Growing up in small town Iowa, I enjoyed bike rides with friends and trips to the library and to grandparent’s farms and hiking to the nearby lake. I read my books in an old oak rocker in the front room, with a bowl of popcorn on my lap, while my 5 younger siblings played around me. I’m sure I helped out with their care and around the house, but for the most part, I was left to enjoy life as a kid.
That’s what I wish for, that people can live their own lives, determining what is best for themselves.
This blog will be essays penned by me as an adult, beginning with one hastily written in 1991. I have many, and I sincerely hope they won’t bore the reader.
It’s been more than 10 years since this episode in our lives. I’ve been thinking about another little story from that time that I can not write about now because I don’t have all of the facts. While looking for that story, I found this one.
I feel that time’s poignancy often, as both Mom and Marty have passed away (Mom in March, 2014 and Marty in Oct, 2014).
Here’s what I wrote on 3-29-2014:
I woke up this morning thinking about our last days with Mom, in our family home in Carroll, IA.
Specifically, I was thinking about my brother, Marty, reading out loud to her from a children’s book. He had randomly picked it up from a stack of books in his basement. It was about a mouse family in a garden setting, which made us adult children laugh.
He held her hand, and caressed it sofly while he read. It was so comforting to us to walk by and see him and hear him doing that. It was also nice to go in and sit in a folding chair by him for a few minutes while he read.
My younger brother Marty was going through his own cancer treatments. He knew this was serious. However, he always had a way of lifting us up with humor and lighthearted topics.
Then, I was doing dishes and singing softly to myself “Who’s the one who tied your shoes when you were young and knew just when to come and see what you had done? Mama, oh Mama.”
BOOM! A loud thunder shook the house at 4 AM today, like an imaginary giant had stomped on it. I opened the shade to see the storm, then closed it, hoping to fall back asleep. A little later, the purr of the portable fan stopped, and the light from my bedside alarm clock was gone.
This woke up Dan, who mumbled, “How will I make my coffee and toast?”, realizing we were without power. He went back to sleep.
I got up because it was close to my usual wake up time. It was too dark to see anything. Looking for the door to the bathroom became a challenge, causing me to bump into it. Now where is my drinking cup for water, and where is the faucet?
A flashlight is needed, but it’s downstairs. My phone is also downstairs. I’m not going down there in this complete darkness. I get to a window in another room and open the shade. No street lights, and no next door neighbor’s lights are on. It’s black as can be.
I decide to do my 20 minutes of knee exercises. This feels good; a silver lining to the unexpected awakening. I’m ahead of the day’s schedule.
Now I’m ready to tackle the steps. I can not believe how dark it is. Should I sit and scootch down each of the 20 steps? Then I see a sliver of morning light through the window on the landing, giving me enough vision for a careful walk down.
I’m excited to light a candle, and set out some homemade sourdough bread slices from the freezer to thaw for a cold breakfast peanut butter sandwich. There’s also a Cheerios and banana option, which makes me happy.
Now I’m thinking I want to document this experience and get to writing this post.
It’s kind of wonderful to be up in the “wee small hours of the morning” (Carly Simon, “Sleepless in Seattle”) and experience this drama, ha ha.
My phone tells me that Alliant Energy is working to have the power back by 8 AM. When it all zings back on at 7, I actually jump in surprise. Ahh, the ordinariness of electricity, making noise and light all around us.
Iowa and Nebraska have had a lot of rain, 3 to 4 inches in a short time, over multiple days. My brother’s home in Spirit Lake has water in the basement (only in the tiled area, not the carpeted part, he told me this morning) and in the garage.
These hard rains have led to West Lake Okoboji rising, causing some boats to float away, off their lifts, especially when the wind picks up. Tie them down is the advice, or move them back to storage, where they sat for the winter.
“Spin Cycle”, Studio Art Quilt, Cotton, by Miriam Nathan-Roberts, 1998.
Last night, I told our daughter that we are all vulnerable, thinking about how a health episode can change plans.
I didn’t tell her then that I woke up at 5AM with a severe episode of vertigo, while still in bed. This changed my plans for the day. What I had planned was to go in early for a fasting blood draw for my annual physical next week.
Instead, I stayed home because I wasn’t sure I could use the elevator (we live in a condo); would it make me dizzy?
Also, could I drive safely? I decided it was better to wait for another day this week.
