We lived in Spencer, Iowa from 1977 through 1981. Our move after life on the Cascade farm in eastern Iowa. Spencer was one of our favorite places to live in nearly 50 years of marriage. We were devastated when we had to leave that quaint town. Color us shocked when we loved the big city of Davenport. These 2 cities were as different as night and day.
 |
| Life in Spencer, 1979. Josh 4-1/2, Adam 4 months, Shannon 9... |
My Mom is on my mind a lot every December. Shannon, Mom’s and my birthday’s are all this month. Mom would have been 92 on the 13th and has been gone for 14 years already. Don’t know exactly why as the end of the year nears, she’s in my thoughts more often.
 |
| Mom feeding me, Larry & Mona peeking over her shoulder, 1951... |
Shannon and her 2 business partners were planning this year’s Christmas party for their associates. An afternoon open house. Shannon asked if I would make an assortment of dessert finger foods? Guest list was under 40. Well sure, doesn’t sound like an enormous amount of work. I might have however forgotten my age once again. I am baker, hear me roar. Or whimper softly.
 |
| My peeps outshine my baking-always. Shannon and John, 2018... |
Shannon wasn’t fussy, she wanted fudge without nuts, (crazy, right?) cutout frosted Christmas cookies for sure. The rest was up to my discretion-until I mentioned Pecan Tassies. “Umm nobody likes them mom.” Well right there in a pecan nutshell is what’s wrong with society today. Who doesn’t love a 3 bite piece of pecan pie? Really. I love Tassies and dread the future December when I’m no longer up for that particular task. I have been eating Tassies for a half century (unfortunately that part shows). Heck, ever since I started dating Hubs. John’s mom, Mag was great baker and excellent cook. Or maybe the other way around, an excellent baker and a great cook.
 |
| Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas tree, my Tassies how I love thee... |
Every Christmas season Mag made a boatload of Christmas goodies. Homemade dipped chocolates, fudge, penuche, cookies and her famous Pecan Tassies. Let me tell you right here and now. For being so dainty, delicious and cute, Tassies are a royal pain in the ass. Way too time consuming. Way. Mag had 4 aluminum Tassie (tart) pans which each held a dozen Tassie shells. The shells are a mixture of cream cheese, butter and flour which has to be chilled before the shells could be formed. You pinch off a piece the size of a small walnut, roll it around in your hand, then plop it in one of the little tart openings. Heavens no, you’re not done. Not even close. Then you carefully use your index finger to pat the dough on the bottom and build up the sides just past in each individual top opening. The filling is beaten eggs, brown sugar, melted butter, vanilla, and lots of chopped up pecans. Why anyone in their right mind makes these scrumptious tidbits on purpose is simply beyond comprehension. You bake them at one temperature for a few minutes, then lower the temp for another few minutes. Royal pain.
 |
| Penuche, delicious and super sweet... |
Newly married, without a clue on how to cook or bake anything I eagerly embraced Mag when she was in a teaching mode. She had a lot of patience with me and there was a recipe for Tassies to follow which helped. Many things I would learn to make from Mag had nothing written down, and in those instances I needed to watch, listen and write shit down because she used terms like, “you just add a little sweet gherkin juice.” What? I didn’t even know what that meant. For a 20 something clueless girl, this could be anything from a teaspoon to a half cup. So watch her closely I did.
 |
| Learning from one of the best. Mag & I, early 1970’s... |
It happened a long time ago,
Yet I’m quite sure of the date.
The year our family went from 5 to 4,
It was 1958.
 |
| Our dog Spitz, Larry & me, months before Larry died, 1958... |
In January, 2015 I wrote a story called The Burbs. The time frame from this post was during 1987-1994, when we lived in Jackson the first time. That move was significant in many ways. First time we ever moved from our native state of Iowa. (We never thought we’d still be in Michigan 32 years later). I had a great group of friends in Davenport. Leaving the Quad Cities was very emotional for the whole family, and moving the kids was tough on us. They were 16, 12 & 8. Heavy emphasis on tough for the one who had just turned 16.
 |
| Great house on McCain Road with awesome neighbors, 1990... |
Haven’t talked much about Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) lately. I’m in denial. For sure. But excited. Any recent newbies reading my blog, Landon is my 18 year old grandson. His middle name is Andrew. When he was 4, Landon decided he’d rather be known as Drew. Sigh. I like the name Drew, but I love the name Landon. To me, he’ll always be Landon, but I’m in a very small minority of 1.
