49 & Counting...

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...

Kent=lame excuse for a humanoid...

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...

Where were you...

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...

The Empathy App...

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...

Riding the Clutch...

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...