So, I moved gingerly throughout our home, doing laundry and dishes, baking bread, making a small painting, napping and showering. It happened a few more times that day. I tried to do knee exercises laying flat on my bed. Oh no, Vertigo! I grabbed the covers and held on as the room spun around me, waiting for it to pass.
The point is, we have to keep moving if we can. We might not like how we have to adapt, but we accept it, and hope it will be temporary.
It had been about a year since I last experienced this. It comes on suddenly, and makes me mildly nauseous until I talk myself out of that. Inner ear crystals are the culprit, moving away from their usual position keeping us balanced.
I do have a certain way of dealing with the dizzyness; I look straight ahead, with no sudden head or eye movements up or down.
During the next night, it happened twice, as I changed positions. Apparantly, I don’t have to be on a ladder or tower, as in this 1958 thriller film (below). Lucky me, it comes on when my eyes are closed and I’m safe in bed.
A Must See!
The next day, I did get in for that lab work. Dan wanted to take me. I suspect that was because of the breakfast out possibility, as well as him being a very good caretaker.
The NE Med Center is an exciting place. It’s a huge inner city facility, with new buildings, walkways, busy traffic (cars and pedestrians). We went very early, 7:00 AM. Dan stayed in the car in the parking garage, enjoying his coffee and cell phone news in there.
I went inside and took in that whole experience, observing:
The active hallway, with patients, medical staff, and cleaning crews, walking in 2 directions.
The line in the waiting room, checking in, where a sign tells us, “Please don’t line up in the hallway, come on in.”
The person checking me in, not smiling, all business, until I thanked her by name as I left (her nameplate was on the counter). She gave me a big smile.
The old man who smiled at me as I came out of the blood draw room-maybe it was because I smiled at him first? Or perhaps it was simply acknowledging the camaraderie of our shared experience.
New signs lined up along a wall, “Wheelchairs Park Here”, one sign above each space. This reminded me of the new signs in an Okoboji neighborhood: “Golf Carts Park Here”. Both places are organizing transport vehicles.
A patient and I started a conversation as we were leaving. She was very turned around on her directions. I said, “Don’t ask me, I have vertigo”. Ha ha, I didn’t really say that, but I was on hyper alert for it to occur and grateful that it didn’t.
It was a rainy dark morning. We thought going home for breakfast would be best, until Dan said, “It would be nice to have someone else make our pancakes.” I agreed.
The place he had in mind was The Saddle Creek Breakfast Club (still at its original location along Saddle Creek Road, since 2017, and planning a move soon).
Everything made me happy there.
SCBC, 1540 N. Saddle Creek Road, Omaha, NE.
What I especially liked:
Being in a neighborhood where you park your car a block or two away, and step out onto grass because no sidewalk is there (normally I love sidewalks).
The packed interior-we got the last table for 2 in the back corner, my favorite spot anywhere.
The music. I recognized a Sublime song and Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”. Both brought back pleasant thoughts. The first, driving Conor in the car pool, and the second, when Brandon was born in 1976, I saw that music video on the hospital TV.
The food, the coffee, our friendly server, and the view out the window, it was all perfect.
When we got the receipt, I saw their slogan at the bottom, “Good morning, Honey Bunny”, with an outlined bunny drawing. Delightful.
Sign at soon to be new location for SCBC, in Countryside Village.
Is my vertigo cured? Probably not, but it left me for a few glorious hours this morning. Who would have thought that this ordinary day in Omaha would elicit such happy feelings?
Christmas Eve, 1987. Dad (Leny) having fun, helping Dan cook. 55th St. house, Omaha.
Making an Italian sausage/chunky vegetables (onion, tomato, red pepper, mushroom) spaghetti sauce sounded fun and delicious. Add a side of steamed fresh green beans and it would be perfect!
I cleaned and trimmed all veggies and got out the steamer to cook the green beans first. Dan does not like them crisp! I must give them plenty of cooking time. I like them all ways-raw to mushy canned.
Dan offers to help, especially after he sees that I’ve put in only half the meat.
“Didn’t you get 2 kinds of meat?” he asks.
“Yes”, I say, “but with all of these veggies I didn’t think we needed it. What do you think?”
“Well, I like a meaty sauce.” So, I add the lean ground beef.
Then, I want to add the mushrooms, and maybe chunks of fresh garlic. Dan says that’s OK; he can pick them out.
Instead, I decide to do a separate saute of mushrooms and garlic in olive oil on a back burner.
The water is boiling. I put the spaghetti in and set the timer for 9 minutes, because Dan is watching me and that’s what he likes to do. I usually boil it for 2 minutes, shut off the heat, and put a lid on it to finish cooking in the reserved heat.