 |
| Landon 4, changing his name to Drew, except for me... |
Although he wasn’t born on a basketball court, if I hadn’t been there myself, I would have sworn Landon came out spinning a basketball on his index finger. He’s the epitome of slang speak, ‘Gym Rat.’ Landon’s dad Tracey was Jackson High’s basketball coach at the time, so by the time L was 2, (and still in diapers), he was a regular on the team. Landon didn’t see himself as a 34 inch mascot, he was just one of the guys. It took several serious talks, over & over to convince Landon he could not run out onto the court during games. If he wanted to sit on the bench and stand in the circle during time outs he absolutely had to stay off the court. There is no doubt in my mind, these formative years with daddy and his high school team on the court have shaped Landon into the player he is today.
 |
| One of Landon’s first travel teams, he’s in the middle, bottom row... |
There’s no denying Landon’s got talent up the wazoo. But there’s so much more. By junior high, he’d somehow magically acquired (and was utilizing) this uncanny ability to “see or read” the court during a game. Didn’t always end well because Landon’s picture perfect, threaded passes through 4 different players were not always anticipated by the rest of the team. Still most of his teammates eventually caught on and were ready when he zip lined the ball to them. Since he hit his teens, Landon’s been in the gym by 5 am. Everyday of his life. Not just basketball season. He has played and practiced year round since middle school. He practices before practice, lifts weights, strength training, shooting copious amounts of free throws and 3 pointers, over and over. Watches hours of basketball films. Although he makes everything look easy, Landon’s certainly clocked in the hours. He’s wildly talented, smart, good looking, sure of himself, likable, charismatic plus kinda cocky. (Occasionally prone to talk trash).
 |
| Number 3, Landon, 2017... |
Deciding which college basketball scholarship to accept is every parent’s dream. Landon had several college offers and after visiting various campuses, chose Holy Cross, near Boston. The college is run by Jesuit priests. Goodness & mercy abounds. Shannon, Tracey and Landon were all impressed with every aspect about Holy Cross. Famous, successful alumni from all walks of life, everything from CEO’s, to a Supreme Court justice. (And the alumni wholeheartedly support their alma mater, making Holy Cross one of the highest endowment donating colleges in the country) You can pretty much go anywhere, write your own ticket, do anything after graduation. Get this. His freshman year at Holy Cross is the equivalent (approximately) of what we paid for our little HUD home before extensive renovations 3 years ago. One year of education, including basketball. Oh. My. Word.
 |
| Another 3 for number 3... |
While I’m a little bummed Holy Cross is 800 miles away, I’m happy with Landon’s choice. I’m all about playing time. Minutes matter. Is it more advantageous to play for a bigger school, sit the bench for a couple years and get minimal time on the floor? Or play for a smaller school and get the chance as a freshman to make a huge difference, be a star with some serious playing time? I think Landon’s gonna own that Patriot league.
 |
| Racking up some points for Pioneer, 2017... |
I’m here to offer helpful suggestions for the rest of his college life. (Yeah, that’s what his gram is for). I’ve no doubt he’ll be an enormous asset and very successful on the court, but my hope is for him to be as equally successful off the court. I don’t see classes posing a problem. (Holy Cross does not recruit players with a gpa under 3.2). So we’re good on basketball and studies. I hope. Dude, study. Seriously, though in this day and age, you must remember this one thing at all times. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, rest assured someone is recording you or snapping pictures. Of you. Every time. Every. Single. Time.
 |
| Landon... |
Now I’m gonna advise him on charisma and cockiness. Landon draws people in. Which is great, as long as you’re attracting good people. But I hope he’s not only drawn to athletes. That’s a mighty small circle. Just be nice. To everyone. It’s really that simple. Acknowledge the kid (and mean it) from South Dakota, who at 5’5” might not know (or care) you’re a jock, but is literally studying to become a rocket scientist. Smile, say ‘hi’ and be sincere to gals and guys who aren’t in your social circles. Just be nice. Be polite. Be courteous. Being a nice guy doesn’t hurt you. It gives you enormous mass appeal. You want to leave your mark on your college years? This is how it’s done. You’ll be a rock star. Remembered fondly by everyone, from all walks of life. That’s how you’re gonna leave a mark on Holy Cross, besides on the basketball court.
 |
| About the truth that game. My man... |
So Landon’s senior year of basketball starts Monday night. How can this be? I’m not ready. Three years ago, as a freshman, Shannon forwarded me a letter to Landon from his coach saying, congratulations, he’d made the Varsity team. (Including the sentence, ‘don’t get too cocky. You’re making great strides offensively, but you have to work harder defensively’). Which he has made a priority since. I was disappointed but not with Rex’s insight. I thought Landon would sit the bench the whole season, instead of getting some serious playing time starting on JV. While he didn’t ‘start’ his freshman year, he did get adequate minutes right off the bat. The first time Landon went into the game it was mid-way through the first half. Landon immediately nailed a 3-pointer against one of Ann Arbor Pioneer’s city rivals. The whole student section erupted with, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” (I cried). How about the time he scored 29 points, 9 three-pointers and a jumper, in the first HALF of a tournament game? (I bawled). Or winning a three point shooting contest against some of the best high school players in his age group? Landon walked off the court and handed me his trophy. (I sobbed all the way back to the hotel). These are a fraction of his high school standout moments. I truly hope and believe he’s not done making highlights (on the baskeball court and off) for this gram just yet...
