My life-1 snapshot at a time...

So one of my hometown childhood friends challenged me on Facebook a couple weeks ago. Nothing as exciting as a duel with black powder guns at dawn. The challenge was to show a black and white picture from my life. One picture a day for a week. Pictures without any people in them. Yikes. But even worse than no people in the shots, no explanations allowed describing the pictures! Double yikes. I’m a wordy person, I need to try and explain everything. In bulk. Multiple times.

Neese, 3-1/2...

Ah-So...

I’m not very adventurous. I don’t like heights, boats, (hey, there’s no brakes) roller coasters, or even scary movies. Although this seems more pronounced as I age, I’ve pretty much been like this my whole life. That enticing scraggly bridge across a gorge, or zip lining through a jungle are not on my bucket list. About the most daring thing I’ve ever done was scuba diving in Cancun. And the instructor led me by the hand under 20 amazing feet of the Caribbean and did everything but breathe for me.

Me about the time we vacationed in California in 1961...

Scraps...

Some new traditions developed when we lived on the farm. The year was 1976, John and I were in year 7 of wedded bliss. Shannon was in kindergarten and Joshua had just turned 1. Of all the places we ever rented before buying a home, the 2 story farm house was one of the nicest. But also one of the most isolated. Hubs was working in Cedar Rapids which was about 40 miles away. This farm was several miles outside of Cascade, Iowa. In sticksville.

Shannon 7, Joshua 2 on the farm, 1977...

Breakfast Freak...

We all have them. Personalized, unique to our upbringing, environment, fetish-whatever. In my head I own my quirks. They’re part of what makes me-me. But when I think about them realistically, I realize it would be very rare for someone else not to share what feels like it belongs to me alone.

My first attempt at chocolate mud pie for breakfast, 1954...

Commercialized...

It was September, 2013. Our house in North Muskegon had been on the market for 6 months. Essentially we had been guaranteed a quick sale with a move most likely by Labor Day. Well that didn’t happen. We were already sorely disappointed, and didn’t have a clue it would be another 2 long, miserable years before we were finally able to move.

Ari 3 in the back of our North Muskegon house, 1994...

The Fork...

It's sneaky fast and virtually un-noticeable. By the time you realize it, years have slipped through your fingers. What happened? One minute you're in the middle of moving 800 miles east of Iowa and raising 3 kids. The next minute (I swear) you're celebrating your 48th anniversary. There's no way we've been married that long. Weren't we just the brave young couple who defied my parents and eloped?

Mull of Kintyre...

Not many days go by where I don't spend at a few minutes reminiscing/ reflecting about something from my home town. I have not called Rock Valley home since 1969. Yet it remains of utmost importance in many facets of my life, nearly a half century later. I suppose this midwest town can easily be summed up as one of thousands of small rural, farming communities. The heartland of America. With a twist of course.

At the time I certainly didn't think there was anything unusual about my town. It was just a normal little community. We had town kids (I was one and didn't know what a soybean looked like-or cared) but many of my classmates grew up in the country-outside of our little shopping Mecca/swimming pool/park/school. They lived on farms with their parents, growing the best corn crops/cattle/hogs on earth. No, I didn't realize that either until I grew up. Crops-bushels per acre/prices of beef and pork weren't part of my vocabulary. Going to Sioux Falls (45 miles west) to shop, eat, see a movie, and be part of big city life, even for a short time was important. And I've yet not gotten to the oddity of RV.

Really shouldn't single out Rock Valley here either. Because some of the same size small towns surrounding us were eerily similar. Instead of having a quirk, it was probably more like a county wide issue. As in Sioux County, # 84 of 99 counties in Iowa. For some reason, when Rock Valley was being founded in the late 1800's, folks of Dutch descent flocked here. Growing up, I never gave that a thought.

That's not to say the whole town (in the 1950's & '60's, maybe 1,600 to 1,800 including all those fabulous-out-of-city-limit-farmers) were Dutch. But the vast majority were. If I click off churches that I remember, I come up with 8. One Methodist, 1 Catholic Church, and 2 Lutheran (one was several miles south of town). Add to that one Calvin Christian Reformed, the First Reformed, one Christian Reformed and the Netherlands Reformed. See what I'm saying? Goes a long way when assuming over half our town was Dutch. At least. Me included.

All 8 churches had various services on Sunday morning. I believe most began around 9:30. With Rock Valley's one stoplight (the very reason I chose the name for my blog) directing some of the traffic flow, an extra stop sign was erected at Main Street & 16th Street to help folks arrive at their destination on time. Never a problem for the Gerritson's small band of misfits heading short 4 blocks away. Dad would drive 1-1/2 blocks west to the stop sign. His head swiveled south, watching a string of constant traffic heading north on Main. Every church with a 'reformed' in their name was north of us. Weird huh? He could have easily turned north a half block from our house, then west, thus landing at the temporary stop sign and making it much easier than waiting for an opening from the traffic light. Yet Dad did not. We always arrived at church a half hour before the preacher perched on his pulpit. Our pew choice might not have been assigned formally, yet somehow we always sat in exactly the same spot. From the back of the Narthex, left aisle, approximately one third from the back. I went in first, then Mom, with Dad pulling up the rear and sitting on the end. Quite often he had to get out for some reason, help serve communion or a baptism. Dad was elected as an elder of the church (thus placing this brat on notice to behave and not embarrass him) many times. So I guess it was important to arrive early, get to our non-assigned-assigned seat, watching other folks file in. And what they were wearing. Who had on new church clothes. Just saying.

