Embracing Our Ancestry

I remember learning about Neanderthal Man in Mr. Crosser’s 10^th-grade history class.

Neanderthal Man was a short, heavy-browed, hairy, ape-like creature with a large jaw full of teeth, one of modern man’s earliest ancestors. At least that’s how I remember it. He was a humanoid who always carried a club fashioned from a tree branch. He probably went around saying “Ugh!” and grabbing Lady Neanderthal  by the hair to drag her off to his cave home, where in my 15-year-old mind some pretty weird stuff went on. (The irony here is that Mr. Crosser bore a striking resemblance to the ape-man. But I digress.)

Or did some of that information come from watching cartoons? It’s a little jumbled in my mind …

You know how you come to believe stuff without really knowing why you believe it? Somewhere, sometime, I must have read an article. Probably around the time I was regularly perming my hair, I came to believe that Neanderthals were not, in fact, ancestors to modern Homo sapiens, but rather a distinct species which died out.  Cro Magnon was my real great-great-great grandpa.

Flash forward to March 2018.

Our daughter Angie sent  her DNA to 23 and Me for analysis. The ethnicity results were no surprise—all northern, western European. But then she adds in a text message to all her family, “I apparently have a lot of Neanderthal.” She has 285 Neanderthal variants, which, they tell her, is more than 62% of all their customers have.

This is what it means, according to our 

eldest daughter. And yes, this is my

Facebook profile pic.

Well, I was having none of that. First of all, I clarified that Neanderthals were not actually modern humans’ ancestors. Wrong! Apparently modern science has determined that Neanderthals interbred with Cro-Magnon 40,000 years ago. OK, then, Neanderthal genes are obviously from your dad’s side of the family—witness your grandmother’s heavy brow bone!  Besides, my religious Dutch ancestors would never commit the sin of interbreeding with another species, so it wasn’t possible it came from my side. No, sorry, says Angie. “I have 19 markers with two Neanderthal variants, which means I got one from each parent.” I don’t even know what that means! Our daughter, Kim, ever the educator, texted a photo which explains it all.

I had to conduct my own research, so I consulted that mainstay of modern education, Google. Accordingly, I exhibit these actual, expressed traits of Neanderthal genes:
1) Large jaw with plenty of space for all my wisdom teeth.  Check.
2) Projecting nose. Check
3) Not much chin. Check.
4) Extra-large eyes.  So I’ve been told.
5) Tendency toward visceral fat. Ouch.

But Curt contributes the elongated skull, the brow ridge, and nicotine addiction (sure, he quit when he was 25. But I never took up the filthy habit.) My belated apologies, daughters: I’m afraid you fell into the shallow end of the gene pool.

Regardless of Mr. Crosser’s teachings, or Fred Flintstone’s, that cave(wo)man was a handsome specimen. Until further research proves otherwise, that's my opinion.

.

Mamma Mia!

I want to be just like Mom when I grow up.

Well, maybe not JUST like Mom. But if I’m as fun-loving, adaptable, contented, healthy, and sharp-witted as she is at 95, then I’ll count myself among the extremely fortunate.

Selfie in Mom's kitchen

Recently my sister Pam and I went for a short visit with Mom. She lives in a small retirement home in the county seat town of Sibley, Iowa, about four hours’ drive from our respective homes. Upon arrival in early afternoon, Mom mentioned that Bingo was starting at 3:00 in the activities room. Though she protested that she would skip it that day, with gentle prodding we found that she really wanted to go even though she was afraid it wouldn’t be right for her to bring two outsiders. We agreed that we wouldn’t take any Bingo cards for ourselves so that we wouldn’t snatch away any of the hard-sought prizes from other residents.