 |
| My notebook to keep Landon’s stats. Senior year for # 3. Sob.... |
Have you ever had a fleeting thought, problem or solution for a split second-then just as suddenly it disappears? You’re not really troubled by this and it might be years before it pops up in your head again. Sort of like you’re waiting for that second shoe to hit the floor, but never realized the first one smacked the floor boards a long time ago.
 |
| Adam, late fall 1979. No apparent ill effects from his traumatic beginning... |
One of my favorite movies has this great quote (memorized by one crazy fan). The movie is “What about Bob,” starring Bill Murray (as a guy with lots of mental health issues) and Richard Dreyfuss (as his frustrated therapist). Dr. Leo Marvin is asking Bob about his background.
 |
| Oh yeah, Neal’s still got it, 2016... |
If you’ve been following my blog during the past 4 years, you pretty much know there’s not many subjects I won’t talk about. Besides politics. Politics are fiercely personal. Most of us STRONGLY believe one way or the other, but as a rule tend to hold these beliefs close to our vests. I try not to argue with friends who have views different than mine, because it just causes hurt or hard feelings. Who wants that? Besides, I’m not gonna change their mind and they’re sure not gonna change mine. For the most part, I have no trouble baring my soul, faults, aspirations (a haphazard attempt to make you think I aspire to anything) misgivings, shortcomings and sins in front of others.
 |
| My favorite spot-Niagara Falls, on my way to Paris, 2017... |
Let’s go back 5 years. I retired from Parish Visiting. Our lake home was on the market longer than we dreamt possible-without a nibble. We had followed suggestions and pared down our overstuffed abode in anxious anticipation of our next move in more than 20 years. We were so excited at the prospect of not driving 150-180 miles to see the rest of the family. So many changes coming, just not as fast as we had expected or hoped.
 |
| A celebration! Opal turned 100... |
I’m constantly reminded how fast time is zipping by these days. One of the biggest culprits is Facebook. Every couple days when I open Facebook, I’m surprised by a picture from my memories. Could be from one year ago or 5. It’s my option if I want to ‘share’ the photo again. I’m always shocked when I read, “Denise, we care about you (right). This is from your memories 4 years ago.” How can that be? I swear it was just last year! Upon further inspection I see how little Graham was and realize yup, had to be at least 4 years ago. Too fast. Slow down.
 |
| Our Halloween craft project, a dirt cake cemetery in 2013, Graham 4... |
Don’t take my title here literally. I really wasn’t around when rock & roll debuted. That was a bit before my time. Music was a different world when I was a kid. I remember very little about radio music (elementary school music and church hymns were the 2 biggies in my life) before I hit my teens in the mid-60’s. I do recall fighting with my sister about listening to the radio before we went to sleep at night. She wanted country music on when we were in bed. I wanted quiet, she didn’t. She had the prime spot next to the nightstand and was almost 8 years older than me. Needless to say, I lost that battle.
 |
| One of my first concert experiences. The Roof Garden at Arnold’s Park, 1966... |
More often than not my boss is right on track. Once in a while I’m left scratching my head, but not too often. Basically, she’s got a lot on her plate and usually rises to the occasion. She has a lot of love and empathy for all of our children and it shows in how she treats them. Even the kid (not one of our babies, but much older) misbehaving in the lunchroom. Well, bless his heart.
 |
| This is our dining area lunch table. Yes, it’s that low... |
This snippet in the life of Neese started in February, 2016. Walking on a beautiful, dry, winter afternoon when suddenly I got a searing pain behind my left knee. A golf ball sized lump appeared. Doctor visits, misdiagnosis, physical therapy, steroids, and cortisone shot helped but it’s never been the same. Can’t pivot at all either way and at times it feels like my leg won’t support me. (Hubs often feels the same way about supporting me). Sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I stand up and walk. Still, it’s 75% better than it was 18 months ago.
 |
| Just look at all my perfect bones. Neese, 1954... |
Couple months ago, a routine day, worked from 6-1, then ran several errands. Several being too many. By the time I got home my RIGHT leg was on fire. Starting on the inside of my lower thigh, heading under my knee to the back of my calf. Swollen, tender, I used ice gel packs and anti-inflammatory OTC. But after 10 days it wasn’t any better. Sigh. I called for an appointment with my primary care guy. Dr. Arntz poked around said he didn’t like where the swelling was, and suggested an orthopedic guy in his building. Made an appointment but it was a month away because it had to be my day off, a Friday or late afternoon. The discomfort was pretty bad, so I called back asking if there was anytime sooner I could come in? The best she could do was put me on the cancellation list, probably only a day or few hours notice, but my name was added. Never got the call though, he must be a busy guy.
