Great Set of Choppers...

Not a week goes by where I don’t see a couple of posts on Facebook about clothing. A genuine concern from a complaining mom. Her unhappiness with the manufacturers of children’s clothing. Usually girls clothing. Upset mom’s been shopping but has come home empty handed. And angry. Why? Because some little girls clothing offered has become too grownup, too suggestive, and mom doesn’t want her kid wearing that crap. I notice this ‘kids growing up’ way too fast in a lot of areas. Yet when you talk about it to parents most say it’s gotta stop. Let little kids be kids for awhile.

Jovi Marie, 18 months. Wearing totally appropriate clothing and wearing it well...

We have a staff meeting 2 hours a month, always at night, right after the last child leaves and we’re closed. Classes on various subjects dealing with children. Everything from being an advocate for all children, CPR, discipline, to community outreach for kids. We’ve been working on a long series right now on conscious discipline. The speaker has a great sense of humor and I’ve enjoyed her take on young children. A large clip of her last class was encouraging teachers to let our small children play. Yup, it’s that simple. Our kids are spending too much time with the iPad, in front of the tv, in organized sports and activities at a very young age, but not spending enough time playing in the rain. It seems as though mud, rain, sand, playing in the grass is actually good for kids. Period. Who knew? And we don’t let, or actively make the time to encourage them to simply play outside together enough, using their imagination and some old fashioned playground equipment.

Our room continues to evolve. For 3 years it’s simply been the infant room. Up to the time babies are between 12-14 months, they’re ours to care for and help mold. Then, because they’re toddlers, they would be eased into the next room with The Wonderful Ones. Sounds logical, has worked well. Until it was decided to let the babies remain in the infant room longer. Ease the enormous stress for them of having to move from our room. Don’t get me started. Already expressed my strong feelings what a bunch of hooey I think this is.

Now I’m fretting from a couple of those changes, not particularly the change itself, but the timing. This goes back to the manufacturer’s inappropriate clothing for kids. In a world where we constantly say, let them be little kids, it seems we’re doing exactly the opposite. I was a stay at home mom raising our 3 children. My kids slept in their cribs until they were dry through the night. Which happened about the age of 2-1/2. Then they got a big bed because they were big kids.

Where breakfast and lunch is served, but not for very long. Gotta go, gotta go...

Our babies each have their own crib to nap in. State law requires babies under 1 must have their own crib each day. Every child over 1 but under 3 must have a crib or cot. When the babies get fussy, we rock them to sleep. Maybe takes 5-10 minutes and they’re out like a light. Lay them down in their assigned crib, note the time and move on. Recently 4 cots have been added to our room. The cots sit about 3 inches off the floor. We throw on a crib sheet, move the immobile babies out of their designated area during nap time so the big kids can sleep there. Two or 3 people sit between the cots and lay down toddlers approximately 40 times, patting their backs until they fall asleep. Why? I don’t understand or see the advantage.

The other change is worse. Now the one year olds are supposed to sit on small chairs at a table which is about 15 inches high. For 2-1/2 years I’ve been able to feed 4 kids at one time. A couple usually are already eating finger foods while 2 might have cereal, jars or pouches of baby food. I sit on a bench, facing them. Each high chair tray holds a bowl or plate with food if they can feed themselves. I use masking tape with their names for the ones with baby food. We play pat-a-cake or I’ll sing songs or old commercial jingles while they eat. Pick up their sippy cups (also with their name on it) 20 times because it’s still fun to throw them even though they’re mere inches off the floor.

Imagine, if you will the game of whack-a-mole. A table with holes every few inches. Your goal is to see how fast you can ‘bop’ the little mole who sticks his head through one of the holes. But as soon as you make him disappear, another appears in a different hole. It happens very fast and constantly. Well that’s what a table of 4, 13-18 months old looks like. Just without the mallet. Now matter how hungry they are, they cannot remain seated. It’s like their little butt has a minute timer and they have to stand up, push away from the table and walk away. As soon as you set one down, show him his plate, drink, fork or spoon, another one is leaving. Then another, and another. Constant battle to get them sit for 10 minutes. They’re definitely eating less. Too many distractions. Other’s plates and silverware are now within easy reach. Why do we insist they eat at a big table when they’re not big? We just can’t let them be little when they’re still little. Why is that? What’s the advantage with cots and tables as opposed to cribs and high chairs? I don’t understand the reasoning, and find this very frustrating.