A recent photo of Dan cooking.
Anyhow, Dan has taken over the sauce. He puts in one small jar of Ragu original and one can of diced tomatoes. Perfect. The meats are browned and drained, vegetable chunks are smallish, so they’ll cook well enough in with the meats.
Then, I notice the green beans are not steaming! It’s plugged in, but not switched to “On”. I complain a lot, and then just decide to fast boil them on the stove. Cooking with gas is fast.
It’s time to drain the pasta. I’m looking for hot pads; Dan has them. He tries to get them to me, and loses his sauce filled cooking spoon which splashes on the countertop, cupboard and floor. He cleans that up.
I’ve warmed 2 of our blue stoneware plates (“Arrowstone”, wedding gift, 1972) on the upper stove shelf, which is designed for this (I thought), with the red warming light shining on them.
Too hot!
Now, do we put the pasta in the sauce (as Dan likes), or keep pasta separate, and cover with sauce on plate, (as I like)? Plus, I basically have a different sauce in mind for me, so it has to be separate.
I say, “Put half of your sauce in with my sauted mushrooms and garlic. Then, let me take some plain cooked spaghetti. I’ll put that on my plate, and cover it with my sauce. You can pour your sauce over the rest of the pasta and mix it in.”
The only problem is, I have my stoneware plate filled with my yummy version, tender green beans on the side, and I feel a crack in the plate! I have to transfer it to another plate and it all gets mixed up anyhow.
Dan gets his heated stoneware plate and feels a crack in it also! Did the red heating light cause this? Or, have they been cracked all along? We use them often.
Placeholder plates, labeled, so I can still look at a nice tall stack of plates. 1972 Arrowstone dinnerware, on our open kitchen shelves (cracked plates on the bottom, on top of the platter).
Finally, we take our dinner to the couch because we want to eat there, maybe watch Netflix. But, we have to sign in again; the Internet connection is lost. This is all too much bother. Our food will get cold. So we find something fun and mindless, like “Fixer Upper”, and enjoy our home cooked meal.
Note: This story is from my files, first scribbled out on January 12, 2017. Hard to believe it’s been 7 years! The cooking and compromising continues. I now let Dan cook it completely his way. If he wants to shop for the ingredients, and wants to cook, he’s on!
Another “Cooking with Dan” scene, making “Ugly Dip”, a favorite creation, 2015.
The other day, my daughter-in-law passed on to me a prayer that her grandpa had just sent to her. It was the Prayer of St. Francis that begins with “Make me a channel of your peace.”
I immediately started singing it in my head. This whole prayer was put to music in 1967 by a South African songwriter, Sebastian Temple. We sang it at high school masses, and it was part of our wedding music in 1972.
My favorite version.
I thanked her, and said that it would be my daily prayer reflection. It got me to thinking about faith, family and Sundays. This near 80 year old California grandpa had sent it to a 41 year old Denver mom, who sent it on to me, a 71 year old Omahan.
In this mix, is a 20 year old daughter, a college sophomore who posts weekly from her church in Colorado a simple, joyous greeting, like “May the Lord be with you and keep you in His perfect peace today.”
This elicits uplifting responses from all ages. One, an 80 year old Phoenix relative regularly answers something like “Have a peaceful week”. It’s nice to see that connection.
Growing up, Sundays were about many things: rest, church, cinnamon rolls, and the comics, which we called the funny papers.
“Funny Papers”, studio art quilt, Shirley Neary, 2000. Hand dyed and inkjet printed cottons, reverse appliqued. 38”by 29”.
When we were very young and lived on a farm by Breda, Iowa, going to church resulted in a reward for us kids. I told that story in the following art piece:
A stitched St. Bernard’s Church, from a photo I took. Candy images printed on cotton. Machine quilted.
Mom would make cinnamon rolls on Sundays. Now, we were living in Carroll, which meant we could walk to church. The older kids, (of which I was one, being the oldest), were allowed to sleep in, and go to late mass. When we got back, there was a warm breakfast of an egg and cinnamon roll.
In Mom’s handwriting. This is it, nothing on the back.I guess every homemaker in Iowa knew the rest of the instructions.
In 1977, when The Commodores came out with Lionel Ritchie’s song, “Easy” (like Sunday Morning), I couldn’t relate. Sunday mornings were not about ease and relaxation. They were hectic, and filled with obligation, or guilt.