One other small detail about the 8 churches I remember. The 4 with the word Reformed in them-had second services on Sunday nights too. Sigh. You don't know how much this little known fact affected every facet of my life from that day forward. My own fault. I forced my parents to switch churches right before I started junior high. Already did a blog or 2 about that touchy subject. But I did little when researching other venues of worship. I was just a little sheep trying to join a herd with familiar sheep faces. Did I not notice that all the churches west or south of me did not engage in that extra Sunday night service ritual? I did not. I was ecstatic having friends in my new congregation. I was an outsider and outcast at Calvin. The only kid not attending Christian school. Being a loner, I don't know why this bothered me so much, but it did. I was happy to belong to a big group of my school peers, although probably about as many friends attended the Methodist church. Maybe in the back of my mind, I knew Mom and Dad could never be coerced into the Methodist ideology. (Dad was a firm believer in predestination). Was I really that clever? Doubtful. Either way, I made a huge deal, cried hysterically, pleaded, whined, begged, was thoroughly aggawase, Dutch word for stubborn or pig-headed and zhanicked Dutch word meaning begged, pleaded & whined for months to convince them switch to a church with kids I knew and ran around with at school. I really, really needed this after we lost Larry and they acquiesced. While I feel bad about being an all around jerk, I'm not thoroughly convinced a church change wasn't good for Mom and Dad at that time too.

It was February 1964 and this chick had just turned 13. Something big was about to happen, literally changing the world. Alas I was totally left out. And it was a very big deal. The Beatles were going to be on TV. It was almost as good as seeing them in person. (Yeah, a small black and white TV, snowy features, no remote or surround sound). Ed Sullivan had booked The Beatles for 3 weeks in a row!! They were going to sing I Want to Hold Your Haaaannnnndddd. All four of them wearing those cool Beatle boots. Was I glued to the TV like the estimated 70 million lucky folks watching across America? Screaming, crying, fainting or swooning? No. I was in church. All 3 Sunday nights. Every Sunday night. Every. Sunday. Night. Cruel world out there Neese. You think it would have been permissible to watch The Beatles one of the Sundays. Just once. Nope. Television was off limits-period on Sundays. And we didn't miss church. Ever. No You-Tube, Google or even a VCR tape to covet back in the day. I had to wait until I got to school on Monday morning to be filled with dark green/leaning towards black envy at the lucky ducks who got to sin on Sunday nights while I was being preached to for the second time that day. Fourth if you count Sunday school and RCYF (hmmm, not sure, Reformed Church Youth Fellowship maybe). RCYF was held in First Reformed church's basement before the evening service and and I really did like it. Our fellowship meeting ended just as the preacher upstairs was gearing up for his second sermon of the day. We were required to file up the stairs, (guards were not posted, though a couple dads disguised as ushers were mulling around but trying not to watch us as the doors were now chained from the inside anyway. I jest) and sit in the new addition together during worship. There was no doubt, every single parent went through the mass of kid's heads until they lit on their own, now safely ensconced to hear more of God's word before we were allowed to ride around the loop of RV for a couple of hours. Yup, this was my life.

So I missed a lot. For this girl, there would never be a do-over. I missed watching the British Invasion at its inception. Over one third of the United States watched The Beatles on that first of three Sunday's on the Ed Sullivan show. However, not me. Oh I still enjoyed the music of The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dave Clark Five, Monkees, Animals, Kinks, Zombies, and Herman's Hermits. But I could never say I watched The Beatles when they were first on American TV. A sin and a regret. Should have faked an illness. I was a good liar. Great even. Could have, should have pulled it off.

By the time The Beatles broke up in 1970, I was expecting Shannon. Too busy learning about the ins and outs of marriage, figuring ways to pay our numerous bills, find something suitable and affordable besides Starkist Tuna (sorry Charlie) to eat every day rather than mourn the loss of my number one rock band. Plus the upcoming overwhelming job of motherhood. That one had me all twitchy. There was a lot on my plate besides music. But new music and news about about my favorite groups did invade my world at times nonetheless. Hubs brother Arly sent us all The Beatles and The Doors music (reel to reel) while he was in the Navy for safe keeping, which we played continuously. So, compounded with the loss of my favorite group, add to that the death of Jim Morrison (lead singer and lead hottie) of The Doors in 1971. Both hit me hard. I just didn't have time to dwell on these minor tragedies that quite honestly didn't affect my real life. I did feel bad though.

Shannon rocked her poncho, 1972...

I listened to a lot of music in the 70's while raising our kids. But when homework and school activities added to the mix, the music of the 80's didn't get much of my attention. Until my kids really started listening to music. Which is way different than the kids of today. Much like my love of contemporary music when I became a teen, my kids didn't listen much to the radio/tv/boom box until their early teens that I recall. By the time Shannon was in high school and Joshua in junior high did I realize I did not like most of their music when we were in the car together. If I wanted to listen to music, I now required 'an oldies station' much to their dismay. All my great music from the mid-60's to around 1980. The aforementioned bands plus CCR, and still number one in my heart, Neil Diamond. It would be almost 2 decades before I started listening to new pop music again. New playlists to keep my feet and fat ass moving when I walked daily. Pitbull, JLo, Maroon 5, Enrique Iglesias, P!nk, Lady ga-ga, Black eyed Peas, Kelly Clarkson, David Guetta and Kylie Minogue. I know, I've lost my mind.

This re-found pleasure in popular music appears to be the reason I started attending crazy concerts during the last decade. I don't think I'm trying to rediscover my sad sack youth or assume I'm trying to stay relevant in any way-shape-or-form. But the concerts have been a hoot.

P!nk soaring in Auburn Hills, 2013...

Which brings me to my latest adventure (and most expensive). First, the expense. I just can't let this major gripe go on without pitching-a-bitch. I've never been a huge sporting event, concert person, so this weird (isn't it illegal) phenomenon hit me hard between the eyes about 15 years ago. The Cubs were playing the Tigers in Detroit. We were buying tickets for the entire family (though not all were baseball fans-yes it breaks my heart). For some reason it was hard to buy tickets. I was used to going to Chicago Cubs, picking out the section and price I was willing to part with, pushing 'purchase' and have them send me my tickets. That ship sailed. It's now required to go to Stub Hub, Ticket Master, Vivid Seats, or some other scalper and buy your $90 dollar ticket for $225. What the hell? I am in total disbelief that any 'star' or 'team' allows this to happen. Or our government. I thought if you got caught near a sporting event scalping tickets you were arrested. Now that seems to be the only way to get tickets for anything. And it seems to be legal. Tickets go on sale at 10 a.m. Five minutes later, you're connected to one of these blood-sucking sites and the ticket prices have tripled. A crying shame and pisses me off so bad. OK I'm done. And exhausted. Bastards. Rotten bastards.

