lolita-s-bigtoe.com

Spring officially began March 20. Daylight saving time also began last month giving us more sunshine hours. We continue to look for signs of warmer weather as Mother Nature can’t make up her mind what season it is. I’ve seen robins in our yard. It’s one time dandelions blooming are welcomed. Later, my husband will consider them weeds to be eliminated. Daffodils are adding their bright, yellow blooms to the blah-looking landscapes. Given a few April showers, grass will soon turn green. The roar of lawn mowers will replace the growl of snow blowers.

Lighter jackets are donned instead of heavy winter coats. Hats are left in the closet so the breeze can ruffle our hair. Some men will even be wearing shorts.

People are strolling as they walk their dogs instead of trying to hurry the animals along to get back inside the warm house.

Windows are thrown open to capture a warm breeze. Some people will be washing those panes as part of their spring-cleaning efforts.

Sights I no longer see are children enjoying the outdoors. As I look around our community, I wonder if any juveniles live here. There are no youngsters playing on backyard swing sets. The sidewalks boast no chalk drawings of a hopscotch design done by grade schoolers. No teenagers are gathered on a driveway shooting baskets through a hoop attached to the garage roof. Few are walking or riding bikes to school. Instead, Durand has a traffic jam about 8:15 every morning and 3:15 every afternoon as parents drive their offspring to and from the large, brick building.

Yesterday was April Fool’s Day. The best one I’ve seen on television is a farmer filling his planter boxes with miniature marshmallows.

Did you fall for any sculduggery?

The corner cupboard in our kitchen holds dishes and glassware that we use for company meals plus several keepsakes.

A candy jar in the back of the top shelf was our gift to Mary and her second husband, Mark, for their marriage. Mary was my mother’s best friend since they were girls and consequently, my honorary aunt who always fussed over me. She was also my boss when I worked at the Rockford office of the U.S. Department of Agriculture before I was married. She gave the container back to me shortly before she died. Her parting words when I left her apartment at the end of my last visit were, “Tell Kenny to keep his shoes shined.” She wanted my husband to serve as one of her pall bearers.

On the middle shelf sits a tea pot Doris gave me shortly before she passed away. From the time she was diagnosed with scleroderma, a fatal disease, she knew her time was limited. I had grown up wanting to be just like my older cousin.

Next to it, is a small bowl and ladle that belonged to Aunt Marion, one of Dad’s three sisters. She and her husband, Raymond, lived in the Milwaukee suburbs and were thought of as “the rich relatives.” A cousin who was settling her estate passed it along to me.

Those three women had no children of their own so they took a special interest in other people’s offspring.

The bottom shelf seems to be reserved for grandparents. A cake plate that belonged to my grandmother, Jessie Tschabold, sits to the left. One of my cousins gave it to me after Grandma’s death.

It is joined by items from Ken’s grandfather, Eugene Ditzler. He spent his adult life operating a drug store in Davis. In the middle stands a brick from that building that bears a painting of the establishment. On the right is one of the candy dishes that sat in a glass covered counter displaying such varieties as malted milk balls and chocolate stars that could be bought for pennies clutched in the hands of children.

What are your keepsakes?

On March 20, 2019, with the help of our son, Kurt, (I’m fortunate to have my own ‘techie’ on call) I posted my first blog, EXAMPLES, about older women I had admired when I was in my thirties. This is #304.

I don’t want it to be a gripe session although, once in a while, I air one of my complaints. I also don’t intend to be political–there are plenty of those. I just want people to join me in looking at our everyday lives.

I chose the name lolita-s-bigtoe.com. because as a senior citizen, I’m constantly testing the sea of change. I’ve taken part in massive innovations. For example, both Ken and I carry smart phones. When we were dating, our households each had one telephone tied to a party line. Uncle Bobbie made no secret that he sometimes “rubbered” to our conversations. When he saw me, he teased me about what he’d overheard.

As a young mother, I had no inkling I could become a writer. In 1969, after our three children were in school, I started looking for a part-time job and answered an ad in the Rockford Morning Star. I started reporting to the area daily newspaper about village board meetings, school board meetings and other events in our Durand community. Up to that point, my idea of a journalist was a smart-mouthed guy like I’d seen in the movies.

I enjoyed the work and was devastated thirteen years later when the newspaper dropped their part-time help. At writers’ conferences, I had learned about freelancing articles for magazines and decided to give it a try. I had success publishing stories with several periodicals for women, farmers and police officers.

