Janet's Blog

Every time I take my designer dog, Jackson, for a walk, I can't help but think how much he has changed since I started taking him for regular jaunts, about a year ago. And, to tell the truth, I've changed, too. Jackson is an energetic, eleven-year-old Shih-Poo. Ever since I was an apartment-dwelling kid, I walked all over town, to and from school and the parks in Fairbury. Nearly every weekend, my family would take extended hikes out in the country, accompanying Dad as he hunted for ducks or pheasants, or even squirrels, whatever was in season, or exploring some of the historical sites that dotted the area. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed those daily walks, until I started up again last year. You see, I don't like walking alone, and neither Bill nor the kids have ever been committed to walking with me more than once in a blue moon. So, I haven't walked much in recent years. Last January, my friend, Deb, invited me to go hiking with her at one of the wi...

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...