Six months ago I noticed Paul McCartney was going on tour and Detroit was on his list of stops. About an hour from us. Wow. I already had tickets for Neil Diamond in June. Could this old gal 'do' 2 concerts in one calendar year? And would we have to resort to 6 months of nothing but Starkist if we bought tickets? Pretty close call. If not for Erica, my wonderful daughter-in-law who knew a guy (isn't that always the way things get done) Her friend's name is Jeff and he had a suite, tickets (also sweet) which didn't cost me a dime for Diamond. Very sweet. So I took the plunge. Told the Hubs I wanted to see Paul before one of us died (Paul or me). And I wanted good seats. Paul's concert was one of the first in our brand-spanking Little Caesars Arena, downtown Detroit. New home for the Pistons and Red Wings. Two-$150. tickets cost us $552. bucks. Bastards. Seems like Aswin (appropriate first name) Hartono bought my tickets before I could and deemed it necessary to add $252. in fees in addition to the already exorbitant prices of $150 each, thus allowing Paul to sing for Neese. I'm just not gonna say bastards again. But it's so wrong. Just wrong.

The concert was fantastic. No changing of sets or clothes for Paul. At 75 years young he came on stage and sang for almost 3 hours. Started out with A Hard Day's Night (he probably knew it was gonna be). He told story tidbits, dedicated a song tribute for his late wife Linda. For John Lennon, A Day in the Life and "all we are saying, is give peace a chance." For George Harrison it was, Hey Jude. The sold out crowd helped Paul by singing, "nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, hey Jude for 5 minutes. (I might have lost track of some 'nahs' there, but you get my drift). Paul's voice was a bit wobbly by the end, but he came out for 2 curtain calls. The last one was 'Yesterday' on an acoustic guitar with a Red Wings sticker on it. The crowd went nuts.

So glad we went. Well worth it. Parking 1/2 block away was 40 bucks, my Paul t-shirt another $45. We're been pretty content with tuna casserole for a month of Sundays. About the blog post title. I've always been somewhat different in my choice of favorite songs of a band as opposed to everyone else's favorite song by the same group or individual. Three songs from The Beatles or Paul with Wings remain on most of my playlists for walking.

1. Ob la Di
2. Ballad of John & Yoko
3. Mull of Kintyre (by Wings)...

Tubby-Time...

I don't know whose idea it was at first. Shannon's certainly smarter than me, and much more clever. At the time though, I was the money supplier for such extravagances. What I can pinpoint and tell you is almost the exact time within a few days. It was October, 1991. Where it began.

Shannon & Josh, 1976...

Twenty-six years ago there were 3 likely venues to choose from. Penny's, Sears and Olan Mills. The Sunday paper carried coupon specials that were hard to beat. Get your baby's picture taken for $1.99, sometimes as low as 99 cents. For that sum you could choose one 8 x 10 from maybe 3 poses. An incredible deal. However, these businesses made their money by guilting you into buying more than one picture. These photographers were ruthless and relentless in their bid to make money off us poor unsuspecting new parents. They had been well trained not to take no for an answer. They'd lump some locket sized charms, wallets, 5 x 7's all in different (the cutest) poses to wear you down until you'd pay just about anything for those damn pictures and get out of there. Because your kid was never gonna be that cute, wear that outfit or have that same adorable smile ever again. It happened often enough to this hapless, helpless mom when my kids were small (and cute, wearing adorable outfits from my Mom, with beaming angelic smiles). Walking out of those store I'd be half crying/cursing for spending money-we-could-ill-afford-on-pictures.

Shannon 1, 1971...

By 1991 we were a little better off. The kids, Shannon 20, Joshua 16, and Adam now 12, were long past getting their picture taken every 3 months because they changed so much and fast. But our granddaughter Ariana was getting close to her first birthday.

Ariana, 10 months, 1991...

We had already had several pictures of this exquisite child taken at various ages in different stores. Ari was a natural, stunning with the most beautiful almond shaped eyes and arched eyebrows. With this many years in service as a mom and now gram, I wore a tough coat of armor when being accosted by the hard selling band of photographers. And I was honing Shannon's skills early as a young mom. She could offer a steely-eyed glance that would burn the lips right off their smiling face as they hit paragraph 2 during the sales pitch. Makes me a little teary. Yup, I taught her well.

My favorite picture, Adam & Joshua, 1980...

So unless Shannon's going to argue the point, I will take the credit of the bath time pictures. Ari was 9 months old, probably having her picture done at Olan Mills. I may have had a lot of resolve in saying no to enormous picture packages, but had not yet acquired the set of skills needed in saying no to buying bundles from Olan Mills. When I bought these bundles, there were time constraints involved. I had a year to schedule 3 different photo shoots. I could fake a sick kid, or say the Hubs was out of town on business and stretch it out a couple extra months if I needed to. They actually were pretty lenient. Olan Mills always did a good job getting cute poses, and didn't seem quite as crestfallen when I said no fourteen times. In a row. At one sitting. So Shannon and I were trying to come up with something different when we took Ariana in for yet another round of pictures. One of us (ok, me) thought maybe a bathtub shot would be cute.

Ariana, 1991...

Well, the bathtub pictures turned out simply adorable. My favorite part was Ari's little curled toes. By now Ari had her first set of white high tops (as every baby should. BTW, my Hightops & Onesies story from May, 2017 is rather funny. I know, I was surprised too. Read it some night when you're having trouble falling asleep). Anyway, I always had a tough time getting her high tops on that chubby little foot of hers. When I noticed her toes curled up tight as a drum on the picture I realized why I was having so much trouble.

Zoom forward 10 years, 2001 (which really took all of 3 minutes). Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) is now about 9 months old. Shannon and I decide to have his picture taken with some kind of bathtub scene like we did with Ari. Turned out just as cute. Those dark ringlet curls all over his head like a halo. In one of the pictures he's holding a basketball. Of course. He has yet to let go. I decided to have Ari's and Landon's professionally matted and framed with matching frames and mats. Our master bathroom in North Muskegon is huge with a whirlpool tub. I hang both pictures on one wall above the tub. Man does that look cute.