A group of 10 or so had already started playing when we walked down the hall at 2:55. You just don’t dare to dilly-dally around this place. As things got under way, Pam and I were surprised when the first bingo-er received five pieces of candy (good Hershey’s chocolate stuff, not lame-ass hard candy or mints). The next bingo winner also received five. And the next. And the next. They never cleared their cards! If someone won a second

Pam and I were just there to observe!

bingo in the same round, they received only four pieces of candy.  The third time, three. Are you getting the picture here? The numbers continued to be called until every person had won at least once. So now, we thought, surely the cards will be cleared. But no, they played on, going for blackout. The first blackout winner received—get ready—five pieces of candy. The game continued with no card clearing until every single player had won two blackouts, one with each card. Each time she won, Mom allowed Pam and me to choose the candies we liked best from the basket. Such a Mom thing to do.

I believe it was at this point that the activities director had to go to her office to replenish the prizes, and this time she brought out bags of Dove chocolate. Then it all started over. Let me tell you, you never saw such astonishing mounds of chocolate candy all in one room. By the time the final round was finished, we estimate that each had nearly a pound! Plastic bags were handed out for carting their loot back to their apartments, then coffee was served while each player carefully guarded her stash.

Pam and I liked the Dove and 

the peanut butter cups

These ladies had all comported themselves with quiet dignity, notwithstanding the glee with which they chose their prizes, and one or two minor skirmishes over how many pieces they were entitled to choose (was it their third or fourth bingo?). Meanwhile, Mom laughed along with Pam’s and my comments though it was apparent she really couldn’t hear much.

Back at Mom’s apartment, after a nice, loud visit, we cranked up Wheel of Fortune. Then with Pizza Hut carryout on the dinner table, it was time to break out the playing cards for a competitive game of Rummy 500. I had teased Mom ahead of time that we would have a slumber party, with makeovers and cards and maybe some Fireball. (Once Mom drank a shot or two  at a family gathering—and liked it—because she had a bit of a cold and a cough. We’ve never let her forget it, but in reality I think she only tasted it that one time.) Mom loves being teased, and Pam told her she needed the makeover for a competitive edge because a new male resident had just moved in. By 10:00 p.m., Pam and I were getting tired, but Mom wanted to keep playing so we stayed up until midnight. She did make one veiled threat, though—if she wasn’t winning she would get very sleepy and have to go to bed.

Mom doesn't take up much room in bed.

Since this was our first time visiting Mom while big sister Lois was out of town, we had to hatch an alternative sleeping plan. Though well appointed, Mom’s apartment has only one bedroom. Pam nominated me to sleep with Mom in her queen-sized bed, and Pam took the couch. I’m pretty sure I haven’t shared a bed with Mom since I was nine and was afraid to stay in my own room after a nightmare. Mom’s advanced hearing loss was supposed to prevent her being kept awake by my snoring, but apparently I fell asleep first.

Mom insisted we each fill a baggie of chocolate candy to take on the road with us the next morning, and sent us on our way with a laugh and a warm hug. 

My home will never be as clean as hers always was, and I don’t really care. But even if I can’t be just like Mom in old age, I can work toward contentment and being sparing in judgment of others. And also winning at cards by any means necessary. And holding my Fireball.

Something to Talk About

Family mealtimes are the perfect setting to discuss the important issues of the day. Too bad this didn’t occur to Curt and me when our kids were young and impressionable. Some families discuss philosophy, great books, current events, religion, and other important topics over dinner. These parents are likely mature, intelligent, engaged, and driven, and if we’d had our stuff together in our twenties and thirties, maybe we, too, would have read editorials at the dinner table. It just never occurred to us to turn family meals into enrichment courses.

When our kids were young, we started the practice of each sharing our “Most Interesting Thing” that had happened to us that day. Oftentimes the most interesting thing was entirely mundane, since most days no one made the Olympic team or even won the spelling bee. The rule was, no matter how seemingly UNinteresting, everyone must share something. It didn’t matter that our contributions were usually along the lines of “I had to clean up dog vomit,” or “My sock has a big hole in the toe.” What mattered was that we were each contributing to the conversation.

