, For Love of the Game...

The flick came out 25 years ago, yet the movie set remains intact and still visited frequently by passersby. The set looks exactly like it did in the movie. It helped that it was early September and the corn was still very tall and green. I could visualize the long line of cars waiting patiently in the dark to move forward during the movie. And I can hear one of the famous quotes from Shoeless Joe Jackson asking, "is this heaven?" Costner's character, Ray answers, "no, it's Iowa!" Wow. I bought a commemorative T-shirt after a few minutes of walking around the baseball diamond, and was ready to move on. But John was dinking around. Yak, yak yak with the clerk at the gift shop about the time we graced their fair city. And the crazy brothers Hubs worked for back in the day. Reflecting back, I think some kind of magical spell was cast over me. Heeby-jeebies. Didn't think about The Field of Dreams or Sing a Song of Six Pence until we got back to Michigan.

The magic of Field of Dreams, 1989...

There are some problems when one is profoundly deaf, but I can't really blame my singing ability. I don't know how I ever made the choir in school or church when I was young. OK, the town was very small and being part of both were almost a requirement. There is that. But I've never really been been able to carry a tune or harmonize. Usually when one loses their hearing, most of their ability of carrying a tune leaves the building. I've heard folks who sang beautiful solos all their life, and have now lost most of their hearing. They can't carry a tune anymore. I think they're flat, but not positive. And I'm hearing impaired. Wonder how they sound to normal eared folks?

My Field of Dreams souvenir last month...

But that has not stopped me at work. Might be the reason everyone else is our room is now sporting ear plugs. Just kidding. I like to sing to the babies. A lot. While I'm giving them a bottle, rocking, or walking them to sleep. The trick is to sing quietly enough so the other caregivers can remain sane, yet the baby can hear me. Another problem is the material. We all know the Grimm brother's fairy tales are usually just that. Pretty grim. So are the silly songs I sing. So now we have a deaf person, singing off tune, and changing the lyrics along the way so not to cause nightmares. (For the babies and my co-workers). Desperate times folks call for desperate measures.

I knew the first verse plus 2 lines of the second to Sing a Song of Six Pence.

"Sing a song of Six Pence, a pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie." (That alone is chilling)

"When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing." (they're alive and still have their innards intact? Blech).

"Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?"

"The king was in the counting house, counting all his money.

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey."

And this is where I got stuck. Could not remember the next 2 lines. So I looked it up. (My eyes, my eyes)

"The maid was in the garden, hanging up the clothes.

When down swooped a raven and bit off her nose!"

Well holy shit, I couldn't sing it THAT way. So I just changed it to,

"When down swooped a raven and nipped her on the nose."

My little off-kilter singing repertoire also includes: "You are my Sunshine," "Jack & Jill went up a Hill," "It's me, it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer!" "Itsy-Bitsy Spider," "Twinkle, twinkle little star," and the famous, "Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree." But Sing a Song of Six Pence remains my favorite. (Much to everyone's chagrin).

Rocking a baby to sleep while singing to them is my absolute favorite part of the day. Luckily for me this happens several times each day. The baby is on their side, sometimes patting me with their arm that's underneath. (An unbelievable feeling, almost makes me weep). Or looking at me in disbelief and picking at my shirt or face. Probably trying to claw my face or at the very least, close my mouth. And wondering how it's humanly possible for me to screech like that? (Plus pleading, "Lord, what did I do to deserve this? Seriously God, why me?") Such babies.

I've been rocking babies for 45 years. Rocking Adam in 1979...

Well the little stinkers went rogue this week. Went in cahoots with each other on my day off (probably with the help of several coworkers) and appointed a spokesman who usually speaks total gibberish. Which, until our little talk, consisted of "ga." He's a real charmer alright. Dark brown eyes, a smile that lights up a room and a big dimple. Just in case his eyes weren't enough to make you melt, he sports 6 inch long black eyelashes for good measure. No lie. Yup, I'm a goner. He told me in no uncertain terms, "you have no magical power, when it comes to putting me or my crew to sleep quickly. None of us want to hurt your feelings, but self preservation won over the masses. It's your off tune voice!" He concluded, "we have adapted rather quickly and now are able to close our eyes, slow our breathing and limit all movement. Pretending to be asleep. For one very simple reason. SO YOU'LL STOP SINGING. FOR ALL THAT IS SACRED AND HOLY. PLEASE. STOP. SINGING. We love you but it's just too much. I'm sorry. We're all sorry. But please-keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby. Chop, chop"...