We had 2 little boys then, and went to mass separately. Later, with 4 children, we all got presentable and went as a family. It was frantic. Somebody always had a paper route, with an adult helping. Often, we were responsible for Donut Sunday (at St. Margaret Mary’s), which was fun to do, going downtown to Petit’s Pastry shop to pick up the order.
That presentable issue created challenges. Could the boys wear a tee shirt? Yes, maybe, but without slogans. A collared shirt was better. Were jeans acceptable? They were not, in the 1970’s and 80’s. There were definite rumblings among the parish members about these choices, almost like gossip.
The best we could do; we were a casual family. Conor had just fallen moments before, so he’s still hurting from that.
In Mom and Dad’s time, of farm life and big families, they dressed up for church. My Aunt Jan tells me this story: “We would throw everything down the stairs on Saturday to prepare for Sunday mass, such as ironing the boys’ shirts and polishing the shoes. Near the finishing of that chore, Lenus would exchange his shoes for Dad’s. Then, Mom would say we missed polishing Daddy’s shoes.” He was a trickster!
Polished shoes photo, found online. Lenus, my dad, was 3rd oldest of 11 children.
One time, Mom and Dad were visiting us in Omaha from Carroll. On Saturday afternoon, we went to the Steamboat Bertrand exhibit at DeSoto Bend. The Bertrand sank on April 1, 1865, when it struck a submerged log in the DeSoto Bend of the Missouri River. The items recovered are what’s on display.
It was a very hot summer’s day. All of us were in shorts.
On the way home, Dad suggested going to the 5PM Saturday mass, fulfilling our Sunday obligation. He said it would be nice to wake up on Sunday morning and relax. I protested that we weren’t at all dressed for church.
We went and sat in a somewhat hidden side row, with me a little embarrassed, but happy to have an “Easy Like Sunday Morning” ahead of us.
If you would like to share any comments or photos from your Sunday mornings, please do!
One afternoon, as usual, I was sitting on the dock, when I saw a nest being built up in the corner of the pontoon lift cover. I also saw 2 birds going to it.
I talked to them calmly, thinking to have them get used to me and see me as no threat.
“It’s OK”, I purred, “I’m not going to harm your nest.” Did I think I was like Snow White, someone who could make friends with birds?
It was even relaxing to see the feeding of the baby birds a few days later. Three little heads popped up to eat. The barn swallows let me watch them. Their flights over the water were mesmerizing, with their pale orange underparts glowing in the sun.
When Sheila came to visit on the dock, we sat and talked peacefully. After she left, I realized that I had forgotten to show her the nest, so serene was the day.
Until they dove at me! I was so startled, I jumped! I yelled! I left.
This happened three days in a row. I kept asking for it, by going on the dock, into my chair, trying to be brave.
My summer perch, in the shade.
Ignore them and they’ll ignore me, I thought, keeping my head down toward my book. It didn’t work. I had goosebumps and heart throbbing terrors with each swallow’s dive, even though I read online that it’s mostly a bluff.
I screamed at them again, involuntarily, as my own defenses came out.
Then, one day, vascillating between fear and bravado, I went down, singing a little to calm myself, and no birds came. I was praying, “Please God, be with me.”
Happy, yet puzzled, I peeked under the lift cover. Yes, the nest was still there. Hmnnn, had they moved out? Curiosity got the best of me. I rattled the lift a little. Right away, three little birds woke up and chirped an alarm! This brought the parents (and the whole family) to attack me.
I had to leave. The advice online says to wait it out and avoid the area, until it’s clear. It also informed me that all swallows are state and federally protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918. It states that active nests, with eggs or chicks inside may not be touched or destroyed without a US Fish and Wildlife Permit. We had to let it sit.
After about 3 days, Dan said, “We have to be able to use our property”. I wanted to clean the pontoon boat, but I was too afraid to.
It seemed like enough days had gone by that it should be OK to remove the nest. That’s when our nephew, Wes, on a Saturday visit, went down with a broom and knocked down the newly emptied nest, enduring wings whooshing by his head. Happy to say, no chicks were harmed.
Where the nest was.
That very afternoon, I tried to resume my dock sitting, but still it was not safe. They were angry at me, and all humans. The first step of my descent brought their “chit chit, chit chit chit” sounds, and I was spooked again. On the walk back up the steps, I boldly stared one in the face, and it did swerve away at the last minute. Shaky, scary stuff.