 (Allow me a small, maudlin digression: When was the last time we did this? There had to have been the one last time when all the kids were around the table, which passed unremarkably without our knowing it was the last time. So many such last times. )

Imagine this guy at your door, six feet tall.

A while back, our grandson Will brought up a topic over breakfast at our house. “If the doorbell rang and when you went to the door there was a giant chicken with ten rows of jagged teeth, would you die of fright before you got eaten?”  Hmmm. That’s a great question we all may ponder over our eggs.  How frightened would you actually be? Could the chicken just be making a neighborly visit? Perhaps we shouldn’t judge it by its appearance. Or maybe the cat would scare it away before it had a chance to eat you.

Last night I was invited to share a light meal with our daughter Angie and her family. As we sat enjoying our spicy chili made with sweet potatoes, no beans, 11-year-old granddaughter Catie suggested we play “Big Words.”  The way it goes is, one person says a simple sentence, and then the next person has to repeat it using fancy vocabulary. Catie wanted to start.

Simple sentence:  “I like cats.” Fancy: “I considerably enjoy  the feline species.”
Simple: “I put pins and needles into a pincushion.” Fancy: “I inserted thin, sharp objects and other thin, sharp objects into a thin, sharp thing holder.” (OK, so sometimes it’s hard to come up with on the spur of the moment.)
Will, being a 13-year-old boy, gave me his sentence: “I blew farts into the toilet.” Fancy: “I emitted methane gas into the sanitary receptacle.”
 Simple: “I want to go to Chicago to eat pizza.” Fancy: “I desire travel to the Windy City to consume a pepperoni-topped disc.”
Dave to Angie: “Dang, my breath smells bad.” Fancy: “Zounds! My laryngeal exhalations are malodorous.”

The moral of the story:  if your dog vomited today or you experienced unfortunate intestinal upset, you really don’t need to bring up the health care crisis or climate change to have stimulating dinner topics. And perhaps an oversized species of poultry with irregular dentition will bypass your domicile rather than chiming your summoning apparatus.

Running in Jeans Again



Me with my husband, Curt, trying to
become more worldly on a trip to
Panama.

Allow me to re-introduce myself.

I’m Bonnie, who began a blog in 2010 titled “I Run in Jeans.” Who lived in a Chicago suburb at the time, and has since retired and moved to West Des Moines, Iowa. Who is a mother of three daughters and grandmother of five. Who has been the wife of Curt for 47 years. Who had a pretty ordinary Midwestern upbringing and lived a pretty ordinary Midwestern life, with the same ups and downs as everyone else. Who, for some reason, enjoys observing and chronicling the minutiae and absurdities of said ordinary life—while not taking myself too seriously.

The fact that I once blogged fairly regularly, then spottily, then not at all, is typical. In the beginning I thought, “Here’s something I can accomplish. I’ll be good at it and end up a rich and famous columnist like Erma Bombeck.” (A reference you won’t get unless you’re at least my age.) The hard fact is that that takes perseverance and drive, two qualities I may not yet have acquired. And probably won’t, because I don’t care enough. But it was interesting while it lasted, and here I am, back to give it another go. No promises that it’s for the long haul!

The title of my blog came from a time when I had impulsively decided to become physically fit. I put on sneakers and headed out for my first run around the block. My daughter Christina was there at the time, and immediately informed her sisters that Mom was out running in jeans! Jokes ensued about what the neighbors might be thinking: “Why, there goes that nice Mrs. Welsh! She seems to be in a hurry!” It hadn’t occurred to me that jeans were not considered running attire. And unfortunately, my first was also my last run; we lived on a hill, and I became uncomfortably out of breath. Somehow, I’d thought it would be easier.

This story exemplifies my life: well-intentioned, but often ill-conceived and short-lived attempts at self improvement. But I figure I’ve learned something each time. The important thing is to recognize where I fall short and keep trying. I may not see short-term results, but looking back over my fairly long lifespan, I think I’m a better person than I used to be. I’m no inspirational ball of fire, making important things happen and shaking up the world. I’m just Bonnie, trying to be a good wife, friend, mother, and contributor to polite society. In fact, if I were to have a tombstone, which I won’t because I don’t want to be buried, I would like to think my family might put “Here Lies Bonnie. She Was a Pretty Good Egg.”

