Win, win for Rock Valley High...

While it’s certainly been a long time for me personally (try 5 decades), hopefully this current phenomenon hasn’t dwindled low enough to be endangered or more dubiously threatened with extinction yet. What’s going on? We could be on the brink of a world collapse. Let me expound.

I’ve been going to high school basketball games since Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) made the varsity team as a freshman four years ago. They play 20 games a year, (not counting tournament play after the regular season). Over half of the games are against rivals in their own conference. Let’s say 56 conference games in the span of 4 years. That’s playing the same teams, twice a year, leaving about 25 games in the same time frame against different opponents. Everywhere from Traverse City to inner city Detroit schools. Not singling out Pioneer here, it’s one of the top high schools in the state academically. It is however the school I visit most often. Pioneer is a large, diverse, urban school of about 2,000 students, freshmen through senior. These are observations by a curious, interested, somewhat discouraged grandma. 

I remember sitting in our newly constructed elementary school (during the late ‘50’s, pretty sure it was Myrna Ver Hoef’s second grade class. It’s been torn down and replaced, yeah, I’m that old). The hallway outside our classroom door led to the cafeteria, so students from all ages/classes meandered/scurried past on their way for much needed sustenance to get through the rest of the day. The door to my room was open and I watched ‘the big high school kids’ walking, talking, laughing, flirting until suddenly humbling themselves seriously to the mercy of the lunchroom gestapo police, Mrs. Haas, the lunch ticket lady. (For whom I had great fear if my lunch ticket had run out and I had to ‘charge’ my meal. I’d rather face the firing squad). It was game day and I was fascinated, envious, smitten and in awe of the cheerleaders. Cute orange and black uniforms, skirts barely covering their knees, Bobbie socks folded down, white tennis shoes. Perfect hair and makeup. They were just so together. I knew right then I wanted to be a cheerleader. 

Who remembers Friday afternoon pep rallies? What a blast from the past. Lasting about half an hour before we were dismissed for the weekend. But before you could make plans for Saturday, a big Friday night game (football or basketball) awaits. Athletes dressed up on game days. Cheerleaders, donning our uniforms held a pep rally with a mixture of cheers, and short inspiring ‘pep’ talks from team members or coaches (sometimes including a sermonette from Mr. Liaboe on what kind of behavior he expected from students during the game. Lucky us). The object of the pep rally was enthusiastically engaging Rocket booster students to show support for our team/school that night during the game. Didn’t matter who we were playing (although we hated Sioux Center more than the rest of our opponents-combined). The whole high school was excited about a pep rally-because it got you out of class early. Who didn’t want that on a Friday afternoon? I loved pep rallies. Watching our entire high school mingling on the bleachers, screaming out memorized cheers in unison. 

It was common to have 2 bus loads of kids signed up to ride a pep bus for an away game because most of the student population went to every game. I know we were from a small town with a relatively small school, but still. Taking an active, supportive role in attending sporting events drew us together. A neat kind of warm (cool) bond. Some of my fondest junior high and high school memories resulted from riding our pep bus. If the Rockets suffered a loss we might have a quiet ride back to Rock Valley, but with a win we were assured of everyone’s loud, hoarse, raspy voice being heard throughout the trip home. Such great times. The last time I passed a bus load of high school kids headed somewhere during the day, every single kid had his/her head down-practically in their lap. On their phone, in their own little world, while their best friends sat right next to them-doing exactly the same thing. Sad. 

Pioneer has 2 big city rivalries, Huron and Skyline. We play them each twice a year. Four times a season, wherever those games are held, the gym is packed. Four games out of 20. The rest of the games, depending on the night and opponent might garner a hundred and fifty students. Might. I think one of the attributing factors is cheerleaders. Or lack there of. Throughout Landon’s high school basketball career, approximately 80 games, I’ve seen a dozen, maybe 15 schools with cheerleaders at the game we’re attending. This. Blows. My. Mind. No it really-just blows. 

What has happened to school spirit? I simply can’t wrap my head around the lack of cheerleaders for sporting events in school systems. When I was in high school (about 200 kids) cheerleading tryouts were very competitive, nerve racking, with an over abundance of girls clamoring for the highly coveted spots. It was a big deal. Huge. Deal. Shannon cheered during high school and participated in several cheerleading competitions every year. Cheerleaders are still a highly competitive, active group at the college level, so what’s happened in some of the high schools? Can the size of a high school be a contributing factor? Is size detrimental? 