One morning this week I walked in our room, and noticed a new table and 2 chairs in the play area. The chairs resemble Adirondacks, and the table solid maple or birch, round and quite large, maybe 40 inches. Sitting about 15 or 18 inches off the ground, my first though was, is that not the cutest thing ever? Followed by, wonder which one of the boys will be standing on top of the table within the first 2 minutes of spotting it. As God is my witness it did not take 2 minutes. Let’s hope the novelty wears off quickly for the table and chairs.

How cute is this? They would rather climb on than sit so far...

One of our oldest kids wasn’t feeling the need for a nap. Major meltdown and this cutie has a set of pipes. Worthy of window shattering. Since she was disrupting the entire room, her immediate need for sleep was abandoned for the moment. I was rocking a baby to sleep close to her loud complaints. I growled and said, “woman” and tickled her arm. Tears forgotten, she squealed with delight and backed just out of my reach. Only to inch closer and closer with a huge grin on her face. Then I growl “woman” and repeat the tickle. Which made her giggle, back up and start all over again. She’d throw her head black, laugh maniacally (she really was tired). It was then I noticed her wide open mouth. “Hey, when the kids have more teeth than me, do they finally get to move?”...

Hot Town, Summer in the City...

Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.
Been down, isn’t it a pity, doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.
All around, people looking half dead,
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.

Is this hell? No, just the temperature in Las Vegas the whole time we were there...

Go Green-Go White...

I tend to view different ideas, changes of any kind, even introductions to new foods with some reluctance. Who am I trying to kid? I wrote a story not long ago about the first time Hubs took me to a Chinese restaurant. Had to be 35 years ago when we lived in Davenport. As he forcibly moved my feet towards the fancy entrance, I started to cry. Honest. Such a wuss. All because I didn’t want to experience a new food. Maybe reluctance is not quite the right word. Let’s go with-unwilling, hesitant, opposed, unenthusiastic, reserved or disinclined.

My sister-in-law Mary Jane, with her signature mega watt smile...

This whole fiasco is my sister-in-law’s fault. Oh, I’m gonna call her out on it too. Right here in bold type. (Sorry, I don’t know how to type bold). Rest assured, I’m pounding the keys much harder than necessary. MARY JANE VAN BERKUM. I do however, know how to ‘capitalize’ in a situation. Ha!

It was mid-February, 2017, our first trip to Yuma. Hubs and I were unwittingly mere pawns in her scheme of things. We were trying to accomplish 2 objectives in one big swoop. Get away for a short respite during Michigan’s worst weather during our 8 month season called winter. But not stay away too long so I wouldn’t miss very many basketball games of Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) sophomore season. Part of her mission was to see we were kept occupied with sight seeing, eating out, and learning about an area we knew absolutely nothing about. The desert. Our other objective was a health issue. I had a tooth that needed major repair, plus the rest of my mouth was in need of remodeling. It was ok. Mary Jane knew a guy.

This is the dentist dude Mary Jane recommended. He was terrific...

It was her job to cram as many new things into our boring existence. And do this in about 2 weeks. So besides working around some dental appointments in Los Algodones, Mexico, Mary Jane was unfettered in her planning. We were just along for the ride.

One of the places we toured that I haven’t mentioned in my 3 blogs about Yuma, (“The 3:10 to Yuma”, “To Kofa with Les”, and “It’s all about the Name”) was actually near Winterhaven, California. (Hard to find, hard to get there and so bumpy I was fearful of knocking out the new hardware in my mouth). But fascinating. Established when World War ll army guys were training in the desert. They started writing their names, made out of small rocks against the white sands of the desert. They called it, Graffiti Mesa, and the tradition has continued. And grown. This rather odd attraction now covers 1,200 acres. And the rocks have to be hauled in to boot.

The Valley of Names in the desert...

Not to be sidetracked and get all warm and fuzzy about our dedicated tour guides, so back to Mary Jane. Part of each day usually included setting for a spell at their winter-haven-home-away-from-home. A glass of wine, or her expertly concocted margaritas, a little down time to reconnect and just shoot the shit for a spell. And she added a bit of stealthy maneuvering before we went out to eat somewhere. New eats. Neese-don’t-do-new-eats. First let me be clear.

Such an odd sight in the middle of the desert, near Winterhaven Ca...

1. I’ve never really been a “cracker” girl. Hubs can eat crackers with different sliced cheeses and a hard as a brick salami he sends for via internet, every few days. He’ll make a good sized attractive plate with sliced chunk cheeses, a row of salami slices and oodles of crackers arranged neatly. Walk up to me like an offering plate, and I’ll politely take one or 2 crackers, one slice of cheese and one slice of meat. Done.