A week before my appointment (Friday, my day off) and my to-do list is extensive. You know weird stuff happens when you have something wrong with one of your big limbs. You unconsciously adjust your gait to try and make it hurt less. I felt like I had shin splints. A couple of toes had blisters from walking awkwardly. The pain was down a titch, but not much.
 |
| From the back, Pam, Shirley, Neese with the great knees and Char, 1968... |
First on my list that day was meeting my friend Diane for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. As I was leaving home, I got into the Jeep and felt a sharp twinge in my lower back. Tingled all the way down my left leg for a few seconds (not the good kind of tingle). When I got to the restaurant I gingerly got out and felt another bad back twinge. Oh hells bells. After catching up with each other’s lives for 90 minutes, it was all I could do to get up off that straight chair without crying. OK, my to-do list just shrunk to 0. No way could I stop half dozen times and get in and out of the Jeep. Plus walking around. I came straight home. The upside of this? My back now hurt worse than my leg. Yay.
I still had most of Friday through Sunday to heal before work on Monday. Ha! Ironic. Working at FCC has been a trip. I was literally sick for the first 8 months. Caught everything the babies threw my way except hand, foot and mouth. I worked through bronchitis, pneumonia, sore throats, cold after cold, my sore leg (which took over a year to feel somewhat better), until I built up some immunities to those little buggers (the babies and their good natured way of literally sharing everything with me). Only to have my back go out. By Sunday night the thought of bending over to pick up anything about made me cry. Standing or laying down wasn’t too bad, sitting however was almost impossible because I couldn’t get into an upright position for at least a minute. After finally managing to hoist myself up, I was still hunched over, legs shaking and my back unable to straighten. But within a minute or 2, I was standing somewhat normally and could walk pretty good.
 |
| Char, gal from Canton I can’t remember & Neese’s brown knees, 1962... |
So I hobbled into work Monday morning, knowing I couldn’t stay once the babies (who am I kidding, over half of them weigh between 20 and 30 pounds now, they’re practically teenagers) arrived. But I did get our room set up and ready for the day. When Liz showed up, I explained my sad state of affairs and crippled my way back home. Did the same thing on Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon though, most of my back spasms had stopped. Whew. They were wicked. Piercing, sharp pains that sucks the breath right out of you. Feels like you’ve latched onto an electric fence. Zap. Happened sometimes just moving a couple inches, but most often whenever I tried to bend over. An inch or a foot, didn’t matter.
Wednesday I tried to work. Big mistake. It is impossible to work in our room and not pick up crying babies, bend over, or move fast to try and prevent a disaster. One kid can now get our door open so you gotta jet if he pulls the door handle down. Someone else spits up on the floor and the rest of the gang find that puddle fascinating and want to investigate. The high chairs need to be washed, (they’re low to the ground) floors need to be swept again and again. That day was my longest ever. (And I love our babies and work) My reprieve was a 30 minute lunch break, but sitting down hurt worse. I lost 3 days of healing by working those 7 hours. The spasms were back twice as bad. Didn’t think Friday and my doctors appointment would ever get here.
 |
| 1953, with perfect limbs... |
After filling out 5 pages of new patient info, a nurse leads me to X-ray. Well this was different. She did not want me to lie down, but instead climb 3 crudely made wooden steps which were covered in red out door carpeting. The railing resembled part of a walker where you place your hands as you shuffle forward. No need to remove my slacks, socks or shoes. She snapped front and sideways of both knees which I thought was odd. Back to the waiting room for a couple minutes before my name was called.
Small exam room, painted gray. One wall was filled with framed MSU & U of M and the Lions football pictures. Not an avid fan of any, I only recognized one. Desmond Howard in his now famous Heisman pose. Although one of the Lions pics could have been Barry Sanders, but I don’t remember his number. My X-rays were snapped on a lit up frame of bright white. Dang, those knees look pretty darn good. My legs look rather slim. Sweet. Shades of light and dark grays, some stark white spots. (Why I didn’t snap a couple of pictures while I waited I’ll never know. Old school and I don’t think that way).
 |
| These are not the joints that are gonna give me grief. Really??? |
Doctor Kenyon (pretty close to my age I think) waltzed in, shook my hand asked how I was doing? What’s wrong? Told him about my 6 weeks of pain in my right leg, then proceeded to my aching back. “I don’t do backs. Here’s a guy, practices in Ann Arbor and Chelsea. He’ll fix your back.” Hands me a card.