I waited a day, watching from afar the aerial activity, full of swallows, fearing they were building another nest. They were staying near the dock. Maybe one of the fledgelings had gotten only to our shoreline, and the parents were taking care of it.
Now I was becoming anxious about everything. A leaf would blow by me; I thought it was a bird. A little dog would appear at my feet, as I was talking to a neighbor; I wierdly thought it was a bird and I jumped. I couldn’t sleep at night. Besides the obvious frightful experience, I was missing my relaxation and reading time by the water.
It made me mad! So, I went down, wearing a hat and sunglasses, and carrying a bottle of boat cleaning spray and a towel. As they approached me, I sprayed the cleaner right at them (well, actually, into the air surrounding me, like a Ghostbusters move), continuing my walk toward the boats.
Then, I took my little dock chair, and used it as a shield, putting it over my head, raising it high and around, trying to startle them.
This whole process was somewhat fun and I think it worked. I must have looked ridiculous, but that was the point; to laugh, rather than cringe.
I was able to clean the pontoon, very fast, with me still shaking in my flipflops. I hoped the aroma of the cleaning would discourage another encounter or a future nest.
It was the most terrifying time of my life, but I survived it, and you can too!
Ah, not this tranquil, my barn swallows.
Thank you for reading, and living this life with me. I really appreciate it!
The Marina at Village West had boats, jetskis, paddleboards and Maui Mats for rent. Enjoying it here are cousins from our group. Photo by Heidi Johnson.
When our niece, Wendy, titled her farewell e-mail, “An Okoboji Goodbye”, I thought it was so poetic. We had missed her family’s departure from the Neary Clan 2023 Reunion, where 130 people arrived and departed at all hours. It was a 10 day get-together at Village West Resort in NW Iowa’s glacial lake region, specifically at West Lake Okoboji.
Happy Wendy, Carlos and some of their family, Village West Convention Hall, June 25, 2023.
Wendy and Carlos. There’s a lot to tell about them, (too much for this blog post). They have always wowed us! It was really astonishing to have them attend from AZ, along with 5 of their 6 boys, and 1 daughter-in-law. You see, an illness has invaded their lives for more than a year. It is near miraculous that the afflicted person is still with us, here on earth, partying and talking and dancing. A true reward of intense faith and spiritual practices.
Every person who came was celebrated. Those who could not were remembered and thought about often. This is where the Neary reunion was held almost 40 years ago, in 1984. It (and we) looked a lot different then. Attendees this year remarked on how fabulous it was to have their 10 year old kids experience this place that they remember so fondly as a 10 year old.
Matriarch Betty Neary, with her 12 children, 1984, at what was then called Vacation Village.Great pic of the cabins (now gone) and Peg with Kendra, 1984.
For this reunion, people stayed in timeshare buildings, where the owners had given up their week. It was all co-ordinated by Marne, at the resort, and our daughter-in-law, Amy. A super feat of organization.
Oh what a week it was! Highlights and special memories for me were :
Taking 5 year old Liam down the steps to the dock, where he hadn’t been for a year, and having him say, “I remember the spider webs.” Funny! I thought he’d say the water, the fish, the swimming. Spiderwebs are everywhere near the lake. Gus got a “face plant” as he entered the fishing boat early one morning, and Jess had to do a “limbo” move to get under a horizontal web over the steps.
Some of the everyday spiderwebs.The broom we use constantly to clear out webs.
Meals were catered in for most nights, as the resort’s restaurant has not re-opened since 2020. Wednesday night was Texas BBQ. We received an appreciative note from one of the kids, which I passed on to Back Alley Texas BBQ.
David lives in Massachusetts.Connecting! That’s what it’s all about.
Standing in line for dinner one evening, I found myself behind a teen from AZ. I asked him if he went out at night to see the stars. He said, “Yes! We went into the cornfield, chasing the fireflies.” It was the first time he had seen them, in person! Before, he had only seen them in cartoons, ha ha. Note: we call them lightening bugs in the midwest.
No fireflies in this photo of family enjoying an Iowa corn field, near Village West. I’m tempted to draw them in! Photo by Amanda Stoft, June 2023.
Seeing the young kids and adults enjoy the music of @DJNateT (our nephew on my side of the family, a Thelen). So much splendid dancing!!!
Heavenly. I now think of “Shout” as a Gospel tune.
Having a Catholic priest friend attend for special blessings. We need them.
Meeting a young reader from Oklahoma. We became instant friends on Goodreads.