I prefer, “let’s eat cake...”

2. If offered a dessert tray with a dozen choices, anything with cream cheese-will be my last choice. I just prefer a slice of fruit or cream pie, cake, brownie, or torte to a piece of cheesecake.

Happy Birthday MJ...

3. I’m not into spicy foods. Don’t like ‘hot stuff’ though I like my food very hot. I know I’m odd. Doritos are about as spicy hot as I like to go.

Imagine my dismay when Mary Jane hauls out a gorgeous small platter consisting of an entire brick of cream cheese. Looking rather smushed, sadly resembling Iowa snow drifts during a blizzard. But wait! It gets worse. (Sorry Jane) On top of this white mountain is a startling sight. Bright green globs (I must say though, it did have great eye appeal). What, pray tell might this be? Jalapeño Jelly. You’ve got to be kidding me. Oh for cripes sake, just kill me now.

Gulp....

Now go back to the end of my first paragraph. There I was, reluctant, unwilling, hesitant, opposed, unenthusiastic, reserved and disinclined to even try it. Who in the world would eat Jalapeño Jelly? Valiantly trying not to be rude, I picked up my knife and a club cracker and wheedled a speck of cream cheese the size of celery seed and generously smeared it all over the cracker. Taking a deep breath, my knife shakily returns to the massive glob of greenery. I can do this. I am woman. Hear me roar. Or whimper. A tear or 2 might have fallen from my face which was now frozen in a grimace/smile (imagine Jack Nicholson’s face in the Shining or Heath Ledger as the Joker in The Dark Knight). I sniff, trying to stop my nose from running. Oddly, the odor smells remarkably tasty. WTH. Not so easily fooled, I manage to snag an iota of jalapeño jelly and forcibly will my hand to try and smother the cream cheese. Now I’m not really sure I can go through with this. Meanwhile, Mary Jane is clicking off a dozen sight seeing adventures that have been added to tomorrow’s agenda and seems not to notice my rendition of, I’m really, truly suffering here at the wailing wall.

Club cracker, cream cheese and jalapeño jelly. Absurd...

Biting off a minutely small crumb, my mouth explodes with tingly sweet spicy-ness. While the Jalapeño jelly is quite sweet, the cream cheese off centers it from tasting too sweet. The cracker part adds a bit of salty crunch. Goodness, I’ve discovered God’s favorite appetizers now served in heaven. Greedily, I glop on a silver dollar size of cream cheese which is now dwarfed by the Oreo Double Stuff sized placing of jalapeño jelly. No one seems to take notice that half of the platter is now missing, they’re busy deciding what time we need to meet up in the morning. I will not be among the tourists however. I am not leaving this table until there is not another smidge of jalapeño jelly left in this house.

And just that quick.

I. Am. Addicted.

It’s all Mary Jane’s fault.

After we return to Michigan and the reality of work and winter, my nights are filled with dreams of Jalapeño Jelly. I searched every grocery store, even bought a jar I spotted, but it didn’t taste the same at all. I have to go back to Yuma for some green stuff. Right now. Heck with my teeth, warm weather and relatives. Mary Jane buys it from a gal when she goes to a flea market in Yuma every winter. How can I afford a ton, plus shipping it to my house? Hubs calmly gives my shoulders a little shake. “Get a grip. Look up the freaking recipe and learn how to can it yourself. Duh. It’s what you do with everything else. You’ve got to get out from under this jelly’s spell. You cannot pine for an entire year about jelly.” Reality returned.

Yes it’s very possibly the best appetizer. Ever...

The recipe was foreboding. You have to use a food processor (I don’t own one) and as far as jellies and jams go, it’s made completely the opposite of any jelly I’ve ever made. I borrowed Shannon’s food processor, bought 2 dozen jalapeños, cider vinegar, liquid pectin (I prefer powdered, but this crazy recipe was adamant) sugar and green food coloring. That’s it.

The expression I wear before trying something new...

The nightmares have stopped. Had the Hubs buy a small locking safe, hidden somewhere safe and secure. My 2 dozen jar stash have calmed my fears and I’ve returned to my former somewhat normal existence. For now. God help me if I can’t one day find that little basket of fresh jalapeños in Meijer produce department. All bets are off...

July 24, 1946...

Who knew what a powerful impact that super-blond kid with a lisp would continue to have on my life? I have not heard his lisp in almost 60 years. Yet six decades later, I relive, reminisce, grieve, smile and wonder what kind of life Larry would have had if he had been given the chance to grow up. How different all of our lives would have been but for that tragic Saturday morning in October. 