We were 2 feet apart, Kenyon was facing me, and other than glancing at my X-rays a couple of times, he talked right to me, so I don’t think I missed much of what he said (though soon I was in a state of shock and denial). “Both your knees are in horrible shape. It would be fraudulent of me to order an MRI or do arthroscopic surgery. Total knee replacement is your only option. You’re missing cartilage, it’s bone on bone in spots, see this big white spot here?” I nodded numbly. “That’s a huge bone spur. You’re growing extra bone which is trying to replace what you’ve lost. You’ve been walking so badly, your tibia is starting to turn the wrong way.” WAIT. WAIT. JUST. ONE. MINUTE.
“Um, do you actually mean my leg bone is turning the wrong direction,” I asked incredulously? “Yes, that’s what I mean, but not just your right leg. Both of your tibias are turning.”
Tibia, tibia turn around,
Tibia, tibia touch the ground.
Tibia, tibia go up the stairs,
Tibia, tibia say your prayers...
Yet, through it all she maintains her warped sense of humor. What a trooper!
Now I knew shock was setting in. I don’t remember laughing hysterically, and he didn’t get out the straight jacket, so I think I kept my near surface meltdown at bay. For the moment.
“I’m gonna give you a cortisone shot. Should help for a few months, but I wouldn’t wait too long. Call me when you’re sick of the pain. Whichever knee hurts the worse, we’ll replace first,” he concluded. Stuck a needle under my kneecap, and pushed hard. Yikes. Done. And walked out.
 |
| I admit I haven’t been able to sit on my haunches like this for a decade. Me with neighbor baby Cindy, 1957... |
But. But, my aching back. Knew I was gonna have another miserable weekend if I didn’t get something to help with the back spasms. Crippled out to my car, called the office I had just walked out of and asked if there was any way someone from my primary care team could see me today. Yup, my doc’s assistant could squeeze me in at 2:30. Drove home, ate lunch with an ice pack on my back. Lezlie listened to my symptoms, felt around the hurting spot (C-4 she surmised), took me off work for a week, wrote a script for a muscle relaxer and suggested X-rays. I love her. She’s the gal who treated me during my 6 weeks of bronchitis/ pneumonia bout 2 years ago. While she had strongly suggested I spend a few days in the hospital, she was fine with me coming back and forth to the office a half dozen times to check, change prescriptions and order breathing treatments, but not be hospitalized.
I waited for my prescriptions, stopped at the Professional building to get the X-rays taken, and limped home. Talked it over with Hubs, who was as surprised as me with Kenyon’s assessment of my joints. John has hip issues and our son-in-law Tracey’s had total knee replacement. Tracey recommended his orthopedic doc, who’s supposed to be one of the best, so I will be getting a second opinion as soon as I can get an appointment. The back spasms have stopped, my knee feels the same-pain wise, plus very stiff.
 |
| The bees knees. Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954... |
Something occurred to me after Kenyon said I was walking strange, causing my bones to curve. At work as I leave the lunchroom, I walk down a hallway which faces a 30 foot long glass frame hanging on opposite wall, at the t-intersection where I turn left to go back to the baby room. Right now that humongous frame is full of candid black and white shots of kids from all of our class rooms. But I can see part of my reflection in the glass as I walk. Often I think, why do my legs look so weird? Almost bow legged. I walk like I have a cob up my butt. Holy moly. I’ve really been blessed, fortunate with relatively great health. But this surprising diagnosis has knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute. Paging Dr. Carpenter...
After you’ve said your ‘I do’s,’ there might be a gauzy wisp of a vision of growing old together. But you never actually realize what your life will be like after 49 years. Together. Still with the same person. Who knows you better than anyone else. And has hung around through thick and thin. In it for the long haul. We’ve got fortitude and endurance.
 |
| Didn’t spend big bucks on elopement wedding pics. Olan Mills special, 1969... |
The first couple of decades are normally dedicated solely for the parenthood section of marriage. Trying to raise your incredible creations. Only for a limited time. Just as amazingly, this offer is only for the two of you. These 3 children, available exclusively for John and Denise. Think about that for a minute. There would be no Shannon, Joshua or Adam (or subsequently our 4 amazing grandchildren plus our picture perfect great-granddaughter) had it not been for the elopement of John and Denise. Forty-nine years ago today in Elk Point, South Dakota. Took all of 4 minutes and we were hitched. Joined as one. My how He has blessed this union. Thanks God.
 |
| Our party of 5. Joshua 7, Hubs 34, Shannon 11, me 31, Adam 3, 1982... |
We talked about it occasionally, but you really don’t ‘see’ yourselves literally growing old together. One of my friends refers to this part of their lives as ‘the 4th quarter, extra innings, or overtime. With the divorce rate still hovering around the 50% mark, it’s great to see silver, golden or beyond anniversary notices popping up. We have become a throw away nation, choosing frequently to toss relationships away as easily as our trash. Rather than stick together, try harder or repurpose.
