Janet's Blog

Perhaps I should call it Grandpa's stick bed, or even, Uncle Gary's stick bed, because it probably belonged to one of them first. It was a simple, army-green cot, just a wooden frame with a canvas sling suspended from one side to the other. No one would call it a comfortable bed, by any means, but thousands of army privates, and undoubtedly some officers, too, had used one like it when their only other choice was the cold, hard ground. I'm not sure who first brought it to Grandma's house, but my brother and sister and I often argued about who got to sleep in a sleeping bag on the stick bed, and who had to sleep on the living room couch or share Aunt Ellen's double bed. When we spent a week with Grandma and Grandpa in Bloomfield every summer, Laura and I usually shared the bed in Ellen's room, and Dan usually got Uncle Gary's bed to himself. But, if Mom came to spend a few days, too, or if Aunt Ellen joined us for the week, as she often did, someone g

From Our House to Yours: Merry Christmas! The house is decorated, inside and out. The presents are under the tree, or in the mail. Levi's band program is a wrap--he played the timpani well. Tobin and Evelyn sang enthusiastically for their Christmas program at church. I've helped the grandkids make some gifts. We've gone caroling. The Christmas Eve practice is scheduled, and family Christmas plans have been made. Now, it's time to reflect on the highlights of this past year, so I can share them with you. Erin was hired as Assistant Professor of Musicology at the University of Wisconsin in Whitewater, so she and Reed, who celebrated their first wedding anniversary in November, pulled up stakes in Cheyenne, and bought a house in Madison, Wisconsin. Reed is working as the Director of Advancement Services at Edgewood College in Madison. They both like their new jobs, and are enjoying their new location. In August, they joined us for a vacation in beautifu

Skinny jeans are in style or, perhaps I should say, back in style. When I was a girl, jeans weren't a style choice at all. Some workmen wore them, and farm kids wore them, too, but rarely in town. Jeans were for riding horses--and mucking out the chicken coop. By the late fifties and early sixties, teenage boys were wearing slim fitting jeans, with rolled up cuffs, but girls still wore dresses to school and church. If girls wore jeans at all, they were riding horses--or doing chores. I don't remember when I got my first pair of regular blue jeans, but I'm guessing it was in the late 1960s. Then, they would have been boy's jeans that needed to be tailored to fit me. Mom was the tailor, and I was the picky one. I don't know why I insisted that my jeans should be skinny. I was pretty skinny myself, and the boy's jeans were not, so I'm sure that had something to do with it. Mom didn't complain too much about taking a couple of tucks in the waist band,

For several months, I've been thinking of writing a blog about being in the zone, but the time hasn't been quite right. I guess I have to be in the zone to write about being in the zone. According to Wikipedia, being in the zone is "the mental state of operation in which a person performing an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and enjoyment in the process of the activity. If you are in the zone, you are happy or excited because you are doing something very skillfully and easily." Conversely, if you zone out,  you become oblivious to your surroundings, especially in order to relax.  Levi is certainly in the zone when he is playing Minecraft or using the computer, but at the same time, he is zoned out to the people around him. Victoria zones out while she is texting her boyfriend, but I don't know if she necessarily has to be in the zone to do so. Sometimes I think she has to be in the zone to do anything els

A couple of months ago, I realized I didn't have a picture of all four of my grandchildren together, so I sat them down on my stairs, pulled out my cell phone, and took some pictures. Then, I took the best photo and used it as the lock screen picture on my phone. That way, every time I turn on my phone, I see their smiling faces looking at me for a few seconds before I put in the code and get on with my business. Tobin, Evelyn, holding Arden, and Lydia After looking at the photo every day for the last two months, I've realized something: my grandchildren are the very picture of "pink and white." Oh, they all have beautiful, big blue eyes, too, and blond hair of various lengths and textures. Anyone who sees them all together can tell that they are siblings, that's for sure, and no one doubts their predominantly German heritage. My brother, sister, and I all share wide shoulders, but little else, as far as physical features are concerned. Dan and I both ha

It seems like no one fries chicken any more. After all, fried chicken is time consuming to make, and high in fat content--and besides, most kids these days prefer chicken nuggets to chicken with bones. When I was a preschooler, when my family still lived on a farm outside of Bloomfield, fried chicken was practically a household staple. Mom raised chickens--lots of chickens--so we had plenty of eggs and no lack of chickens to roast or fry. Fried chicken was my favorite, and a fried chicken heart was the choicest tidbit. Back then, no edible poultry parts were ever wasted. Sometimes, women chopped up the organ meats and put them in stuffing or gravy, but Mom always fried them, along with the back and neck, and someone always ate them. Dad liked chicken gizzards and liver, but the heart was the only giblet I ever wanted. We always ate our big meal at noon, so Dad would be provided with sufficient fuel to complete his strenuous farm work each day. During harvest, it wasn't uncomm