Larry, 4 in 1950...

Zero to 30...

Sigh. I’m having some issues and thought maybe if I wrote about it, I’d be able to process it better. To be clear, I love working, get along well with my coworkers, and absolutely adore the babies. But there’s been a storm a-brewing. Change. Grrr. I hate it. But here are some reasons why I’m opposed to this particular change.

Only inappropriate 0 to 30 picture I could find. Just ignore the guns, must be from a video game. Don’t get me started...

The Cult...

A few years after we moved to Michigan, I was given a gift from my good friend and neighbor. Diane has exquisite taste, and has always been someone who truly tries to find the ‘perfect’ gift for people in her life. No simple gift card and Happy Birthday wish in an email or posted on Facebook from her. She takes her time picking out the right card. Puts so much effort in all she does. From landscaping, to sewing, to decorating her house, there’s always a little extra pizazz with her.

My corn candy Longaberger basket. A gift from Diane...

The gift? A small, darling basket shaped like a Brach’s piece of corn candy. (By then she knew me well enough to know I was addicted to corn candy). The cloth lining of basket was patterned corn candy. So I’ve had this basket over 20 years. Normally I’d say, each fall when the stores put out stuff for Halloween, but stores no longer run a ‘real’ calendar year anymore. Swimsuits are out in January, gruesome winter coats will be hanging on circular racks while the temperatures are still hovering in the 90’s. (Yes, the world has gone mad). Rest assured, Brach’s (it must be Brach’s for corn candy and circus peanuts. I have high standards with the empty calories in my life) corn candy will be out with the back-to-school-specials in July.

Napkin Longaberger basket and basket of notepads of vital importance...

And just like that, I was hooked on Longaberger Baskets. Diane’s house was chuck full of carefully placed, crafty, seasonal Longaberger baskets. But all looking super casual, warm and inviting. How come I could never pull this off? She just has a knack for this kind of shit. I fill my corn candy basket with-duh-corn candy and slap it on an old ecru doily. Diane takes a 3 foot Longaberger wrought iron Santa, fills it with a baskets of assorted pine cones, another with Christmas decorations and the third graduated sized opening with handmade bows of every Christmas color and pattern ribbon known to mankind. Makes me tired to walk into her house. I can slap my Christmas tree up in a couple hours and call it good. It takes Diane a week to decorate her house. And boy does it show. But enough on my inadequacies and her super hero decorating abilities. Suffice it to say, Diane got me hooked on Annalee’s (hard to describe, they are wool felt animals and people who look very strange), Longaberger Baskets, Lennox, and canning in general. It’s her recipe I use for Bread & Butter Pickles.

This is an Annalee. Quirky, I have many for holidays. Family hates them...

Back to those stinking baskets. They were pricey things and I couldn’t buy one very often, but buy them I did. A picnic basket (I’ve never, ever used it as such), a covered basket that holds 2 pies because you just never know when I need to bring 2 pies somewhere. A recipe box (my favorite and crammed full), tiny baskets to hold ink pens, flat baskets to hold magazines. It just ever ends. I’d say I have at least 20. Sitting around on the floor, counter or on antiques. Some holding absolutely nothing and of no good use whatsoever.

Relegated to the basement. Each holds absolutely nothing...

During the height of my frenzied collecting, Shannon bought into the whole Longaberger pyramid scheme right along with me. By this time we were living in North Muskegon. Lo and behold, there were Longaberger dealers all over town. Oh for cripe’s sake. My dealer was Mary, a friendly, outgoing super saleswoman. A couple times a year Mary would host an open house with soups, dips, chips, recipes, retired baskets that you couldn’t get anywhere on the black market. Oh for the love of pete. Now the Longaberger family was no longer content with just baskets either. They saw dollar signs and fleshed out their business. Cha-Ching. Next on their agenda was a line of pottery dishes, linens, packaged foods and dips which just required a couple of additional ingredients. This was an enormous-growing-thriving-making-money-hand-over fist-business. And I was just doing my share. I am here to help capitalism. Sigh. It would take me a long time to finally stop the majority of gathering more shit that I had a place to put it. I’m much more conscious of the choices I make when buying something that I really don’t need now. Also a lot older and realize I don’t need more ‘stuff’ in my life, nor do I have the room. Or money, frankly.

Even worse, down with my canning equipment. Lacking counter space-seriously...