 |
| Yikes, prom 1966... |
I’ve always admired single parents. Holding down 2 jobs or more, trying hard to be mom and dad to the children you want so badly to grow up as responsible, kind, productive, hardworking, sincere adults. I don’t think I had the ‘right stuff’ to be a successful single parent. I thought child rearing was hard enough with 2 loving parents in the game. Glad I’ll never have to find out what I’m made of in a single parent home.
 |
| Worthington Iowa, with Joshua 1976... |
John and I both have some quirks, most barely noticeable after nearly 5 decades together. One of his is, he likes to read the paper. To me. Drives me insane. Why? Because I love reading the newspaper. By myself. Especially a real one. Crinkly, it has its own smell and feel. Fits in my hands. Only happens 3 times a week. The Rock Valley Bee, Thursday and Sunday’s Jackson Citizen Patriot. Every other paper I have to read on my iPad. Ick. Still hate that. There is something special, sacred about sitting down with the daily newspaper. Now the Sunday paper is a fraction the size it was 10 years ago. Hubs, no need to read to me just yet. My ears are faulty, due for a recall, not my eyes.
 |
| Too cool for captions... |
Our life together is one big ritual. We each have assigned tasks, most of which were never really assigned, just assumed. I’m the better cook, driver of cars and washer of clothing. He can fix anything, does the mowing, snow removal, and fertilizing. I weed my awesome pachysandra bed of ground cover and trim our new landscaping. He handles all grilling, or smoking of pork butts and ribs. He has just started to help me some when I’m canning. He vacuums 95% of the time, I do dishes about the same percentage. I hate sweeping floors. Wish he loved to sweep, but he does not. Dang it.
 |
| Both captivated by someone at Les & Mary Jane’s house, early 2000’s... |
Is there a certain weird habit/ritual you’ve done for decades in your marriage, yet are reluctant to acknowledge? Or maybe you’re not even aware of its existence? We have one. I doubt John has ever realized it’s what we both do. I would dare bet, he’s never given one single thought there’s a quirk we share. A constant we never change, without thinking about it.
 |
| Grandparents day at Landon & Peyton’s school, 2009... |
We’re both fond of popcorn at night when we’re watching TV. However, John’s popcorn tastes better than mine. (I think he uses more butter). Yet he thinks I make better popcorn. (I use less salt, so he actually tastes the popcorn). What this really means, while both of us want popcorn, neither of us want to get up and make it. Which takes about 5-7 minutes. No microwave popcorn in this house. Beyond gross. Yellow Jolly Time kernels live here. In bulk. Along with real butter. I believe we are on our 4th Stir Crazy Corn Popper. I know, crazy, right?
 |
| Visiting the Falls in Sioux Falls... |
The Stir Crazy has a wide base which heats up to achieve the same temperature as Hell. A clear plastic dome sits on top of the base where all the delicious kernels end after they’ve popped from hell’s extreme heat. The dome holds enough popcorn to feed a packed theatre of starving teens, showing a first run horror movie. Or just enough for John and Denise. But here’s the conundrum. While we both like popcorn (who am I kidding? It’s one of my favorite foods, along with fresh tomatoes and cotton candy) while Hubs just likes popcorn. And we like it different. I don’t want much salt, but plenty of butter. He likes lots of salt and lots of butter. Thus after the corn is popped, half of it has to be put in another container, before the condiments are added. Which has always been an old Tupperware bowl. OK, here’s the quirk. Whoever makes the popcorn gets the Stir Crazy Dome. Unwritten law since the beginning of time, roughly September 22, 1969. The remaining lazy ass, reclining in the family room, waiting impatiently for the maker of popcorn to add melted butter, salt, unscrew my lid of Diet Pepsi, hand me 2 paper towels, gets the old Tupperware bowl. EVERY. TIME. The holier than thou person, maker of night time popcorn always gets the dome. Always. How did this even make it into our marriage rules? Don’t know, but yet it remains. In between ‘Denise will be too lenient with the kids, John a bit too strict.’ Just above, ‘do not flap the covers after you fart?’
 |
| Hitting our stride in year 15 or so... |
These rules/family values/even our quirks have been in existence to help this marriage thrive and survive for the last half century. We’re not about to change what works for us. I’m sure every couple has their own serious and whimsical set of ideals on how to coexist with another person for 49 years. They might be etched in stone, or loosely tossed around during margarita Monday’s. Whatever works-to make it to 50...