And, lest that sound too self-effacing, I wouldn’t mind if it also said “No Better Mother Existed, “She Was As Funny as Melissa McCarthy,” “She Was Almost Slim Once,” "Boy oh Boy, Could That Woman Spell or What," or “She Had Excellent Grammar.” Or even, “Intelligence Extraordinaire.” Obviously my vanity is still a work in progress.

Hand-Stuffed Olives and Other Small Pleasures

More than two years ago I bought a lovely vintage-type book with blank pages, titled The Quest of Happy Hearts, from my creative young friend Alyssa. My intention was to keep it by my bedside and each day jot down all my deep thoughts and profound ideas. It turned out that, though other people apparently acquire life-changing insights on a daily basis, mine are embedded too deeply in my subconscious to regurgitate them on command at 10:00 Central Standard Time each night—charming hand-crafted journal notwithstanding. And said profundities were always competing for attention with the current book club selection on the nightstand. Alas, my journal languished unopened in the drawer.


At the same time, I’d fallen into the habit of dwelling on certain anxiety-producing situations in my life, leading to insomnia and excessive weight loss (yeah, sure— just hallucinating from lack of sleep for a moment). Time to put Plan B into action: My New Year’s resolution for 2011 was to keep a gratitude journal to remind myself of even the smallest things in my life for which I should be thankful each day. Obviously not an original idea, but a goal that seemed more easily attainable than the deep-thoughts business because I wouldn’t have to rely solely on creativity. I envisioned the sunny disposition I would develop as a result of this simple exercise, what with the glass-half-full mentality and hours of extra slumber I’d reap. “What a sweetheart,” my co-workers would murmur admiringly as I toiled tirelessly and amiably, interjecting thoughtful comments in long meetings and defusing flared tempers.

So now it’s November, and my resolution this year proved to work out about as well as all my past ones. Meetings at work are still long and boring, and few (none) of my co-workers, friends or family members have remarked on my uncannily serene temperament. My still-blank journal mocked me as we headed into this annual season of thankfulness, so I put it back into the top drawer. But, in the spirit of the season and to kick-start Project Self-Improvement 2012, I thought of several things to get me started toward achieving that “attitude of gratitude.” Here are a few of the really small things in life that give a little serotonin boost to my brain’s pleasure center:

1)      The electric butt-warmer in my car’s seat.

2)      Our 4-year-old granddaughter Catie, dressed as a cheerleader for Halloween, shaking her pompons and chanting , “Goooooo, Hot Guys!” (She’s used to hearing her dad cheer for the Iowa Hawkeyes.)

3)      Placing an online order for an odd-sized patio furniture cover, impossible to find in stores, and having it arrive on my doorstep in three days.

4)      Using the “Live” button on the cable TV remote to pause a show while I run to the kitchen for a handful of chocolate chips, then coming back and starting the show right where I left off. I have NO IDEA how or why this works. It’s magic.

5)      Handfuls of chocolate chips.

6)      The unbelievable sunsets for a few days as I drove home from work around 6:00 p.m., just before the return to standard time.

7)      Putting on a pair of jeans I haven’t worn in two years, and they still fit. (I’ve battled a weight problem all my life. See Item 5.)

8)      The luxurious, soft fur on our cat, Gramps.

9)      Hearing Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” on the radio, and cranking up the volume on the “na na na na na”s.

10)   Online word games and computer Solitaire. (I know, waste of time. But I’m addicted.)

11)   Getting to the end of a yoga workout and lying inert for several minutes in “corpse” pose.

12)   Finding the box of red Wine4Grilling on sale at World Market, just in time for holiday entertaining. High class, we are indeed.

13)   The colossal pitted green olives that Curt stuffs by hand with Maytag blue cheese. The only reason one needs to drink a martini.