I'm Dyeing Here...

It started before I hit 25. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. And I was a sap about it. Easily wooed, and didn't realize 40 years later, I would still be unable to change my ways. A habit? An addiction? A sick obsession? How could I let this happen? Year after year, decade after decade? I'm a weakling. So easily swayed. I'm embarrassed by my lack of determination. I suck.

 

One of my first attempts at changing my boring hair color. Little did I realize how soon boring brown would become gag-worthy-gray, 1967...

Jack & the Bicycle...

How is it possible this happened so long ago? Fifty-eight years to be exact. October 11, 1958. The day my brother died. Doesn't seem possible. Larry was a happy-go-lucky kid whose death left a gaping hole in my life and my family's. I was 7 and thought my memories of that tragic day were clear and concise. But 2 years ago when I started writing 'Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town' about my life, kids from Rock Valley who are a little older than me have offered their perspective of what happened that fateful day. I'm learning more stories about Larry. Although some new knowledge may be painful at times, ANY tidbits about Larry's life or the day of his death are welcomed and truly appreciated.

 

Me & Larry in 1954...

 

This Do In Remembrance Of Me...

Through 47 years of wedded bliss, we've belonged to some amazing church congregations. The first was a Reformed church in Sioux City. It was the one dating back the farthest, yet I remember the pastor's name. Something I can't seem to retrieve of very many preachers after him. Perhaps because Shannon was instrumental into getting our name well known to the rest of the congregation. She was a little stinker who loved attention, and was not shy how she got it.

 

You can just see the mischief in her beautiful little mug. Shannon, 1973...

The Race Card...

I would say the first 18 years of my life were very sheltered. I was raised in a small, Dutch community in northwest Iowa. Probably calling the whole town of Rock Valley-Dutch-isn't fair. But a very large percentage of that small town was of Dutch descent. The town boasted a beautiful Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran churches, but were highly outnumbered by the amount of Reformed churches. From what I remember, a Calvin, Christian, First, and a Netherlands for sure. So the Dutch outnumbered all the other nationalities by a long ways.

 

After Sunday night RCYF, the teens marched up to this addition to hear the sermon, mid-1960's...

Memes...

I'm relatively new to Facebook. I freely admit, I didn't know what a meme was. And was never interested enough to look it up. Until this week. Meme definition: An image, video, piece of text that is copied, (often with slight variations) and spread rapidly by Internet users. I knew there are sites my friends follow, then pick and share on their home page. That's the stuff I see on my newsfeed. What they currently find interesting, newsworthy, thought provoking, or hilarious on Facebook. I don't do that.

 

Recently, this one really cracked me up...

Ranked, Hairlines & Eggs...

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

 

Landon, showing off his pearly whites, 2016...

Valley Manor...

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

 

Floyd and Florence Wanningen, 1927...

All Star Catcher...

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

 

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

FS, me & G...

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

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

The Kleenex Box...

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

 

Looks innocent enough, right?

From my past...

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

 

iPhone may be smarter than me, but lacks sarcasm...

Pork Rub...

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

 

Josh & Ari, happy in 2016...

Thanks-a-lot...

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

 

My home town...

The Lakes...

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

 

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

The Secret...

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

 

Maternal grandma Berghuis with Florence and Floyd, 1927...

Artsy Isabel & Crazy Renee...

We were just getting used to living in a big city. It was vastly different than the charming town of Spencer, Iowa, population about 10,000. Have to admit though, we all liked it. Miles wise, we had zipped about 300 miles east to the opposite side of the state. Davenport sat on the Mississippi River, a large sprawling city of about 100,000 people. But closely attached (except for that massive body of water) to 3 more cities. In Iowa, Bettendorf, on the Illinois side, Moline and Rock Island. Altogether, aptly named the Quad Cities. Those Iowa-Illinois folks are clever like that.