I remember Novembers of long ago, when the only obvious holiday decorations were a few remaining Halloween pumpkins, still sitting on doorsteps. We were eager to celebrate Thanksgiving with family, but the stores were not filled with specific Thanksgiving decor--no Thanksgiving napkins, paper plates, or centerpieces. The stores were not crowded with Christmas displays, either; those did not arrive until right after Thanksgiving, when Santa rode into town in a horse-drawn wagon or a red convertible, or at least once in my memory, in a helicopter. Years ago, Halloween was celebrated with its brief, one day of trick or treating in our neighborhoods. Thanksgiving was observed by thanking God during an extra church service on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning, followed by the traditional, extended family feast with our grandparents. In nearly every town across America, the downtown Christmas lights were lit on Thanksgiving evening, and people began to think about doing some loca

Decades ago, Bill wore a metal splint he called a "finger stall," taped around a jammed finger to protect it from further injury. As far as I was concerned, that was the only kind of finger splint in existence, and jammed or broken fingers were the only fingers that needed to be splinted. I was wrong. Not too long ago, I drove to Cheyenne for a routine appointment with my rheumatologist so he could assess my polymyalgia. Believe it or not, he doesn't really treat osteo-arthritis, even though my arthritic hands bother me at least as much as the polymyalgia, which primarily affects my shoulders and hips. He looked at my hands anyway, and stated that I have "very bad arthritis." So much for a professional diagnosis. A few days later, I met with an orthopedic surgeon, the same one who removed a ganglion cyst from my left hand several years ago. I had been told that she was able to surgically fix a friend's arthritic thumb, so I was hopeful that she could

When Winter gets in a hurry, sending more than a flurry, When he gets in a rush, turning flowers to mush, When the pumpkin on the step has lost all its pep, When the grass, still green, can now be seen Poking up through snow, where no one can mow; When the pampas grass, standing ten feet high, Lies down on the ground like it's ready to die; When the leaves in the trees, oh, the leaves in the trees, No longer green, have lost their sheen, No longer orange, or yellow, or red,  Just ugly brown and dead, instead, Piled up on the ground in a dismal mound; And lofty branches, heavy with snow,  Come crashing down to the ground below; I feel like Winter has hijacked Fall,  and I don't like it, no, not at all. ******* I hope Indian Summer will come, right on cue, So Fall can remain until Winter is due, Then, part of December, and January, too, Will be Winter's domain, with Winter's

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.  Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 In spite of the thirty-degree weather and the snowflakes drifting down from a leaden sky, it is autumn in western Nebraska. The trees are changing colors, right on schedule, and the leaves are beginning to waft their way to the still-green grass beneath the trees. As I observed today's snow shower, I couldn't help but wonder if my stunning, pink roses will last another night. As I scooted along for my afternoon walk with Jackson, bundled up in my winter coat and warm gloves and hat, I was hoping that this week's weather doesn't signal the beginning of a long, cold winter. I'm not ready! Here in the Nebraska panhandle, our seasons seem to be predictable for their unpredictability.  I love a long, mild fall, but I don't really appreciate the stiff, chilly breezes t

My brother, Dan, was a tree climber. When he was in elementary school, and probably even junior high, he would ride his bike to the City Park, lay it haphazardly in the grass, and climb a tree. If you have ever visited Fairbury's City Park, you know that the old trees there are towering and majestic. So, when I was sent to the park to call Dan for supper, I scouted the grassy areas to find his bike, then scanned the treetops to catch a glimpse of Dan, twenty or thirty feet above me, reading a favorite book, or simply daydreaming. Only then could I call for him to come down, because he didn't often respond if he thought I couldn't find him. I am certain that Dan was not the first tree climber in the family, and I know he is not the last. Levi has been climbing trees for years. In fact, a couple of years ago, Meagan took his picture at Northfield Park, up in a tree. At that time, we were having trouble getting a good picture of Levi, but he even smiled for his picture in

I was combing my hair a while back, right after a haircut, when I leaned in closer to the mirror so I could see a little better. I wasn't imagining things; my hair, at least in the front, was much browner than it used to be! My hair has been increasingly silver, with a rather large white streak in the back, for several years now. (I guess I should be glad that silver hair is so popular, right now, that even younger women are purposefully dyeing their hair various shades of silver.) I've never colored my hair, so it has been interesting, although a bit maddening, I'll admit, to watch the progression from my natural dark brown to multi-faceted silver tresses. I never really expected to see that brown hair again. Most women my age have colored their hair for years, so they have to trust their roots to tell them what their natural, undyed color might be. Who would have guessed that graying hair might sometimes return closer to its original color? I've been mulling

It had been, oh, forty years, I suppose, since I last visited McDowell's Mausoleum, a few miles southwest of Fairbury. I traipsed along that trail several times with my family, as I was growing up. We hiked somewhere or other, nearly every weekend, just because we loved to get outside and walk. I remember being amazed that few of my friends had ever heard of the mausoleum, and even fewer had seen it. The mausoleum is a hand-carved tomb, built into a sandstone cliff in the early 1900's by Nelson McDowell, a rich bachelor whose father was one of Fairbury's founders. He worked for nearly a decade before the tomb was finished. However, when he was killed suddenly, in a car-train accident, state law prevented his burial in the mausoleum. So, it sits there today, on the bank of Rose Creek, empty as ever. (When I first wrote about the mausoleum a few years ago, I included more historical details and family trivia. You may click  here  to read my previous blog.) I do