Lest anyone think my list incredibly shallow, I hasten to add that the huge blessings—family, health, love, security, friendship—are definitely worthy of gratitude. But while these things can ebb and flow, we can all find tiny delights in each day to remind us that life is a gift.

So I’ve got my first entries for The Quest of Happy Hearts. But I must add that I’m especially thankful for my handsome, brainy, supportive, faithful and all-around talented husband. Not every man would stuff olives for me.

Slip Slidin' Away

My ego and my body both took a little beating this past week. I’m actually feeling pretty good, considering.

A little history: From the first time I rode the Log Flume at Adventureland near Des Moines probably 30 years ago, I was hooked on water rides. Though no fan of roller coasters—too jerky and nausea-inducing—I’ve adored lazy rivers, giant raft slides and wave pools since they became de rigueur back in the eighties. Probably comes from all those childhood summer vacations floating in an inner tube on a Minnesota lake—the bigger the waves, the better.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to imbue my descendants with this value system as well. So I get no resistance when I propose a family trip to the Wisconsin Dells, waterpark capital of the Midwest and possibly the world.  Eight of us were able to make it for four days at the Wilderness resort last week: two daughters, a son-in-law, four grandkids between 4 and 14, and me.

Now I’m not going to pretend I’m a fitness hound or that my physical prowess outshines my daughters’. Indeed, I’ve noticed an alarming global gravity increase in the last several years (for which Congress really should fund a study once the national debt issues are ironed out) which tries to entrench me in the lazy river instead of allowing me to repeatedly bounce up the stairs to the top of the slides.

Will and Gramma, just goofing
around post-race

But when grandson Will, age six, asked me to race him on the racing slides, did I tell him to ask his mom or Aunt Tina instead? No, I did not. Even though I’d already done the wave pool, toilet bowl and hurricane that day--besides some tamer slides--and there are about five flights of steps to the top of the racing slides, I gamely agreed to take him on.

Legions of teens sped past me as I grasped the rail and took my time on the way up to the top platform. Fortunately Will and I were about fourth in line, allowing me some time to recover my breath. I was slightly bemused when I observed that NO ONE ELSE up there was over 50—or maybe even 40. But I really became unglued when I observed the takeoff protocol: one crouches over one’s mat in the flight position, hurtling oneself headfirst into the downhill chute when the lifeguard blows his whistle.

Casting about wildly for a way out of this, I briefly considered going back down the way I’d come up. But hey, I’d never tried this before, and I was not going to disappoint Will, who at the last minute had asked me to let him go ahead of me because “I want to watch you come down, Gramma!” (Apparently I have the reputation of being a bit of a screamer.) No, I’d just develop my own form—no one says it has to be pretty, right? So when it was my turn to line up for the death ride, I lodged myself onto the mat and wedged my feet behind me so I could give a big shove when the whistle blew.



Son-in-law Dave winning his heat against Christina, Jack and Autumn.
You can't see the top but it's WAY high. Believe me.



Now I certainly did not have the time advantage, as precious seconds were wasted as I wriggled, shimmied and heaved myself into the race. But I did have the weight advantage, and baby, I flew down that dang tube, around the curves and into the open! At one point I was bounced so forcefully I thought I’d be thrown into the next lane, but all too soon I was slowing enough that I ventured to open my eyes and see I was sliding under the finish line. Woo-hoo! What a rush! When Will asked me to go again and actually race him this time, I only hesitated a second as I contemplated that same tedious trek to the top.

We took our places at the starting line and he shot forward a good five seconds ahead of me as I performed my stylized takeoff maneuver, but that gravity business again gave me the big advantage and I sailed to the finish well ahead of him. “Gramma, how did you do that?” he wanted to know.

Well, William, we are a competitive family, though I take no pleasure in beating you at this. But Angie and Christina, if scores were being kept, I’m pretty sure my total sliding tally would be roughly double both of yours. Just sayin’.