In a high school of 2,000 students, I hope there would be at least 8 beaming, spirited young women (or guys) who should be thrilled and damn proud to wear their school colors in cheerleading uniforms-on game day. Can it be cost? If I remember, I think Mom paid for most of my uniform (skirt, shoes, knee socks and jacket) but I believe the school paid for sweaters, which were worn more than one season. Is it sexism?  Not cool for girls to wear short skirts and skimpy tops. Bring back mid-thigh skirts (or leggings) and sweaters. Apathy? The crowd of kids simply are not enthusiastic about high school sports anymore. Lack of a coach? I’m at a loss here. And disheartened about it. 

Then again, if only a hundred kids show up in support for the non-rivalry games, cheerleading must not be much fun either. I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a cheerleading squad run out on the floor in between quarters or at half time to perform a rousing cheer. There were cheerleaders at our last 2 games (not Pioneer, haven’t seen cheerleaders since Landon’s sophomore year). Huron had a dozen gals on the sidelines. Monroe had 4 who walked along the bleachers and threw out T-shirts. Oh yeah, one of the girls did 6 backflips in a row, spelling out M-O-N-R-O-E while the other 3 shouted out the letters on the sidelines. Yay. Glum.

Cheerleaders are the conduit between fans and athletes during sporting events. (But you do have to encourage the fans to get out there and support the team too). A small way of connecting hard working athletes with the student body population. As one unified group. For a couple hours there are no cliques, just kids supporting other kids. I hope high school cheerleading squads make a comeback. That they are encouraged and supported by school administrators, teachers, counselors and their peers. Mentored and coached until they find some bubbling enthusiasm for high school sports once again. Rah-rah-rah...

Winters of Iowa past...

At the time I certainly didn’t think we were rough & tough. No one did. If you were brought up in Northwest Iowa, several ‘givens’ describing our little corner of the world were assumed to go along with our lifestyle.

1. We had the best soil in the world for growing crops. When you drove beside the farmer’s field your eyes feasted on the richest, darkest black color dirt on the planet. 


2. When one mentioned living and loving ‘all 4 seasons’ of Iowa, they meant it. The 2 minor seasons, (understudies) spring and fall were simply expected to show up every year. Length of stay wasn’t of consequence as long as you could state, “yeah we had spring last week Tuesday & Wednesday.” Then the heat and humidity found its way to Iowa and settled for a spell.


3. Fall would manage an obligatory visit after we (the locals) whined long and loud enough about the damn heat & humidity.


4. And then came winter. And stayed. And stayed. Lingered until it was almost unbearable. Like the unwanted houseguest who wouldn’t leave. Or ever heard of the saying about over-staying your welcome and smelling of fish. Yet we knew no different. It was just another Iowa winter. 

But we never gave winter much thought. It was a time when the fields rested. The land and the farmers needed the rest, (the other 3 seasons involved the bulk of their work) after feeding the world for another year. Growing up I never fully understood just how cold it was-and stayed that way for months. It was a common sight to see several cars parked at the grocery store. Cars unlocked, devoid of people-but running while their driver ran in to buy necessities. There was no fear back then of your car getting stolen. Another common sight was an electrical cord hanging outside on the grill of your car. What? I know, it looked weird. Cars were prone not to start on frigid mornings unless you kept the car plugged in during the night. I think there were a couple different methods used. The heaters either kept the fluids in your radiator warm or the oil warm with a “hot dipstick.” Some folks had the dealer install a heat pump before they’d take their new car off the lot! 

No way around it we got a lot of snow. Usually fell sideways, zipping in from the west, namely Nebraska. Iowa’s not known for an abundance of trees, so there was nothing to break the wind from storming through. My home town of Rock Valley had such wide streets, the snow piles from the side streets were piled skyward in the middle of main street. For months you were unable to see if your one of your friends happened to be shopping on the other side of the business district, because the snow was piled so high. 

The snow even sounds different when the temperature hits a certain (low/frigid/subhuman) degree. (I don’t know the exact temp it has to be to sound like this, but in Iowa these temps lasted a couple months, namely January and February. But not unheard of in April once in awhile either). Not like the cute little ‘slup’ when your foot hits wet packing snow in Michigan. More like noisy popping corn, or crunchy peanut brittle being chewed by the unmannered. It sounds cold when you’re walking or driving on it. We’ve been in Michigan for 30 years and one morning this week as we were backing out of the driveway, John said, “man that sounds like Iowa snow.” One of the few times we’ve heard that particular noise since we’ve been here. Not a sound I’ve missed by a long shot since we left our native state. 