Landon, 2001...

Wait, we're not done. Late 2004, Miss Peyton is now 9 months old. Her bathtub shots were all gauzy and she was chewing on a bead necklace. It's adorable. I go back to the frame shop (still open, thank heavens) with Landon's picture so they can match the blue mat and metal frame. And kind of wonder if I'll have anymore grandkids? Shannon seems kind of done, but there's still Adam and Josh with no kids between them. Oh what the heck. Just in case, I order 2 extra mats and frames. For future use. If there's ever a need.

Peyton, 2004...

Sure enough, God gifted us with an incredible grandson named Graham in 2009. I reminded Sarah and Adam every month of Graham's life about our family tradition of bathtub scene pictures around 9 months. Sarah had G's appropriate picture taken at the same age as the rest of the grands. It too turned out so cute. When I spot Graham's little leg high in the air, I just smile. I kind of thought my last picture frame would be wasted. None of the kids seemed to be having any more babies. The wall of four tubby time pictures of our grandkids have been my favorites since I hung the first one up.

Graham, 2009...

Months after we moved back to Jackson, our bathroom remodel was finally done. But it's less than half the size of our old master bath. I've stood with those 4 framed grandkid pictures a dozen times, staggering the frames, holding them up and down, straight, from the ceiling, to no avail. Trying to figure out a way to get them on a wall without overpowering that rather small space. Cannot. Be. Done. So back in the spare bedroom they'd sit on the floor. Forlorn and dusty.

And then along comes Jovi! The best surprise package this family's had since 2009. Our amazing first great-granddaughter. How times have changed. I don't think Olan Mills is even still in business. Haven't had pictures taken at Sears or Penny's in years. I've been keeping tabs on the months flying by and reminding Ari to get a bathtub picture when Jovi's 9 months old. Which Ari did by a talented young photographer named Faryn Steel yesterday. I'm sure these are some the preliminary shots aimed to tease us (well done Faryn), but my oh my. Jovi. This baby is simply too cute. She melts my heart. Melts. My. Heart.

A mommy snapshot of Jovi, 5 months...

What to do about our darling picture less bathroom? Now I've got another fabulous picture to squeeze in a too-small-room. I think I've come up with a plan. I'm going to take all of the pictures out of their custom frames, resizing them all to 5 x 7's with a mat, or 8 x 10 without a mat. Try and find a hanging pattern which suits my one big wall in the bathroom. Hubs is great at figuring that stuff out. And I'm instructing him to leave an inconspicuous spot open. For another bathtub shot if the need arises. Just in case...

Jovi photographed by Faryn Steel, 10-17...

The Trouble with Bubbles...

Couple weeks from now we'll celebrate 2 years in our fixer-upper. Man has that gone fast. Partly because we existed in a three-year-time-warp trying to sell our North Muskegon house in order to move. But mostly because of all the things that needed to be done here-all at the same time. At first it was fun, picking out paint colors, appliances, light fixtures. Soon it became tedious. First thing every morning we'd stop at Lowes, Menards or Home Depot, with a revised list in hand. It was hard to keep our bubbling enthusiasm going. We wanted to be settled, finally done with our long list of to-do's and hunker down for winter.

Where were you when...

I work with an amazing group of gals in the infant room at daycare. Our latest addition is Angie. She has similar hours to mine but works every day-I do not. She has a teaching degree but with 2 young children and a husband, isn't ready for a full time teaching position just yet. My problem with this gal? Angie talks soft and doesn't move her mouth much. Kind of odd that still surprises me. I don't realize how much I read lips when someone's talking until I don't get any help from the non-movement of their mouth. I literally want to stand by-her-face-to-face, lay my hands on her cheeks and massage her mouth into moving. OK, now I understand you Ang. Other times, with 12 noisy babies, she could have the voice of James Earl Jones and not one of us could hear or understand a word she said.

The expressive mouths of Jovi and Mommy, 2017...

Angie (the-soccer-mom) posted a question on Facebook the other day. I thought about it for a minute and was about to type my comment. As I was reading the comments from other people, their words took me back many years. I decided to write about both events. And I didn't want to bore Angie and her friends with my book long comment. OK, you can stop nodding your heads about my comments. I have issues saying stuff with very few words. And I prefer to call them chapters.

I knew it was going to be a fabulous day. Late summer, early morning and I was ready to start my walk. About a block from my house in North Muskegon, I head up the dreaded hill to get to the main drag of town, Ruddiman Drive. No sidewalk on 2nd Street, but if I ignore how steep the incline is, it's the favorite part of my walk. There are trees on both sides of the street at the top of the hill filling my view. Some evergreens but mostly deciduous. So far, not one tree had started turning color-yet. Just above the steep incline of asphalt in my view is gorgeous dark green-leaves and branches of pine needles. Oodles of them, but that's not what make the sight so spectacular. It's that vivid blue sky above the trees. Not that sometimes pale blue which reminds me of Joshua's eyes when he was a baby and didn't feel well-blue. No, not navy blue either, but closer to Chicago Cubs blue. Flat out-a beautiful summer day sky. This color blue just pops, especially against the striking vivid green shades. Awesome. Thanks for that God.

I already owned a cell phone, but used it sparingly. Mom and Dad were beginning to have some health issues, so my trips to Iowa were becoming more frequent. As long as I had good transportation, I was fine making the 750 mile trek by myself 3 or 4 times a year. Having a cellphone by my side in case I had car problems and needed to go all damsel-in-distress-mode to the Hubs (miles away, but still) was reassuring. Back then, I never gave a thought of taking it along for my hour daily walk.

After I get home I wait a few minutes to cool down and stop sweating before heading upstairs to shower. It's close to 9 when our home phone rings. It's John telling me to turn on the news, there's been a horrible accident/explosion. By the time I'm sitting at the dining room table, there's already on-going news coverage. It's hard for me to accept this is really happening right before my eyes. My brain is working overtime trying to reason/justify how this plane could ever get so far off course and not see that big-ass skyscraper right in its path. Then a second plane appears, heading straight for the south tower of The World Trade Center. My heart is thumping loud enough to be distracting-but fear and dread replace the thumps when I realize this must have been on purpose.

