The Jug...

It all started when Shannon was very young. My Mom loved buying her fancy clothes. Mom finally had a granddaughter. Frilly dresses, little coats to be worn only on Sunday. My job, more or less was to keep Shannon in everyday clothes. When Mom bought something really fancy, I'd make an appointment at Olan Mills for a photo shoot to capture the moment forever. We had a lot of pictures taken. I've even saved some the of adorable outfits.

Shannon in pj's looking silly. You can bet grandma Flo did NOT buy this. 1971...

23rd Street...

Our first home. We were working on year 3 of wedded bliss. The rental house in Hinton, Iowa had been sold right from under us. Our landlord of 2 years, Louie, really should have been named Dick. We had 30 days to find somewhere to live. We were a little panicky. Much more pressure to find decent housing when you have a child. Shannon, our first-born was now the smartest, cutest, most adorable toddler on the planet.

 

Hamming it up. Shannon, 2, 1972...

Plaid Pants...

None of us wanted to leave the Quad-Cities in 1987. However, when we moved to Michigan, at least for me, it was with open arms and an open heart. We all loved living in Davenport, but Iowa's economy had tanked. Michigan's economy was booming. Staying in Iowa just wasn't in the cards for us. We did want to stay in the Midwest and Big 10 country. What were we thinking? Crazy. I must not have despised winters nearly as much as I hate them now. I was pumped and ready for a new adventure. Months after our move, the boys were adjusting fine. Shannon, who had just turned 16, not so much. She had a chip on her shoulder the size her hair, circa 1988. She let us know how unhappy she was. Often. In her defense, it was a tough time to move a sophomore. Beautiful. Hormonal. Smart. Snotty. Girl. She missed her friends, school, cheerleading and boyfriend. But that's a few blogs for another time.

 

There's something about Shannon...

Opinions...

To be clear, these are my own lowly layman's observations and opinions. I'm not skilled, trained or educated. Just someone who's done a lot of listening and observing. Not always an easy task when you're going deaf. Often when my head needs clearing to think and write, I drive to Lake Michigan. My eyes are filled with the majestic wonder and vastness of it. Great place to marvel at your own insignificance. And thank God for all your blessings, big and small. And type what's in my head.

A tanker out on beautiful Lake Michigan...

Man on a Mission...

Dad became involved with prison ministries in the 1970's. About the same time when his hand-painted signs started popping up on roadways. Designed to make you think as you were cruising along on hi-way 18 or 75 in northwest Iowa. I don't have a clue why he was drawn to inmates anymore than why I've always gravitated to the elderly since I was 5.

 

Dad early 1980's. He's on the outside-I think...

The Burbs...

 

It wasn't long after we moved to Michigan (1987) before I started meeting the neighbors. These gals were a really friendly bunch. The houses in our neighborhood were not close together like in Davenport. Each property had an acre. It was Pat Olsen, just south of me who had a luncheon to introduce me to a couple of them. First was Mildred. She was exactly double my age. I had recently turned 36. She had just lost her husband and lived next to Pat.

 

A watercolor given to me. Hung in the guest bathroom at Mildred's