20 Interesting Facts About Me

When I was four years old, my mom taught me how to write by encouraging my imagination. She would take me around our small town, and together we would create stories about the people we saw. Occasionally, we would get the giggles. The worst incident occurred in church, when we were both old enough to know better. It was mortifying, but we couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn't long before others joined in. These storytelling sessions continued for six decades until my mom passed away in 2024 at the age of 91.
I grew up in Northern Minnesota in a family of seven children—five boys and two girls. I was the middle child, sandwiched between five brothers. My sister was the oldest. We were hooligans; we only survived by the grace of God and Mom swooping in at the last second. My older brothers struggled with pronouncing their names when they were young. Arnold James called himself Arse-hole Jones, while Don Joseph always introduced himself as Don Dope-us. And then there were the younger boys. Tom referred to himself as MOT after seeing TOM reflected in a mirror. William Paul called himself Silly Willy Paul, and because of his wildman behavior as a child, James introduced himself as James Michael Rotten Kid Koerber. My name was Mary Elizabeth. The older boys called me Mary Little Bit—except when Mom wasn’t around. Then I was known as Mary Little Shit. “I just loved having brothers,” she said sarcastically.
In the 1960s, my dad had a recliner. If you did something wrong and heard the instant snap of it being lowered, you ran. At the tender age of three, I already knew that. So, when he invited friends for breakfast, and they stayed through lunch, and didn’t appear to be leaving as dinner approached, I’d had enough. I climbed up onto the couch, took the woman’s face in my hands, and asked, “Do you have a stove at your house?” She said she did, so I asked another question. “Do you have a refrigerator at your house?” She again answered in the affirmative. “Do you have a sink at your house?” Wilma smiled and nodded. I looked right at my dad and asked the following question anyway. “Then, why don’t you go home and eat?” I heard that snap. I jumped from the couch and ran, but my short legs were no match for his long ones. I don’t think I sat for a week.
My sister is eleven years older than I am. When she was in high school in the 1960s, my mom would sew her dresses to wear to school. Mom, a professional seamstress, would also piece together enough fabric to make a matching dress for me. I would wait until Vickie left for the bus before putting on the same dress. Then, I’d head outside, where I would dance around the front yard, hoping all of her friends would notice me. Let’s just say, I was an ass.
I had always planned to be a writer—until I got my first guitar. At that point, my goal changed. I set my sights on becoming a member of the Partridge Family. I thought I had an in as my uncle shared a house with Jack Cassidy and Marty Ingels, both of whom were married to Shirley Jones, at different times. Unfortunately, I never got an audition. Clearly, my Uncle Dick was aptly named.
When we were growing up, my mom had two rules: 1) If you’re going to fight, go outside. 2) Do not bleed on the carpet. Fighting outside always felt like a bad idea. If you were winning, no one was there to witness how tough you were. And if you were losing, Mom wasn’t there to save your skin.
Mom had her rules, and we had ours. As kids, our rule was simple: Don’t tell Mom. We got clotheslined on a clothesline while riding a snowmobile, and rolled a motorcycle backwards down a steep hill—almost killing ourselves when we hit a 500-gallon propane tank. We raced black bears from the garden to the front door and lost more boots than we could count in the quicksand-like muck during the spring Muck Runs down the hill and into the garden. There were other adventures that are best left untold, which is why that phrase was whispered multiple times a day in our household.
As you can imagine, there were daily spankings. My five-foot-three mother took us down with the hook of her finger and her tight-lipped glare. If you grinned or laughed, you got it again. My brother Don almost always made the finals.
When we were young, all seven of us kids were virtually unbeatable in the hundred-yard dash. The reason? We had one bathroom, and Grandpa’s outhouse was a hundred yards from our front door.
When I was five, my mom sent me outside the laundromat to stamp out her cigarette. Curious, I took a puff and immediately gagged and threw up. Suffice it to say, I never had a desire to smoke ever again. Too bad that approach didn’t work for eating.
Thanks to Uncle Dick, the prank-master, we played a game he called The Fork Game. (He was the reason we often got paddled.) One person would kneel on the floor with a dishrag in hand while the other sat with their legs in a V shape, clutching a fork. A puddle of water was poured on the floor between them. The object was for the kneeling player to wipe up the water without getting stabbed by the person with the fork. I obviously wasn’t very good at it. I still have scars. (The solution? After a couple of swipes with the rag, the kneeler grabbed the "forker" by the legs and dragged them through the puddle. The floor was instantly dry. Of course, we stabbed each other for over a year before he told us that.)
When my sister and I tried out for cheerleading, we were eleven years apart in age. For some reason, Mom didn’t think we were doing our flips correctly, so she decided to demonstrate the proper technique. (Note that she was 31 and 42, respectively.) On both occasions, she got up on her hands in the middle of the living room before crashing back down, yelling, “What in the hell am I doing? I’m an old lady!” The dishes in the cupboard rattled, the house shook, and the floor joists moaned when she landed. For the record, we both made the cheerleading team without her help. (Also, for the record, she jumped off the garage roof into a pile of snow when she was 50 years old.)