Rock Valley didn’t have many snow days when I was in school. Normally it wasn’t the below zero temps or the amount of snow that would determine school closing, but more importantly the miles per hour of the (sideways-westerly) winds while it was snowing. Wasn’t uncommon to see drifts reaching the roof of some homes accompanied by completely bare ground nearby. These drifts were a better indicator whether we’d be in or out of school for the day. Surrounding country roads would be completely blocked off from the rest of the world for a day or 2.

Our school district was not above cheating the town kids out of sleeping in and staying home either. Half our town’s population lived out in the country. The great Iowa farmers. (They had to do something during winter’s downtime so they made babies). The gravel roads would be impassable so Rock Valley Community would say, “the busses are not running, but you townies get your butts in to school so we can notch another day towards our 180 state mandated total.” Thugs. Used to just infuriate me. So unfair. Sure enough after a couple days the state and county road crews would have the roads clear enough for school bus service to run again. 

I don’t remember what year the higher-ups (superintendent, principal, school board, maybe even some local preachers) saw the light about our dress code, but I think I was in high school, so mid to late-60’s. Meaning all those miserable winter blizzards, with gale force winds and below zero temps for days on end, we had to wear skirts to school. I’d like to know what yahoo thought that was conducive to a girls learning process. Yikes. 

Snow storms and blizzards meant different things to those living in the Gerritson home besides a possible day off from school. Dad worked for the Iowa State Highway Commission, meaning it was his job to plow highways 18 & 75. Blizzards meant one thing, often resulting in OVERTIME. Yay, we loved overtime. Well, maybe not Dad as much as Mom and I. Dad’s boss, Harry Hewitt must have gotten up every hour during the night to check how much, how fast the snow was accumulating and more importantly how hard the wind was blowing. 

When we first moved to 15th Street, there was only one phone in our house. It was in the kitchen. The stairs leading to the bedrooms were wicked steep with a poltergeist inhabiting the sharp turn near the top step, trying to trip up whoever was disturbing his domain. After Larry died we all slept upstairs. Middle of the night, I’d wake up to the sound of a far away phone-rriinngg, rriinngg. You didn’t have to hurry (no answering machine) because Harry was patient and waited until Mom or Dad stumbled downstairs to pick up the bright orange wall phone. Wasn’t a long conversation, just informing whoever Rich was needed as soon as possible. Once in a while it was snowing so hard Dad couldn’t make it to the State shop (about 10 blocks away) in our car. First man to reach the shop would hop in a truck and plow his way to pick up the rest of the guys. Wasn’t long before Mom had (Ma Bell?) install a phone upstairs which sat primly on the night stand in between their twin beds. (I wasn’t above silently picking up that extension phone to listen to either one of them talking. In my defense they did the same thing to me).

Mom always made Dad’s dinner (Mom called it, making his lunch pail) the night before, wrapped snugly in waxed paper, sitting in the fridge. A banana sat on the table, (wrapped in waxed paper too so the smell wouldn’t seep into his buttered Hillbilly bread-American cheese sandwich). But the smell did seep. Dad’s whole lunch pail smelled like a banana. Always). Dad ate the same lunch 9 days out of 10. On the the tenth day he’d get 2 peeled, hard boiled eggs, each wax paper wrapped like individual hard candies. Another smaller, twisted piece of wax paper contained approximately 50 grains of salt for his eggs. Dad’s black metal lunch pail sat wide open on the table waiting for the fridge items and his thermos of fresh coffee to be locked in place in his lunch pail lid. 

When I opened my paper this week there was a picture of some governor (I don’t even think he’s from an ice cold, snow producing state, maybe Kentucky) making a statement how he thinks people are getting soft about winter weather. If I look back on my youth, I might have to agree. Hubs and I WALKED everywhere all winter long on our dates. We’d duck into a small notch outside of the Catholic Church, away from the wind and not close enough to the street for anyone to see us. That was our make-out spot. (Hubs purposefully wore no gloves so he could try for second base). If I was at his house during the evening and the weather was utterly brutal, his dad might give me a ride home. Never let Hubs drive me home, didn’t trust him with his car, but if Jim was still awake, I’d get a ride. 