Spilling the tea, the coffee, the wine, the beer, the water, and wiping it all up with old beach towels. Everyone helped. Speaking of clean up time, it was fun to see this crew dancing through the job!
Brandon, Bryan and Dan, serving Brats and Bob’s Dogs (sloppy joes over a hot dog) to Tammy and Charlotte. Dan bought this roaster pan especially for this.
Conor, Gus and Sam.
Trash. No industrial composting site is available in the area, and we couldn’t send it all back with Leigh (she composts everything-for herself and her customers-through@hillsidesolutions). We tried not to have too much waste, using a set of metal eatingware for some of the utensils, and steel cups, which were all put in the dishwasher at home each night. For plates, we used disposable ones made from palm leaves (said to decompose in 2 months). Forks were made from birch trees. Bryan said that using these was like eating with chopsticks, ha! He is so funny.
In our quest for non-plastic, we found these online. Made from palm leaves and birch trees.Steel cups from @exist_green in Omaha. Planning chart by Shirley.
Mistaking Jason for the Hy-Vee breakfast delivery guy, saying, “Just put it over there”. He looked at me quizzically, and said, “No, I’m Jason, your nephew”. Ha ha. Oh well, it was early, and he did have a hat on, somewhat hiding his identity. Still, how embarrassing.
Solving the online NYTimes Sunday Crossword with Leigh and her husband, Brandon, on the dock, and getting an answer from a boat filled with Nearys passing by. “Try HOWDY DO” Jane yelled in answer to the clue “Old time country greeting”. It fit!
An Okoboji trip is not complete without a stop at Arnold’s Park for rides and amusements.
Leigh, being a kid again.
Kids loved the arcade at the resort, earning these tickets for prizes.
Bring quarters.
On another day, we had an impromptu Lemonade Stand at the end of our dock, calling over the pontoon carrying our relatives. Actually, Amy zipped out on the speed boat to make sure they heard our invitation. Conor quickly made and served 2 pitchers of freshly sqeezed lemonade.
Peg and Jean hosted an ice cream social, with the works-a good idea! They bought so many toppings and so much ice cream that it went on for 2 nights.
Jean even made a batch of hot fudge sauce in the crock pot, which went fast.
From the oldest to the youngest, we bonded.
Here I am (not quite the oldest) with the youngest attendee. Photo by Shannon Meyer.
So, to paraphrase the Irish writer, James Joyce, they came “and laughed and loved and left”, leaving us with shadows of their heartwarming presence.
And, leftovers, in our freezer and pantry still. And, many, many photos, YAY!
Enjoy your family. Here’s a photo of some of ours:
By The Des Moines Photo Booth Co., (owned and operated by another nephew, this one married to a Thelen), set up the same night as our DJ.
In recent days, a friend shared a film on social media. It is heartbreakingly sad, and important, titled “Cost of Beauty: A Dove Film/ Dove Self Esteem Project”. Maybe you’ve seen it and cried over it yourself. I’m posting the link at the end.
My Grandma Schelle used Dove, and so did I on overnights there. It’s in my daughter-in-law’s bathroom now. It’s most famous as a moisturizing Beauty Bar, containing 1/4 cleansing cream.
In 2004 Dove began its Campaign for Real Beauty, followed by the Dove Self Esteem Fund in 2006. On their web site, a statement says, in part, “for over a decade, we’ve been working to make beauty a source of confidence, not anxiety”.
This is a very good marketing idea, and makes me want to go get a Beauty Bar immediately.
I looked up its origin and found out (from Wikipedia) that Vincent Lambertie invented it as an American chemist working for Lever Brothers. Dove soap was introduced on March 8, 1957. Unilever now owns Dove Soap Company.
Beautiful.
Here’s something I wrote on 10-23-2010:
On the Dove Campaign For Girls
A friend sent me a link, which was an ad by Dove about Media’s message to young women on how to be more beautiful. At the end, it says, “Talk to your daughters before the media does.”
It made me think of my own impressionable preteen and young teen years. Back then, in the 1960’s, I was so impressed by London fashion and beauty. The Beatles were big! So was Yardley of London cosmetics, Twiggy, and British fashions. Seventeen magazine was a favorite, with its many, many ads.
I remember tearing one out of Lauren Hutton in a bikini and scotch taping it to the fridge. It was meant as inspiration and incentive to keep me from reaching in to the refrigerator too often.
Lauren Hutton, as a young model. Found online.
Plus, I admired Ms. Hutton for her famous desire to keep the space between her top two front teeth. Just like mine.