Oh, Sister ...

Sisters with Mom (on our best behavior)

I’m both a little sister and a big sister. Juvenile, really, to refer to the sibling relationship in these terms at age 57. But though the Wissink siblings—big sister Lois, older brother Jay, me (Bonnie), and baby sister Pam—may appear well-grounded and reasonably mature to the rest of the world, to each other we are still the same bossypants, rat finks, do-nothings and attention hogs we’ve always known.

Oh, nuts. I take that back (Lois, you know you’d make me). My siblings are admirable members of society, each gifted with unique abilities and abounding in wisdom—noble souls, all. Still, the truth is that the family roles we assumed as children are not easily shed.

Take sisters in particular. Lois, eleven years older than I, is used to being large and in charge—an (over?) achiever. Pam, three years younger, is used to being Mom’s coddled pet. I, as the middle sister, am used to being overlooked and underappreciated (you get the picture, right? Wah, wah.)

My earliest memories of Lois are of her competent, self-confident, breezy style—someone worthy of emulation, a natural-born leader. I would peep out the living-room window as she and her bubbly high-school friends stood chattering and laughing after school, showing off their circle skirts and saddle shoes. All of her teachers loved her (to hear Dad tell it). She was Homecoming queen. She got out of doing chores around the house because of her overbooked social calendar. She once baked Jay a birthday cake (probably because Mom was trying to get her to help out) with the words, “Happy birthday, Lard Butt” spelled out in chocolate chips. Dad once extolled the whiteness of Lois’s teeth in my presence, and at age 7 one of my life’s goals became having people notice MY white teeth. Lois’s life was good, probably because she wouldn’t have it any other way.



On the other hand, Pam and I were constant adversaries, vying for recognition, affirmation and the largest piece of Mom’s homemade chocolate cake. Nothing was too trivial to argue about—the number of peas on our plates; whose turn it was to dry the dishes; which of us Emile, the toy poodle, liked better; whether Mickey was cuter than Davey; and the loudness of my stereo during Pam’s clarinet practice. (This last incident escalated to the point of my life being threatened with clarinet assault. I was saved when the instrument in question, being waved about in a malicious manner, came apart and went flying across the room. Hilarious, to my way of thinking.) Of course, from my perspective Pam always got the favored parental treatment because of her smaller, cuter and more devious nature. Maddening though she was, we shared an ornery streak that gave us a lot to laugh about when we could get our parents’ goats. We weren’t bad, just high-spirited at times.

So how has all of this played out, 50 years later? You’d think that, as adults, we’ve all mellowed and learned to assert ourselves when our big sister is bossy, wouldn’t you? 

You’d be wrong.



On a recent visit to Sibley, Iowa, where my mom and Lois both live, Lois lugged two garbage bags of clothes that she no longer wanted into Mom’s house, and insisted I try them on and model each article for her approbation. If I said I didn’t like the way the capri pants fit, she’d say they were flattering on me. If I said I had enough casual black pants already, she argued that you could never have enough. (To her credit, when I said a hideous greenish top was ugly, she didn’t counter.) When I protested that I was flying and couldn’t possibly fit all this into my luggage, she offered an extra bag for me to carry on. When we went over to her house, she bade me go into the basement and paint on newspapers at the ping-pong table with her granddaughter while she altered some of the pants.



The kicker is, I did what she said—all of it. Painted watery daisies in the freezing basement, carried the castoff clothes through two airports. Why didn’t I just tell her no, thanks? Honestly, it didn’t even occur to me until I got home. We just played our respective parts as mindlessly as we’d always done.



And as for Pam? We were chatting on the phone the other day when she mentioned she is mad at me after reading my recent blog post listing a few things I’ve been doing. She was hurt that her May visit to my home (with her friend Barb) didn’t receive a mention.



Pam, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this blog is not The Chicago Tribune or even the Cedar Falls Times. You’re a stoopnagle and my teeth are almost as white as Lois’s. Hahahahaha on you!