Never did shower on that awful day. Sat by the table, watching more horror from other locations, the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania field. Crying and shaking my head in disbelief. No commercials, no breaks, no afternoon or night time programs. The absolute worst for me were the people who jumped. My mind simply couldn't/wouldn't-comprehend/accept what my eyes saw until the news station asked a psychiatrist to explain what was going through their minds. These people already knew they were going to die. For them, there was no escaping the fire/flames/heat/smoke. They realized they were surely going to perish in one of the worst ways imaginable. These individuals are taking what little control they still have over the last few seconds of their lives. And if it was hard for me to understand while watching this unfold, try and imagine what was going through their minds. Dear God. Those poor souls.

I'm not a big TV fan. I watch several series that we tape with Hubs at night, however I would easily give up the boob tube long before my books and iPad. But for about 3 days I could not stop watching the coverage on TV. Probably emotionally unhealthy but when Americans are going through this un-ending horror I felt compelled-not to resume my normal life either. Suddenly there was no normal. It was days before the television stations went back to their regular scheduled programming or took commercial breaks. Before 9-11, I can't ever remember days of news without a commercial break.

Three disturbing incidents happened to me during the following days. The first was while I was on my walk the next morning. North Muskegon has a population of about 4,000. It sits about a mile and a half (by water) from Lake Michigan, languishing between Muskegon Lake and Bear Lake. So it's a narrow little town, only about 6 blocks wide most places. One main street, Ruddiman runs through most of it. If you wanna get a speeding ticket, try driving over 30 through it. At the top of the hill on Ruddiman were 4 police cruisers, all parked, lights on but no sirens. (Until that day, I didn't know N. Muskegon had 4 police cruisers, or that many policemen for that matter). The object of their concerned interest was an older vehicle model with something secured to the roof of their car. Honestly, looked like a Directv satellite dish, screwed to the top of this car. I don't know if this car would have been stopped driving through our sleepy town before 9-11, but the day after seemed to render the start of a different era in what some would deem 'suspicious behavior.'

The second incident happened the same day. When I got back from my walk, all cruisers, cops and satellite car dude had disappeared. I showered and headed to church which had opened its doors, welcoming all to come in and pray. Ran into the pastor on my way in and he expressed his thoughts on the last 2 days. He said it was our fault. America's fault for the terrorist's attacks. We asked for it. We goad other countries. Everyone hates the U.S. and what we stand for. Oh bloody hell I don't need to hear your shit. Stop talking. (One of 4-less than favorite preacher bosses in a row. Not a typo, that is indeed the number 4. And he wasn't the worst, but ranked right near the top. Don't even get me started. Yes, it's a big chip I'm lugging around lately about organized religion. My cross to bear).

About a week later, I thought some kind of normal life had returned. Just weeks before, about 10 miles south from my house, our fabulous new Lakes Mall had opened. Suddenly I needed to get out, be near people, perusing shelves in sparkly new stores for something mundane. Anything to feel normal again. So I head to the mall. I'm coming to the stop light at Harvey and Sternberg where Perkins Restaurant was located. In their parking lot was the most beautiful American flag, flapping softly in the morning breeze. It's one of those oversized flags, stunning against another true-blue summer sky. And the flag is flying at half staff. Sucked the breath right out of me. I round the corner and pull into the lot. Just sat there and sobbed. Guilt floods me. How can I think of shopping when this world changing terror attack happened a few short days ago? I have no heart. Turn the car around and head back home. Too soon. It's too fresh and too soon. I couldn't go back to the mall for weeks after that first attempt.

Getting back to Angie and her post question, where were you when 9-11 happened? The comments made by her friends? In junior or senior high, Mr. So & So's class. Dang, this 50 year old already had 2 grandchildren, Ariana 10 and Landon who just had his first birthday. Couple gals commented on having young children already, but most were in their early/mid teens at the time.

Landon & Ariana 2001...

Which was what brought me back so many years ago when I first read Angie's post. The day was November 22, 1963 and I was 12. It was a Friday and I was making my way to the new library from the old school building through a long hallway. I believe just before the double library doors were a couple of steps. I was on these steps when someone (can't remember who it was) caught up to me and said president Kennedy had just been shot. Soon we were sent home from school. My Mom had already left work and was watching our black and white TV. Walter Cronkite solemnly announced President John F. Kennedy was dead. Mom and I watched all afternoon, crying together. He was so young and handsome. He had little kids, younger than me. Why on earth would anyone want to harm him? If you were around, who could forget the procession with the horse drawn hearse? Never forget that scene.

Two world changing events. The first one, when I was not yet a teen, the second nearly 40 years later. Anyone old enough-remembers exactly what they were doing at that moment. We all have moments in our lives we'll never forget. Some very personal, getting married, giving birth, or losing someone we love. Other events, not so personal, but mourned and remembered by millions. The highs and lows of life...

A Small Town Girl...

I've been thinking a lot about Rock Valley, my home town. Probably because I was just there for part of a day. That part kinda bothers me. Seems every time I visit, there are less reasons for me to hang around. After I lost my 'home base' it feels rather foreign when I'm there. Like it's not really my home town anymore. What the heck is that about? It was my lifeline for 2 decades. I knew that town like the back of my hand. Though some of my memories are painful, for the most part, I hold Rock Valley in a very special spot in my heart.

My afternoon kindergarten class, 1956...

Tales from the Trypt...

We moved from Iowa 3 decades ago. That's 30 year's worth of trips back & forth from Michigan to Iowa. I wonder how many times I've made that trek? Many more between 1987 and 2005 than since. Because my folks were alive and starting their slow health decline. Often I'd go 3 or 4 times a year, setting them up with a freezer full of meals, lugging heavy change to the bank for the grandkid's bank accounts, getting chores done they deemed difficult. Always playing catch up.

About the time we moved to Davenport, Adam, me & Josh, 1982...