Getting back to the Dove campaign, I remember my mother talking to me, before and after media exposure.
Some of the things she said, re-inforcing our inner, personal beauty (something ad campaigns can never give us) were:
“Always wear a smile.”
“Boys like clean soap smells, not so much cologne!” Ambush, Tabu, and Emeraude were my favorites to douse myself in.
“Don’t kiss your boyfriend in the middle of the day, in front of the house.” “I didn’t. He kissed me,” I responded.
And, she took down my Lauren Hutton bikini pic. It was too revealing for a family kitchen.
All good lessons for young women.
Here is the video that reinspired this post: It’s titled, “Cost of Beauty: A Dove Film/Dove Self Esteem Project”.
It all started on a sparkling, sunlit day in mid November, 2022. I walked among the fallen leaves of my one time neighborhood around St. Margaret Mary’s church, on Dodge St. Then, I crossed the street and walked around the campus of the University of Nebraska at Omaha, looking at art in its galleries.
This is something I do often (take long walks) and have done since my early 30’s, when I gave up jogging.
The next day, and for several days after, I experienced intense leg pain, specifically around my knees, (above, below, and on each side of them). This was something new. I wondered if this was a turning point, in my aging process. I wore the same shoes as always, and the distance seemed about the same as on other walks.
So, I rested.
A few days later, all seemed well. So I went on my usual jaunt to the Dodge St. Salvation Army Thrift Store to drop off some donations. It’s a familiar, less than a mile, walk. I enjoy doing that.
I decided to take a different route back, and was extra careful of turning traffic at intersections. One of them had an island that I stopped at and then caught the driver’s eye before proceeding. It made me slightly self conscious and overly confident, I think, showing what a good, strong walker “this near old lady” was.
As I stepped off the curb, still kind of looking at the driver, I misjudged the step and slid a little on gravel, wrenching my left knee (OUCH!) as I avoided a fall. I made it home, hobbling and humbled.
So, for a week or two, RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) was my treatment. Our rarely used footstool became a favorite thing. No Alleve was necessary, although my Doctor of Pharmacy daughter-in-law told me to take it daily to avoid swelling (a good idea).
In early December we went to visit our son’s family in Norman, OK. Three dogs are members of that family. One of them, Murphy, a muscular Boxer type, really liked me, which I loved. On our second day, he caught me off guard by an overly enthusiastic greeting bump, to my right leg, right side, around the knee and hamstring. OUCH AGAIN!
Molly, 15, looked sympathetically at me, quietly expressing her sorrow at my pain, and comfortingly at her dog, seemingly assuring him, “It’s OK, you’re still our pal.”
This brought up the conversation of dogs knocking people down. I held my ground, not falling, but oh, did it hurt!
Bending my leg was impossible. I think we iced it. Jack, 18, brought me a battery operated massager, like they use at football games along the sidelines for injured players. I kind of laughed in my mind, imagining me as an athlete, ha ha.
They also gave me a stretchy workout band to help stretch the muscle.
Two Alleves were taken. It felt good to be so well taken care of!
There were two things that were especially hard to do: getting into bed (I had to “lift” my leg with both hands and put it up on the bed), and, to get into the car the next morning. Both things we take for granted!
In the months since, I’ve come to realize that standing or walking is fine, once I get going. It’s the sitting too long to read, write, eat a meal, or watch TV that gives me painful knees when I get up (very slowly).
All of this is not to ask for your pity; it’s just that I’m an expressionist who likes to tell about things as they are. There are many people going through worse pain and adjustments. If, for instance, I ever have a knee replacement, I expect that to be a very hard thing.
Recently we traveled to AZ to visit family. The young man helping us with our luggage saw me limping and offered advice, “The best thing for your joints is Vick’s Vaporub.” I like the scent of that, every once in a while; it’s comforting, and I think it helps.
As it continues to heal, I’m reminded of a couple of things. One is the phrase “On my knees” which generally means prayer. The other is my neighbor on Farnam St., Linda, who told me years ago that the only way to clean a floor is on your knees. I plan on ignoring her, and will continue to use a mop.
I’m going to end this with examples of workers on their knees. The first is an art piece that I’ve always liked, “The Floor Scrapers”, an 1875 painting by French Impressionist, Gustave Caillebotte. It makes me think of scraping and refinishing the oak floors at our first house on 55th and Jackson, in Omaha, which is the second photo, from 1979.