I belonged to several writers’ groups and attended seminars to learn more about the craft. When my mother died and I had access to her diaries, it seemed logical to write a book about our seven-year courtship. Most memoirs seemed to be about abuse–I wanted to show people caring for one another. A lot of stories were set during the war years of the forties and the wild sixties but the fifties were ignored. When anyone thinks of that era, the TV program, “Happy Days” or the movie, “Grease” comes to mind. I wanted to take people beyond those city limits to the rural areas where life on the family dairy farms revolved around milking the cows every morning and evening. Four years ago, Adelaide Books published my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” It’s still available from Amazon.

My blog allows me to continue as a wordsmith without needing an editor’s approval. It gives me something to do every morning. Writing consists of rewriting–my first thoughts are mundane and word choice lacks creativity.

I’m grateful that people read my blog because that’s what it’s all about–communication.

Some of my fondest memories include goofs, those silly mistakes that often end with a good laugh.

I was on the phone with a friend who started telling me about their visit to see their little, great-granddaughter the day before. When she began to describe where the family lived in North Prairie, Wisconsin, I interrupted her. I knew exactly where the village was located, although I hadn’t been there in seventy years.

After our conversation, my mind replayed that long ago incident. During the fifties, while Ken was serving in the navy, my cousin, Doris, and I did a lot of things together. She was fourteen years older than I, so Mom trusted her to watch out for me. Our age difference seemed to shrink–we were just two young women having fun. On that particular summer Sunday after church, we went to Edgerton, Wisconsin, to see our mothers’ Aunt Maggie and Uncle Martin, who had built a retirement cottage on Lake Koshkonong. After visiting and enjoying lunch, Doris and I donned our bathing suits and walked down to the water. She tried to teach me to swim but it was too little too late. It started to rain, so we dressed and left. When we came to Highway 59 on our way home, it reminded us that this was the last day of the Green County Fair. Maybe it wasn’t raining in Monroe– she turned onto the highway. When it seemed like we’d driven long enough to be close to the city, we came to the village of Eagle, which neither of us had heard of. Then we entered North Prairie, another unknown. Doris stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. The attendant opened a state map and moved his finger to the right instead of to the left. We were nearing Milwaukee–she had turned the wrong way on the highway. With the overcast, we had no sun to orient us. We laughed, turned around and headed toward home.

Do you have any happy memories of goofs?

I don’t see folks chewing gum. It used to be quite the rage. A country song was even written about it, “Does the Spearmint Lose Its Flavor (on the Bedpost Overnight?”) People would stash their gum when they planned on chewing it again later.

They disposed of it in various places. You might step on some while walking along a sidewalk. Diners tucked their cuds under restaurant tables. To eat popcorn, movie-goers deposited theirs below theater seats.

Teachers banned gum from classrooms. If she caught a student with a stick in their mouth, it immediately meant a trip to the wastebasket.

When I was growing up, bubble gum was quite popular. Some professional, baseball players replaced their “plug” of chewing tobacco with bubble gum.

When Ken and I were dating, men’s shirts had two chest pockets. He carried a package of Doublemint in one and a pack of Pall Malls in the other.

Chewing gum can be traced back to civilization worldwide, but the modernization and commercialization of this product mainly took place in the United States. In the 1800s, the New England settlers picked up the practice from the First Americans who chewed resin made from the sap of spruce trees.

Modern chewing gum was first developed in the 1860s when chicle was brought from Mexico to New York to be used as a rubber substitute. It did not succeed as a replacement for rubber but Thomas Adams cut it into strips and marketed it as chewing gum. American GIs serving in WWII extended its popularity worldwide.

In the U.S., chewing gum experienced a decline in popularity in the early 21st century as it lost its association with counterculture and teenage rebelliousness.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, people were less concerned about bad breath and there were fewer impulse purchases at the checkout counter. Sales fell about 30 percent.

Did you ever chew gum?

I never realize how much of my time is spent readying meals until I started thinking about it. Breakfast at our house is a do-it-yourself project because we don’t rise at the same time and like different things. The preparation of our lunches and suppers is ingrained in my routine so I’ve never realized how much effort they take. I do get a reprieve because I make a lot of soups and casseroles. With just the two of us, they last from, “It’s been a while since we’ve had this,” to “This again?”