The trip's been a migration of sorts. Steeped deep in it's own traditions. Like caribou who leg out thousands of miles on life's journey, their young are born with a sense of where to go, what to do, how to find food and water. Just like me. After 30 odd years of traveling mostly the same roads, I often have this weird innate ability to find what I want or need. Although my wants and needs have changed somewhat over the years.

Kinda crowded with Blue Delft...

The first big leg of the trip back remains Davenport. About 6 hours away, our whole family has a soft spot in our hearts (and tummies) for the Quad Cities. It's unusual if I can't find something I like at North Park Mall. Or Isabel Bloom's store. Some of my best friends and double deck euchre buddies still look forward to my stop for a night of wild cards which now often lasts past 9!! After 30 years, there might be an inadvertent renege once in a while, but we're still sharp enough to catch most of them. Because it's a 'quarter a game, dime a bump,' type of night. Many of our favorite restaurants, The Mandarin, Rudy's Tacos, Jumer's, Old Oaks, and Yen Ching are either closed or not like we remember. But Happy Joe's, Harris Pizza, Whitey's Ice Cream and Iowa Machine Shed are still well worth a stop when we stay a night or just zipping through.

Since I went to Italy last summer I've had the hots for all things Assisi. The hilltop fortress town, incredible churches, and the history surrounding Saint Francis and Saint Clare have fascinated me. Perusing eBay this spring I spotted an Isabel Bloom statue (she's quite a famous artist from Davenport, died several years ago) of Saint Francis for sale. I was intrigued and not surprised when the small print stated, 'no shipping.' Duh, little snot weighs a ton, most Isabel's do, they're concrete. But Franny was less than half price of what he costs new in the stores. So I contacted Cherie the seller, (who conveniently lives near the Quad Cities), asking if I paid for him, would she hold him for 3 long months until I started my yearly migration? She said sure. She works in Davenport and would lug the Saint along where we could meet her and pick him up.

Welcome home Saint Francis...

It wasn't long after I started these numerous 750 mile trips when I discovered there are products, meats, baked goods I treasure from Iowa which are not readily available in Michigan. Who knew? And who's ever heard of Vernor's? For the first 15 years I made a point of buying a piece of Blue Delft in Orange City every time I ventured to Iowa. When my china closet started looking cluttered I put a halt on buying more pieces. My trip still includes a run to Orange City however, for dried beef from Woudstra's Meat Market. There is a store we discovered a couple years ago in Grand Rapids that carries dried beef, but it's not the same. Too dry and crumbly. So we wait until we're in Iowa and buy the best. My sister-in-law Mary Jane freezes it for me, we plop it in zip lock bags in a cooler of ice for the trip back to Michigan.

A real treat-dried beef sandwich...

Side note, I can do more wandering around, stopping at antique malls, points of interest, take pictures of Iowa's beautiful black earth, corn crops, small pink rocks on the road's shoulders, shopping malls, outlet malls, inlet malls ON THE WAY TO NORTHWEST IOWA. But once we're homeward (Michigan) bound, unless you've got severe stomach cramps, hurling green chunks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, a tornado is in my path, or-the-2-cups-of-coffee-one-bottle-of-water-and-giant-Diet-Pepsi is making me extremely uncomfortable, getting home is my ONLY priority. I stop for NOTHING.

There are places we stop every time we hit northwest Iowa. Archie's Waeside in Le Mars is a must. Not the fanciest steak joint, but they just keep winning awards for great food for 70 years and counting. Hitting Southern Hills Mall in Sioux City is high on my list (Scheels) because I need a new Iowa T-shirt every year. Go Hawks! Same goes for The Three Sons in Milford, there's just this strange urge compelling me to buy something that says Okoboji. But every year? Yup.

This one captivated me, Iowa, my home state-forever...

Then there's this whole canning fiasco. There's barely room for our suitcases in the Jeep because of the canned goods I haul back to Iowa? Why, I haven't a clue. Must I push my canned goods on every Tom, Dick & Harry in the state? I would have to say yes. My guess is it won't be too many more years when my canning days are over, so I enjoy this passion/obsession/hobby while I'm able.

Stop with the canned goods, please....

Two things have changed in my travel trips to Iowa. One is something I've been addicted to for over 25 years. It's my dumb lip balm. (Sorry Mentholatum Natural Ice, you're not dumb). About a decade ago my favorite all around shopping store-Meijer stopped selling Mentholatum. (Yet why they carry a dozen variations of ChapStick and Burt Bees remains a mystery-kickbacks perhaps for purchasing agents)? Not long after so did Walmart, then Walgreens. WTH? Luckily, a big food chain in Iowa, Hy-Vee still carried it. From the time I cross the Mississippi, every Hy-Vee store sign I spot meant a mandatory stop. And I bought all the tubes they had. Every time. I mean, what if there's an apocalypse? If that little factory shuts down and I live for another 20 years, well, now you see my dilemma. This year no Mentholatum Natural Ice at any Hy-Vee's. I still have some tubes in various vaults from coast to coast but now I've got to find a new supplier on the black market. My world is literally upside down!

The other important top stop in Iowa is my ice cream. This too is rather perplexing as I really have never considered myself an ice cream nut. Heck, I put cotton candy, cinnamon/sugar soft pretzels, popcorn (small amount of real butter and light dusting of salt-mandatory-and for heaven's sake no microwave popcorn), Diet Pepsi, and fresh tomatoes far ahead of my love for ice cream. Except where Well's Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream is involved. I make it my mission in life to eat it everyday while I'm in the state of Iowa. For awhile my hopes soared when Michigan Walmart's started carrying Well's Blue Bunny a few years ago. I thought the constant craving would eventually subside so I might return to normal. Ha! Walmart offered Cherry Nut-for the first few months. You know how limited space is when you only have a couple hundred thousand square feet to work with in those big box stores. Vendors pushing, bribing, coaxing, handing out favors to get their products on the shelves. Freezer space is even more limited. Well's Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream lost out in Michigan, thus making me this crazed beast when I'm in the great corn/soybeans/hogs/cattle filled state. I'm constantly fixated on where my next Cherry Nut bowl of ice cream is coming from? Would if I'm not close to a store or ice cream shop that carries Cherry Nut? Last year, in a fit of desperation, I bought a half gallon (it's not even 64 ounces anymore, the carton is several ounces shy, yeah I noticed) and plastic spoons and devoured a hefty share. IN THE CAR. This year, determined to be more sane about my goofy Iowa ice cream habits, I brought real spoons and napkins in my purse for such an occasion. Yes, I can be civilized.