 |
| The maker of popcorn always get the best bowl. Crazy, I know... |
 |
| To the one who does nothing, the old Tupperware bowl is sufficient... |
I’ve not had many bosses during my life because I haven’t work outside the home very long. Some bosses were terrific, some terrible, and others somewhere in between. I blogged about my favorite boss a couple years ago. His name was Mark and he was 3 notches above terrific. He owned several McDonald’s restaurants. I never witnessed him being unfair to an employee. He treated everyone with respect and always went out of his way to be approachable and kind. The world needs more Marks spread around the business world.
 |
| The best boss-ever. RIP Mark... |
It was one of those beautiful, late summer days when I was healthy and happy. We were living in North Muskegon, on Muskegon Lake, at the bottom of a hill. I didn’t particularly enjoy living at the bottom of the hill because this narrow strip of land was only a couple blocks long and wide. Everything in the world except Muskegon Lake existed-on the top of the hill. And it was pretty steep to get to the top.
 |
| My favorite color combination... |
Change is inevitable. Virtually impossible to cruise through life and not be affected by what happens to us, around us, or to those we love. How we respond to the good, the bad and ugly in life can help or hinder who we eventually become. Still, the older I get, the more I resist change. I tend to like things the way they are or used to be.
 |
| 3 year old Neese, busy making mud pies... |
I don’t know if Iowa laws still remain the same as they did back in the Stone Age when I was a teen. I’m sure I’ll be corrected if I’m not remembering right. I believe when you turned 14, you could get a learner’s permit. In the Gerritson abode it meant this: Mom and Dad were supposed to tag-team teach their youngest child-me how to drive a car. So with about a year to go before I took Driver’s Training I could become an accomplished driver. Right.
 |
| Yup, this Rock Valley Rocket booster was claiming all roads her territory now... |
Unlike the majority of families in the mid-60’s, my parents drove cars with a manual transmission and a clutch. Ugh. It takes some skill and a lot of concentration to learn how to drive a car with a manual transmission. This was done on one of the cheaper varieties from Chevy. I believe it was a maroon 4 door, 1963 Nova. Three speed on the column. For anyone younger than 50, the gear shifter thingy was connected to the right side of the steering wheel. Try to envision that little scenario.
 |
| Much like our 63 Chevy when I learned to drive a straight stick... |
Neutral was in the middle of this 12 inch span and could be moved a bit towards the dashboard or pulled in towards the driver. Me. Neese was learning to drive. Watch out world. First gear was pulled in and down towards your lap. You wanted to shift to second gear when you were going about 10 mph. Mom was pretty patient. My left foot had the clutch depressed to the floorboard. My right foot was either on the brake (if there was ANY kind of slight in-or decline), otherwise my right foot rested lightly on the accelerator. Not hard enough to race the engine. I was fairly coordinated (helped by the fact though I was not a ‘smokin hot, I was indeed a ‘smokin’ cheerleader, I could do more than walk and chew gum at the same time).
 |
| This may look easy, but combined with the clutch, accelerator, brake and parent, it wasn’t |
Mom would go over the sequence again and again. Push the clutch in, shift to first gear. NOW, AT THE EXACT SAME TIME, EVER SO SLOWLY, let the clutch out with your left foot as you apply light pressure to the accelerator with your right foot.
If not done with the precision movements of a brain surgeon wielding a scalpel, the car stalls. Shit. Once you hear something being wound too tight, take your foot off the gas with your right foot while depressing (wow, this was actually hard & scary) the clutch to the floor again with your left foot. If that wasn’t confusing enough, your right hand now had to manually move the transmission from first to second gear. Your left hand is steering the car BTW. Move the shifter thingy back up to the loosey-goosey neutral spot, then gently push it a bit towards the dashboard. Then straight up towards the headliner. Ta-da, you’re now in second gear. The clutch should be all the way out and you are still pressing on the accelerator to go faster. One more gear to go. Thank you Jesus. Now you’re up to about 25 mph, Mom’s yelling encouragement or “slow down, hit the brakes, stop, or we’re gonna die,” when it’s that time again. We’re shifting, we’re shifting. Take your foot off the gas, push the clutch all the way in and shift to third. Right hand takes the gear stick and brings it straight down. You’re cruising now baby. And here’s a stop sign. On an incline. Oh boy.
 |
| My first car was a green nifty-50 Chevy like this one during the mid 60’s... |
Once you’ve mastered starting from a dead stop with a clutch on an incline, your status is forever changed to the ‘pro series driver.’ But as an inexperienced driver, tackling a stick shift from a dead stop-on an incline was enough to break me out in a cold sweat and my mouth was as dry as a popcorn fart. If you don’t give the car enough gas while you slowly let the clutch out, you start rolling backwards. Scary enough, but to be certain you’ve got moxie & mettle, make sure an impatient old Dutch guy is riding your bumper 2 feet behind you while you try these 12 steps at once. If one (grumpy old Dutch guy) is not available, you can get the same hyperventilating effect doing this when the roads are slick. Why, oh why couldn’t one of our cars be an automatic? Was that too much to ask?