Things are different now. Times change. Twenty-four hour TV weather stations are commonplace. And they tend to sensationalize every weather pattern. I remember several years ago, The Weather Channel’s Jim Catore was spotted walking in downtown Des Moines, Iowa. The headlines of “The Register” the next morning read something like, “Oh no, Jim’s in town!” Meaning he was there for some ‘epic’ weather pattern and wanted the rest of the U.S. to give their FULL, UNDIVIDED ATTENTION to him on whatever was plaguing Des Moines at the time. They wanted everyone to experience it with Des Moines. But that wasn’t exciting enough for the weather dudes. Why limit only hurricanes with catchy alphabetical names? Let’s start naming snow storms. This is just unbelievably lame in my book. It’s merely a snow storm, nothing more or less. But a snow storm with a name (anticipated for days ahead of time) sounds much more ominous doesn’t it? Think scared straight. 

We didn’t have the term ‘polar vortex’ as part of Iowa speak. The weather dude on Channel 11 in Sioux Falls or Channel 4 in Sioux City would simply say, “we’re in for a cold snap, or cold spell.” Right there was enough to let everyone know to bundle up their kids really warm before they went outside or had to walk 9 miles to school. While some really appreciate the educated Meteorologist of today stating the snow will start precisely at exactly 6:11 as opposed to the local weatherman of the ‘60’s muttering, “we’re gonna start seeing some snow right at supper time, so it would be a good idea to stay home tonight.” I’m really not on board with all the hype they constantly spew. Why does the weather department have to be called ‘Storm Team 8?’ 

You can say all you want about knowledge equating power, but some of the changes in the world have not benefited us. Some have been a detriment making us fearful and soft...

Conflicted...

I’m on the cusp. Teetering on the brink. Trying to remain objective with something I have very little control over. I find it increasingly difficult, but certainly worth the effort. Still. Why does it bother me? How can I steer clear of the bombardment of negative Nellie’s? Facebook has changed my life-plain and simple. For this profoundly deaf loner, Facebook has opened up a world I would have never known. I embraced it hook, line and sinker. Or should I say stinker? 

Flow it, show it, long as I can grow it, my hair...

It wasn’t much of an ‘aha’ moment, but a decision I’ve been waiting for since 1985. (In some areas I have the patience of Job). From the first time I used L’Oréal to color my salt & pepper hair when I was in my early 30’s, I assumed when I hit a big milestone in my life, I’d simply quit dyeing my hair. Ha. Milestone after milestone zipped by. My 40th, 50th & 60th birthdays. Clearly I was not emotionally ready to give up brown hair. And just like that thirty years slipped past. 

Whoa, we’re halfway there...

It’s mid-January and Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) senior basketball season is half over. Sniff, sniff where’s the Kleenex? I was determined not to miss a single game this season. I didn’t even make it through December (memorial service far away). The game I missed wasn’t important, just a Christmas break challenge with 8 schools participating. Pioneer lost-but Landon scored a season high of 31. Of course I wasn’t there, rooting for him or keeping stats. Both losses could actually be my fault. (He ain’t heavy, he’s my grandson).

Senior # 3 Landon, wearing a rare smile during the game against Skyline, 2019

Heaven’s new Soloist...

When one lives in Michigan (long winters-gobs of snow) and the holidays have just peaked for another year, any thoughts of winter travel usually includes heading south or several hundred miles west. This year after Christmas however, we found ourselves packing our warmest winter duds, checking The Weather Channel frequently, and praying for travel mercies in preparation for a seldom winter trip destination to-northwest Iowa! 

One of my favorite pictures of Elly...

The yearly pilgrimage to Iowa just as winter begins-ended decades ago when our kids were still young. The Hubs and I felt it was time to start our own Christmas family tradition. Instead, we traveled to Iowa during spring break or summer vacation to get together with family. Although I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life-Iowa will always be my home. You might think just because they’re only a couple states apart the weather/seasons are similar. Heck no. Not even close. Iowa’s summer’s are hotter and more humid. Winter’s in Iowa are colder with more wind. Michigan usually wins the snowfall total. Spare me-please.

Jim, Arlyn, John, Elly & Les, 2002...

Trucks, guns, trains, strippers & silos...

 
It was the fall of 1970, and we just celebrated our first anniversary. We were broke, deep in debt, and expecting our first child. Sigh. We’ve all been there, right? Some of us just dumber & broker than others. 

The summer of 1970, pregnant with Shannon...

The Spoon...

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...

Celery Leaves...

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...

Christmas Baking @ 68...

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...

Ghost of Christmas past...

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...

Best buds...

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...

B (Nice) MOC...

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....

50 Shades of Gray...

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...

My Sanctuary...

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...

Finding Nemo...

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...

Where’s my stamina? Beets me...

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...

Shopping before the Internet...

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...

I remember when rock was young...

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...

Activities & Milestones...

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...