Wells Blue Bunny Cherry Nut Ice Cream. A rather scrawny bowl MJ...

Did that little stunt help me at all? No siree. Just over the Mississippi River on our way back to Michigan, I took an exit because I spotted a Walmart. Hell's bells, they carried about 4 Blue Bunny flavors, none of them resembling Cherry Nut, so my spoons came home spic & span. And here I sit, typing, breathing like life is splendid. What a crock!

There was a wonderful high point to my trip home this year. A couple of weeks before I left, I messaged several classmates asking if a lunch date was possible? I always stop and visit Char, one of my best friends through school. I thought she'd get a kick out of seeing some of the girls. We chose a date where most of us were free, meeting at Cedar Rock Grill in Rock Valley. We had such a good time. We talked and hugged for 3 hours. And ate. Catching up with each other's lives, reminiscing, encouraging, comforting. No longer one-upping anybody, we were just happy we're still alive and kicking. No one to impress, just friends. Good friends. Getting together when chance brings us together. Thanks for that opportunity God. Girls, let's not wait too long before we do this again. Life is a bowl of Cherry Nut(s). Indeed...

Burgers, Schelhaas, Wynia, Gayer, Plueger, Gerritson & Ymker. We rock...

Arly...

Arly. He was-complicated. Not sure how well I knew him, but we were related through marriage over 4 decades. The 4th child of Jim and Mag. Everyone assumed he was the baby of the family. To this family outsider looking in, Arly was always Mag's favorite. He was a bit different. Even odd.

Les 8 standing, curly-haired John 1-1/2, & Arlyn 5 in 1949...

Lo and behold, with Eleanor nearing her 18th birthday, Jimmy entering his teens, Les 7, and the adorable 4 year old Arlyn, Mag, now 38 and so done with babies, found herself ready to give birth to John. My Hubs. John and Arly's childhood together would prove to be rather rocky. John believed Arly despised him and was trying to kill him since birth. Arly scared the living snot out of Hubs for years. Until John finally started growing. Arly knew then he'd better leave him alone, or else. Sharing a bedroom until the 2 older boys moved out didn't help.

Arly looked different than the rest of the brood. Slim, dark, quiet, and very intense, more like Jim. Elly, Jimmy, Les and John were more of a stocky build like Mag. John, easy going, didn't grow up like the normal baby of the family. I should know, I'm also the baby. Spoiled rotten, the way the youngest of the family are usually treated. Not John. By the time Hubs went to school, he was pretty much on his own. Cooking his own eggs by age 6, he had the run of the town. It's a miracle he didn't get into more trouble than he did through the years. There was not a lot of supervision. But Hubs turned out just fine.

Arlyn, Jimmy, Les & John in the back. Mag, Jim & Eleanor, 1979...

My Hubs, John in 1948...

After high school, Arly went to Morningside College in Sioux City, about 60 miles from our hometown. He was president of The Young Republicans during the 1964 presidential election between Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater. Anyone who knew Arly after age 30 would find this simply impossible to believe. He was the most liberal person I know in his political beliefs. He truly thought Hillary Clinton was going to take over God's spot. (Well, so did she).

I don't exactly know what happened at Morningside. He didn't get his degree, but was very close. He dropped out of school, bought a 1959 Ford Thunderbird and ventured to Chicago for a few months. I think he was after a girl he loved in high school. But he forgot a couple of things. Making payments on the car. Bingo. Way behind and in a tight spot, he felt his only option was to sell the car and flee. He needed a fresh start. So he joined the military. Begged John to go with him. But Hubs preferred the Marines over Arly's choice of the Navy. If you remember, John had a horrible accident when he was 15, riding a green broke horse. The horse got spooked, reared up, landing awkwardly on John's foot. Long hospitalization, 2 surgeries, wheelchair and long rehab. Hubs could go to every recruiter in the continental US, nobody was going to take him or his totally messed up foot. He tried a couple of times and could never get that foot/ankle to pass a physical. So Arly joined the Navy. Actually wrote me a couple of letters from his ship, the USS Saint Paul, docked in San Diego. Telling me to take care of John and that he missed Rock Valley.

I think every person in the world has a friend or relative like Arly. To me, he was absolutely brilliant! I never wanted to get in a really deep discussion or worse an argument with him. He LOVED to argue. About anything and everything. Not me. You could see by watching him, his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. And he often wore this little smirk/half smile. It was somewhat deceptive.

Arly and the oldest brother Jimmy were very good card players. I don't know if they counted cards, cheated, or got their information from above, but they always seemed to know the exact cards in your hand. How'd they do that? Half the time, I didn't know what was in my own hand, let alone anyone else's. Although it makes for a lot of defeats for the rest of us normal folk, it does tend to make the less frequent wins much sweeter. Arly taught us how to play double deck pinochle one Christmas Eve when I was about 16. There was a blizzard of epic proportions and I couldn't get home, which was only about a mile away. There were about 2 dozen people stuck in Mag and Jim's little house that night because of the weather. A group of us took turns playing cards most of the night. With Arly the card shark. My Mom was absolutely beside herself because I couldn't get home. Thought my reputation was forever ruined in our small conservative Dutch town by staying at John's house. Surely the whole group would give up a bedroom for the night so John and I could have wild sex and become parents soon after. That ship sailed Mom. Instead, we played cards all night long and had a blast. Mag had enough food to feed an Army.

Arly ended up doing a couple of tours in Viet Nam. During an R & R in Japan he bought a Triumph motorcycle. When he got back to his ship, his CO greeted him with, "you can't bring that on board. Send it home or get rid of it." Arly returned the bike and bought the best set of component stereo equipment money could buy. Also got Mag and Mary Jane sets of china. (Les and Mary sent him the money) Hubs and I were eating off 5 dollar Melmac dishes. There was no china in our vocabulary yet. Then Arly mailed the stereo to us without telling us. We were newlyweds, living in a small house on Douglas Street. That fabulous system took up almost our whole living room. Along with the radio, turntable, and speakers as big as me, Arly mailed dozens of music reels he had recorded. A lot of work back in '69-70. Every song from The Beatles and The Doors. Those 2 groups I remember very well. Memorized every lyric.