Must be about 15 years ago because Landon was on the scene but Peyton was not. I’m going to blame Shannon for this huge snafu in our lives since I’m doing the writing. I think we both regularly received Longaberger sale flyers and tidbit updates on the entire Longaberger family. One of these brochures offered a bus trip to Dresden, Ohio. Why might you wonder? To be enlightened by all things Longaberger. For an entire weekend. Be still my heart. Shannon asked if I’d be interested in going on the trip with her? It sounded like fun. Giddy we were, I tell you. Breakfast was served on the bus-in our own Longaberger basket. To keep forever. Two cozy nights in a nice hotel, a jaunt into the nearby town where all businesses were out to make money off the Longaberger name. None of the local businesses were allowed to sell baskets, but they all had knock-off liners, trims etc.

Three highlights of the weekend were LUNCH WITH TAMI. Yes, the real Tami (flesh and blood daughter of Dave) Longaberger. For an extra 25 bucks per plate, we could dine with Tami, utilizing all of the grandest Longaberger pottery dinnerware. Heck, who could say no to that? (Lambs to the slaughter). Another highlight was a Saturday night auction where if we had enough money, we could bid on certain baskets available NO WHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD. Lordy. The third was a trip to the actual factory. For a mere 25 bucks, we could pick out one of several basket patterns, make one ourselves (with help from a worker earning overtime for working on Saturday) and put our own spin on the color stain we chose, liner and trim package. It was more time consuming deciding these options than the time I spent picking out my new Jeep.

My favorite and often used recipe basket...

We filled out the pertinent information application, sent in our checks-and just like that we became part of a cult. (Similar to Jim Jones and his Kool-aid family). First our bus-mates. Deranged lot. For some of them, this was their 8th, 9th or 10th year in a ROW trucking down to Dresden for the weekend. Doing the same shit every time. Huh? Shannon and I were bored, befuddled, confused, and a little scared before we hit Ohio. We did so many eye rolls to each other during that miserable weekend, for the following two weeks only the whites of our eyes were visible.

Probably the scariest or spookiest moment of the weekend came as we were hopping off the bus at the factory to make our own basket. First a word about the factory. The building was designed in the likeness of the medium Market Basket. I. Kid. You. Not. Seven stories tall, 180,000 square feet building that looked exactly like a basket.

No I’m not kidding. This is the Longaberger factory...

Anyway we’re all shuffling along in a long line (I think there were 2 freaking bus loads of folks from West Michigan that weekend-and most chose to make their own personal basket to bring home-us included). We’re pretty far back in the line to the front door when suddenly the line just stops. This resembled a comedy sketch. One of the tour guides stopped the line, so every person got rear ended. Why? Because there were a set of shoe prints in the cement that required our undivided attention. These had been the feet (in the shoes) of Dave Longaberger. The founder of Longaberger Baskets. Bowed heads, a quick biography of the dude who started it all and a moment of silence. I believe I snickered. Shannon poked me, then she chuckled. We both bit our lips hard enough to draw blood. Between the 2 of us we were about one cackle from being hauled to jail. Blasphemy.

We tried. We really did. But neither of us ever bought into the sacredness of the whole Longaberger holiness thing. They’re just baskets. Yes, very nice, but pricey and not practical. We tried not to offend anyone who was ga-ga about what they were experiencing (Dave’s shoe prints in cement!) for the weekend, whether it was their first or 15th trip. But neither Shannon nor I were about to drink from that odd shaped basket pitcher of Kool aid that weekend or ever after. Out of the 100 or so in our group (we were not the only group tour that weekend either. There were several more groups which is probably why I never got to personally talk with Tami at my cozy lunch with her, which numbered about 250 people that day). An odd weekend to say the least, but something Shannon and I still talk and laugh about on occasion. Then we quickly look over our shoulders to make sure no one’s overhead us. It left an impression for sure. Most of the cult worshippers were just so serious. We noticed we were being scrutinized and judged on our lack of sincerity. By the time the bus was leaving for home on Sunday, we were virtually outcasts. Shunned. On the outside looking in. But not too close-cause most of them were some kind of crazy basket cases...

Yeah, I put my phone in this basket when I’m in the bedroom....

The 4 Year Cycles Of Neese...

In all probability this will not resonate with any other human on earth because I am a strange duck. But I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern of my life for the last 20 years. I take that back. This tale really began in 1990. I’ve written about it before but never actually put two and two together until my most recent relapse. Sigh. Here goes.

A familiar warning sign I always fail to heed...