The easiest way to make sure you don’t stall the car while stopped on an incline is learning to ‘ride the clutch.’ Not an acceptable option if a parent was with you. This method is rather hard on a clutch for some reason. But it’s what I did many times as a rookie driver. Instead of leaving the clutch depressed to the floorboard while you wait, you let the clutch out-about a 1/3 of the way. If you don’t give the engine some gas at this point you’re gonna stall, and if you use too much gas, you’re gonna start moving. Remember you’re at a stoplight or stop sign so you really shouldn’t run either one. But if you do this just right, your car stays motionless. The clutch is out a bit and just a touch of gas. Sounds as though you’re goading the guy next to you into racing as soon as the light turns green. These learning experiences however were conducted in Rock Valley. We had one stoplight (I was so smitten with Rock Valley’s one stoplight, it’s what I chose when naming my blog) smack dab in the middle of downtown, only one lane each. And it was flat as a pancake, so most of my ‘riding the clutch’ was done from stop signs on an incline or in some other small town where I was just looking for trouble.
 |
| I was legally allowed to drive unattended now, hallelujah... |
Didn’t take me long to master driving a stick and little did I know it would be about 20 years before I’d buy my first automatic transmission car! Most of my stick shifts though have been on the floor and not the steering wheel. And I very seldom stalled a car. All of our kids learned how to drive a straight stick too. I think every one of their first cars were manuals. Even Ariana, our first grandchild drove a straight stick for several years. Actually great skills for anyone to have.
Mom had some different money ideas. Thought nothing of buying Shannon a fancy wool Sunday coat to be worn one winter when she was little, but would not spend a dollar on a new paring knife. Mom made it abundantly clear early in their marriage she was chairman of several committees which Dad would not get a vote. One area of concern was money. Mom decided where almost every penny went. Dad did have spending money, but Mom doled it out. Bills were paid early and mostly in cash. Tithing to the church wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. No questions or doubt. She was strict in her savings goals. As chairman of the car acquisition committee, her job was to decide what kind of cars they would drive. Mom felt a small engine, 4 good tires, some steel to protect them, a heater and most importantly-the cheaper manual transmission were sufficient to meet the needs of their travels. Period. Once Mom became chairman on these important committees, she was reluctant to give them up. Ever.
 |
| Practiced driving on many gravel roads with corn fields on both sides... |
By the mid-70’s Mom stopped buying cars that were considered mid-sized. She bought a new Chevette, manual tranny of course, paid cash, drove it for a couple years, then gave it to Dad. And bought another one, different color, for herself. When GM stopped making Chevettes, she was unsure what to do to meet her new car goals. Hubs suggested a Ford Escort, which were relatively new. My parents and John had long been GM consumers, but for the first and only time in her life, she took Hubs advice. (Yes, believe it, there are still miracles). Bought an Escort, loved it, but had to order it because she refused to have or pay for a RADIO. Oh my goodness. Although she would sweat bullets during some brutal Iowa summers, she wouldn’t order a car with air conditioning for several years.
 |
| Dad’s sign, trying to get his message to the masses... |
Always felt bad for Dad’s sake. After Larry died, Dad became very involved with several different ministries. One was visiting and preaching to inmates in prison, which he would continue to do until a few months before his death at 91. The other was his special sign ministry. Large wooden, hand painted signs he designed (no offense Dad but I’m using the term ‘designed’ loosely). He used old boards he saved from buildings he took down and nail them together. Give the whole thing a coat or 2 of paint. Decide on a catchy or clever saying, like um, “7 Days without Jesus makes one weak,” and just start painting. No lines drawn, he’d just wing it. His apostrophe’s always make me smile when I see pictures of his signs. They looked like where the commas should be, but still in the general apostrophe vicinity. Dad’s signs were meant to catch your eye from highway 18 or 75, so they stood pretty tall in the corn fields. How did he get his signs to their appointed spots? He drove the smallest, cheapest car in America. Dad sure would have loved driving a pickup. But it was not to be.
 |
| Looks like this one could have been worded better, but it was definitely Dad... |
I think one of Dad’s coworkers helped him with his signs because he had a pickup. After a few years of Iowa’s wicked winters and scorching summers, Dad’s signs would start taking a toll from the weather. He’d fetch the sign, bring it back to the garage, plop it on 2 sawhorses, make any repairs, add a fresh base coat of paint and give it a makeover. He had a small notebook filled with potential sign sayings and was just itching to use a new religious catchphrase that would surely draw the eye of those zipping along the highway. Perhaps forever changing the life (and afterlife) of one weary traveler...