But along with his brilliant mind was about the most impractical person one would ever meet in life. Arly didn't have a lot of common sense, and few skills for everyday life. He seemed oblivious at times of his surroundings. Once when Arly and John were pheasant hunting and he was about to graduate from high school, Arly commented how sorry he felt for the farmers around Rock Valley. Why, ventured John on a beautiful fall day? "Because all the corn is dying." John explained that's what happens every fall to the corn crop.

After Arly got out of the Navy and returned home, he met a girl from Hull. Vicki was the polar opposite of Arly. Several years younger, sheltered life and had graduated from Western Christian High School. But they really hit it off. Both of them liked to party and have a good time. A Hippie life style. After a short
courtship, they got hitched. Eloped at the same courthouse in Elk Point, South Dakota as Hubs and I not long before. By this time, we had moved to Hinton and Shannon was a few months old. Arly and Vicki were about to become parents too. They found a small house in Hinton to rent. When Hubs and I think about that year, we realize we did quite a few things with them and for them. John changed their light fixtures, replaced headlights, helped with their car, and I taught Vicki how to make Taverns, which was about the first supper I learned to cook. Remember, I couldn't boil water when we eloped.

Seriously, Vicki was stunning...

Hubs was working at Channel 4. One of the perks (what a joke) of his fabulous job were press passes to Sioux City's semi-pro hockey games. The Musketeers played at The Auditorium downtown. We took Arly and Vic along one night. The trouble with these free press passes, you had to wait until people took their seats, then find a place in the leftover spots, which were usually in the nose bleed section. The game was about to start, we were slowly making our ascent. Finally found 4 seats together and sat down to enjoy our favorite player, Pete (something, his last name is forever lost) strut his stuff on the ice. Can you believe it, Arly couldn't see the puck flying across the ice. Why? He was too vain to wear his glasses. Hadn't even brought them along. Oh my stars.

One night Arly came over without wearing a coat to borrow our shovel because we had a huge snowfall. John got the shovel and I gave Arly my red and black plaid wool shirt jacket (he wasn't much bigger than me). A few days later he brought both items back. Not long after, I pulled the jacket on to shovel the front sidewalk, came back into our 3 room house hysterical. In the pocket of my jacket was an inch long cigarette of marijuana. I screamed, cried, and yelled at John, "the cops are going to arrest me and take Shannon away." (Maybe a little over the top). Hubs grabbed me, hugged me tight, said "calm down!" He plucked the ominous-scary, life-wrecking, mother-ending, Nib-sized (anyone remember that licorice candy?) weed from my hand, tossed it in the toilet and flushed. Ok then. But something had changed. At least for me. I no longer wanted to be around Arly and Vicki as much. They just lived so different than we did. At that time, if the cops picked someone up with marijuana and you were with them, you got charged too. I was kind of scared to be with them.

Probably the biggest thing we did was find Arly a job. This is a tough one for me. I was enormously proud/smug/happy when it happened, but if I knew then what I know now, there's no way I would ever call him excitedly about this job. I have no idea if this changed the course of his life. I certainly hope not, but I fear it did. Could be the way his life turned out was my fault. Here's what happened. Arly didn't have a job. John and I were out for a rare evening. Who we were with I cannot recall. Maybe the Reinke's, or the Duits, although I believe Dale and Beth had already moved to Minnesota. We were in Sioux City at The Jockey Club, inside the Holiday Inn. I ordered some fancy drink that didn't taste like booze, sloe gin fizz or perhaps a strawberry Daquiri. Anyway, it took forever, plus they made it wrong. I complained and the manager walked over and apologized. Said he couldn't keep a decent bartender. I piped up and said my brother-in-law had just returned from Viet Nam, was a hell of a bartender and could make every drink in the world perfectly. Manager said, send him down in a couple of days and I'll interview him. John spent the next 48 hours grilling Arly on how to concock every imaginable drink in the book. Arly aced the interview and got the job. Stayed with Holiday Inn for awhile, got offered a promotion if he would move to Montana, so they did.

Jim, Arlyn, John, Elly w/ Les on the steps about 2000...

They moved back to Iowa a few years later. By then we had already moved to eastern Iowa, later, Michigan. Arly and Vic had 2 more children about the ages of Joshua and Adam. We'd see them sporadically, usually at Jim & Mag's house for holidays. The brothers still got into some very heated arguments, everything from what bag balm (cow tit salve) could cure (John swore it could help the blind-but just did it to bug Arly) to if drawings of a new concept car could be considered 'art.' Oy vey.

About 10 or 12 years ago, very close to Easter, we received a phone call saying Arly was in the hospital and very sick. Hubs hopped on a plane and spent several days with his brother and the rest of the family. I don't know if we learned what the diagnosis and prognosis was right away, but it wasn't long before Arly told John he had cirrhosis of the liver. Arly said he could never take another drink if his intentions were to remain here on earth.

The complicated lives of Arly and Vic. Five years ago, March 1st, 2012 we got a call that Vicki had fallen in their kitchen, hit her head and died. Unbelievable, she was 3 months younger than me. Arly called John the next day telling us not to come to Iowa for the funeral. It was ok, the rest of the family was nearby and more than enough support. John and Arly talked on the phone every couple days after that. Arly was mellow, quiet, sweet and grateful for this close relationship that had somehow formed. So was John. One night towards the end of March, Arly called saying he didn't feel well at all. John begged him, "please go to the doctor. Do you want me to come home? I will. Let me go to the doctor with you." "No John, there's no need for you to come. I'll be ok," Arly answered. Later that night Arly somehow managed to drive himself 25 miles to a Sioux City hospital. But it was too late. His organs were shutting down. Arly died the next day. He was 67. It was 4 weeks to the day after Vicki had passed away...

Arly, gone too soon...