 

From left, me, Josh, Shannon with Adam in front. Davenport, 1985...

She Works Hard for her Money...

After almost 2 decades of visiting the elderly under the tutelage of 4 subpar bosses, (ministers, et al) I retired in 2013. Except for a 5 month daily stint, helping a wonderful friend named Lois who was recovering before after surgery for compression fractures, I have found retirement quite satisfying.

My dear friend Lois, who lives about an hour away now...

Recipes...

 

I was looking for a recipe the other day. Specifically, Banana Bars. Delicious, easy and a great way to use a couple of over ripe bananas. Most of my recipes are typed, though some are still handwritten. Neatly held in this cute little Longaberger Recipe basket. I started thinking about my friends and family who have shared their recipes with me. Some have been in my life for decades, others zipped through quickly, usually because we moved.

 

The recipe box with all my favorites...

PJ...

So this business of storytelling. The folks reading my blog posts for almost 2 years now, know I write about every facet of my life. Every facet. Growing up in Rock Valley, Iowa, eloping at 18, motherhood, marriage, my life long love of the elderly. The complicated relationships with my Mom, Dad and sister. Not much has been off limits in baring 'all of Neese' in my bizarre little life. Until my stunning, beautiful, smart, sassy, talented, soon-to-be-12-year-old granddaughter, Peyton put the brakes on my writing. Have I mentioned she's a bit assertive? Wonder who in the world she inherited that trait from?

 

Peyton, my little Ballerina, 2005...

Thru the Years...

About the time I hit third grade, Mom went to work full time. As a treat, or maybe because Mom and Dad were exhausted, we started going out for supper every weekend. Always on Saturday night. Various restaurants, different towns. From the tiny blink and you missed it, Perkins Corner, Rock Rapids, Sioux Center, Hull, to Canton, S.D. Generally, I got to invite a friend along. I don't remember who picked the location. Probably Mom. She was more adventuresome in trying new foods. As I remember Dad ordered a hamburger steak wherever we ate. I think he was about 70 before we convinced him to try a slice of pizza for the first time.

 

Mom and Dad as newlyweds, 1942...

Hoop-LA's...

I assume other states do these rankings. The only one I've ever noticed is the Sunday Parade Magazine All-American ranking of the current sport. (BTW, what's up with Parade Magazine these days? It's scrawny, and I miss the guest writers on the back page). I think this group of athletes are usually high school seniors. Anyway, some Michigan group does high school basketball rankings during the season. I don't know if they do younger than 8th grade, but Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) was ranked 40th last year.

 

Northwest basketball, ranked 40th in the state, 2015...

Moments...

We've all experienced moments which are truly special in our lives. Some big, some small, some as a nation, though most are personal. Thinking about my small moments, some stand out with such clarity at the strangest times, it literally takes my breath away. Accompanied by tears once in a while, but not always sad.

 

Adam and me delivering papers in 1989. Drawing by Jack, a customer...

Charmed...

My Mom was a neat-nick. There was no clutter in our house. Her early American furniture was polished, hardwood floors dusted on hands and knees daily. Window washing was a weekly task, unless horrendous weather prevailed. She used some concoction with vinegar and newspapers to dry them. Because newspapers left no streaks.

 

Mom catching some rays in California, 1961...

The Boot...

You've been waiting patiently for an update. I know. It's just been a blah February slump. But it's time to give you the latest information on the kid who's a basketball whiz. And my grandson.

I'm anxiously awaiting his electrifying return to the court...

4-Squares-a-day...

I've touched on part of this story a couple of times since I've been blogging. How strongly I felt about motherhood. A compelling issue (barring any infertility complications) was when to have kids. I did not want to be an old mom, thus no kids after I turned thirty. You have to remember, I had yet to reach my 19th birthday. Sure is different 45 years later. Some gals don't think about childbearing until their late 30's or early 40's. Even more important to me was not having my kids close together. Could not visualize maintaining my sanity if I had more than one child in diapers. I know this was not the norm, but I felt very strongly about it. Still do.

Shannon, about 5...