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.

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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.