Priceless, vulnerable, with you all the time. That pretty much describes a baby, and my 8 month old ipad.
Like most of you, I hold my ipad all day long. This past week it was for reading an Omaha library e-book, THE IMMORTAL IRISHMAN, by Timothy Egan, (a Bryan Neary recommend-it was mesmerizing!), and for typing, editing, and illustrating (with photos) Dan’s handwritten Storyworth book. This was a joint project we really enjoyed!
WordPress blog essays and a few learning lessons are done on my ipad. I no longer have a desktop or laptop computer.
I also read the news, e-mails, favorite blogs, some social media, and Iowa Writers Collaborative pieces.
I was spending a lot of time walking around with this ipad in my hands, or arms, near my hip, reminescent of Rock-A-Bye baby time.
One morning, it had a temperature! Scary!
It looked like this, very soon after opening it.
So I shut it down immediately. Dan thought I should take it in for a checkup, but I knew that most fevers go away on their own. It did not happen again.
Soon after that, maybe a week or two later, I downloaded the latest update, 16.3. But, there was a problem. It couldn’t be installed, due to no cell service. Strange, because for 8 months it had perfect cell service.
What I’m about to tell you are the all consuming acts I did for 2 days to get my ipad better, just as you would with a baby.
You’d go to a clinic or doctor. I went to Verizon, across the street, where I bought the ipad. Manzur was the person at the counter, and, count my lucky stars, I was the only customer! He inserted a new SIM card, and tried his best, but alas, no cellular service could be found. He said it was an Apple issue and had to be taken to the Apple Store.
I did not want to do that. I told myself, maybe I can live without cellular on the ipad (I have an iphone), anything to get out of going to the Apple Store, way out west. But, I was paying for cell service that I liked to have on a road trip, or in a park, and it’s under warranty, so I should take care of it.
OK, time to go online and look up Apple Support. I was elated to see an approved service center at a Best Buy, in the neighborhood! An appointment was made. I was sure this would fix it. It was fun! I took the ORBT (Omaha Rapid Bus Transit, along Dodge St.) on a sunny winter day, and walked a couple of blocks. Inside, I was soon with a GEEK SQUAD member, Kris, who tried everything, but could not repair it. He said I had to go to Apple.
A side note, while I was at Best Buy, I reminisced about our son, Brandon, working there in a blue shirt during high school. It made me happy to think of that.
Afterwards, my ipad and I met Dan at Charleston’s for lunch in a cozy booth, just the 3 of us, ha ha.
When I got home, I message chatted with Apple Support, who was oh so polite and patient, step by step, as we went through everything, even the diagnostics that I had to initiate on my end. Still no success. You need to have a phone conversation with a senior advisor, I was told, and here’s the number.
I put that off for a few hours and did a spa time at home.
It’s stressful having a sick baby!
Around 6 PM, I called Apple Support, getting Ricardo, within (surprise!) 2 minutes. He was very nice, supportive, and calm, but ended with, “You have to take it to Apple, or mail it in for repair.”
I would never mail in my baby.
He made me an appointment for the very next morning. Now, I was getting excited. I had never been to an Apple Store.
Here’s what happened: They cheerily greet you, check you in, and have you sit on these cubes in the back, waiting your turn. Adam soon came to get me. In 5 minutes he had done another diagnostic test (their own) which showed that the eSIM card had failed. Since ipads are not made to be opened up and repaired (YAY! No surgery for this baby!), I was to get a new one, a brand new ipad to hold and love.
But, before that, he asked me if I wanted to hug my old one, and say good bye to it.
Ha ha! Who did he think I was? An ipad isn’t something to hug! Or is it?
On Saturday, September 5, 2026, the Schelle cousins gathered in Breda, Iowa, at the Legion Hall (post 607) on Main St. Extra bathrooms have been added over the years, still rustic as in my memory. I’ve been there often for weddings, funerals, and graduations, but it had been years since the last time. The occasion…
My dad, Leny Thelen, enjoyed his life of selling beer very much. He retired in 1994, at age 62. I wonder if the heavy lifting of kegs and other duties came to be too much. He loved the social part, cracking a smile often, as he interacted with the bar owners on his route, and…
This puzzle was started on February 18, 2025, and hung around until Thanksgiving of the same year. I have never given up on a jigsaw puzzle, and with Claude’s help, I didn’t have to on this one. There are 1000 pieces, and only a 5″ by 7″ photo of this 1906 painting to go by.…
On Writing, On Life 