On the way home from an away volleyball game, I came down with the stomach flu. My brother Don picked me up in town (13 miles from home). My coach handed me a plastic bucket, told Don to drive slowly because I was incredibly sick, and went inside to call my mom. Don heeded her advice—until we reached the gravel road with rollercoaster-like hills. Don stopped the car, looked at me, and said, “You can only have so much puke inside of you. You’re gonna thank me for this tomorrow.” Then he took off like a bat out of hell. My stomach lurched on each hill, emptying over and over again. Just before our house came into view, he slammed on the brakes, looked at me, and said, “Don't tell Mom.” For the record, he was wrong about the puke. I threw up for five days.”
My mom was the neighborhood beautician. Although she had no formal training, everyone trusted her—except for my dad. The day before school started, our home was a revolving door of men, women, and children. In the 70s, perms were the trend, and she gave one to every older woman within a five-mile radius. After doing dozens, she decided she wanted a perm too. Of course, she begged me to get one, and for some stupid reason, I agreed. It looked great on her, but a blonde afro on me was not a good look—at least not if I ever wanted to date. A week later, she came home to find me chopping my hair to within an inch of my scalp. She watched for a while, shrugged, and said, “You know, we could have just run a reverse perm through—without the rods.” My mouth dropped open as she walked away. She could have told me that sooner! It took me months to grow my hair out again.
Cindy and Lindy were my best friends in high school. We were notorious for skipping school, often missing days under the pretense of selling yearbook ads, when in reality, we were out shopping. On game days, we could only miss half the day; otherwise, we would be ineligible to participate. On those days, we would race through the doors at the last possible second. One time, we flew into school with barely a second to spare. Standing side by side with their arms crossed and staring at their watches were Mitch (my boyfriend, who is now my husband) and his father (the high school principal). It was clear they had been waiting for us. (If we had been late, we would have had an excuse. Lindy had fallen out of the car while Cindy was driving. She had the gravel marks and the bruises on her butt to prove it.)
I am an award-winning teacher, June Gills Inspiration Award, Fox 9 Top Teacher, Eastern Carver County Teacher of the Year, and one of Minnesota’s Top 10 Teachers of the Year, among others. I never planned to be a teacher. The college I attended required me to declare a major before I could set foot in a classroom. Let’s be honest; I was only there because Mitch begged me. I had other plans. So, when I was whining about what degree to choose, Mitch said, “Just put down teacher. That’s an easy job!” So, I did. Little did I know that I would embark on a 36-year journey through the educational system, first as a teacher, then as a teacher trainer, and later as an adjunct professor. It was incredible, but far from easy, as Mitch had claimed. And that is why I won’t ever leave him. He needs to be punished. It's also why I refer to him as my first husband.
So, even though the Partridge Family gig didn’t work out, I still found opportunities to sing and play guitar in public—participating in talent contests, church events, school functions, and more. Mitch, who also plays guitar, and I used to sing at weddings. However, we stopped when someone pointed out that every wedding we provided music for ended in divorce. We now play Milli Vanilli and lip-sync all songs.
Mitch and I are as different as night and day. According to the True Colors Personality Assessment, I am ORANGE, which means I am spontaneous, while he is GOLD, indicating an organized planner. He meticulously plans trips, complete with a folder that contains information for everything we will do in the exact order it will transpire. In contrast, I don’t even ask where we are going until we get on the plane. I’m not kidding!
When it’s not winter—colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg, and the snow’s up to my crotch—I enjoy spending time at our cabin in Northern Minnesota, where I lose at waterskiing but dominate at cornhole. I enjoy boating, ATVing, jet skiing, cruising around on the golf cart, and entertaining. Of course, there’s never a lack of food because I was raised by the Food Devil herself.
Finally, here is a list of random things about me. The toilet paper must go over the roll; if yours is wrong, I’ll fix it for you. I am a minimalist, as is Mitch. We don’t like clutter, and I especially dislike it when something’s out of place. I love to go to garage sales, but unlike my mother, who, out of respect, had to buy something at every sale she visited, I rarely make a purchase. I’m just nosey. I live on the edge of change, whether it’s a new job, redecorating, or moving. Since we got married, we’ve built six houses and a cabin. This might be because I don’t like living in used homes. I have enough of my own bad juju; I don’t need anyone else’s. I’ve been a vegetarian for over four decades. I choke down vegetables, but they aren’t my favorite. I’m not a coffee drinker, nor do I drink much soda. Instead, I prefer water and iced tea sweetened with monk fruit, as I have recently developed an allergy to artificial sweeteners. I love mac and cheese made with smoked Gouda, and I will always choose peanut butter M&Ms over any other flavor. Dark chocolate is my favorite, but if I’m desperate, I’ll take almost anything offered. And of course, the scale is not my friend!

20 Interesting Facts About Me

When we were growing up, my mom had two rules: 1) If you’re going to fight, go outside. 2) Do not bleed on the carpet. Fighting outside always felt like a bad idea. If you were winning, no one was there to witness how tough you were. And if you were losing, Mom wasn’t there to save your skin.

As you can imagine, there were daily spankings. My five-foot-three mother took us down with the hook of her finger and her tight-lipped glare. If you grinned or laughed, you got it again. My brother Don almost always made the finals.

When we were young, all seven of us kids were virtually unbeatable in the hundred-yard dash. The reason? We had one bathroom, and Grandpa’s outhouse was a hundred yards from our front door.

When I was five, my mom sent me outside the laundromat to stamp out her cigarette. Curious, I took a puff and immediately gagged and threw up. Suffice it to say, I never had a desire to smoke ever again. Too bad that approach didn’t work for eating.