With quite a repertoire of things we like to eat, what will I choose? Usually, I check the refrigerator to see what ingredients are left over from other recipes before outlining my menu. One day, I saw onion, celery, green pepper, sour cream and peas in the freezer compartment. I’ve never memorized recipes–just remember which book or box to look for the instructions. All I would need to make 7 Layer Salad was a head of lettuce and grated cheddar cheese. Anything goes with that, so it was easy to complete my meal plan. I made a list of what I needed from the grocer. We are fortunate to have a store here in the village so the trip took about a half-hour. The preparation may take an hour or more. When my energy is lacking, I know a couple recipes that don’t take much push.

Once in a while, something I plan to make requires an ingredient that our local store doesn’t carry such as the German chocolate I use for birthday cakes. I have to plan ahead and add it to my list for an out-of-town shopping trip. I don’t bake like I used to–our diets don’t need the goodies.

Preparing and eating meals at home, always makes dirty dishes so clean-up is necessary. I’ve always liked to cook but washing pots, pans and plates is not on my list of fun things to do.

Do you do much cooking?

Yesterday would have been Linda’s 65th birthday–definitely making our oldest child a senior citizen, but she died of a fast-spreading breast cancer in 2008 when she was 48 years old. The death of a child is considered a parent’s worst nightmare but it was different for Ken and me. We could also see it as a blessing because we were in our seventies and still caring for Linda, who would never be an independent adult.

In the beginning, we didn’t notice anything wrong with Linda. When she started first grade in 1966, the teacher recommended that she be tested by the school psychologist who termed her retarded. Later that year, she had her first epileptic seizure at school. An MRI showed she had brain damage from an unknown origin. Medication controlled those episodes. None of the special education classes worked for our daughter. When she turned sixteen, the school officials recommended she quit school and we agreed.

Linda was physically healthy and I expected her to continue into her nineties. As our three children were entering middle-age, Lisa, who is fourteen months younger, complained, “Linda doesn’t even have gray hair.”

When I turned seventy, I knew I should start looking for a place for our daughter to live when we were no longer able to handle the responsibility. According to news items, the residential homes all had waiting lists. I didn’t want her sister and brother to be burdened after we were gone.

I had been hiring part-time caretakers for years but they were my choice. I hated to think about turning our daughter over to strangers. From time to time, there were reports that the staff was abusive at one of those places. The parents could do nothing because they had relinquished the guardianship of their child.

Linda will always be part of our family. A teddy bear made from her pink T-shirt and adorned with her Girl Scout memorabilia sits on the family room davenport as a reminder.

How have you coped with loss?

Friday is Valentine’s Day. We each have a mental list of those we love. My compilation is headed by my husband, Ken. Songs are written about young love, and I remember the thrill of our first date, first kiss and first “I love you.” But we are experiencing the joy of old love with its contentment and satisfaction including dates, kisses and “I love you.”

One of the sayings posted on our refrigerator is “The most romantic love story isn’t Romeo and Juliet who died together…But Grandpa and Grandma who grow old together.”

Our love story began with a Ferris wheel ride when Ken was sixteen and I was fourteen. We matured separately and together by the time we married when Ken was 23 and I was 21. We take pride in the family we’ve created and enjoy their company often.

Both of us are in fairly good health but we share the limitations imposed by pushing ninety. Each of us has survived a serious illness and cope with those impositions, too.

At times we verbally disagree. I don’t subscribe to the adage, “Never go to bed mad.” I can nurse a good pout for several days. There have even been a few times during the past decades that each of us felt like walking out the door but we had no place to go so we made amends.

Ken is retired from law enforcement and I have always worked at home, whether for pay from a part-time job or the fringe benefits of being a housewife. We are usually together 24/7, but we continue to pursue our separate interests. When we are apart, such as when my husband and our son, Kurt, spend a week in April fishing at Kentucky Lake, I ‘m excited when I know he’s on his way home.

Who are your valentines?

I sat down at a table in Panera’s to eat a bowl of soup for lunch. The woman seated across the aisle complimented my sweatshirt. I was flattered because it’s my favorite, a farm scene at night. I immediately decided she and the man across from her must be farmers going by their clothes and suntans. I had grown up in a rural home and was familiar with the look.

Whenever we encounter someone new, we start pigeonholing them, putting them in familiar categories, but there are many differences in people. Standing on a busy, city street corner is an eyeopener to how diverse individuals are. Yet, many statics are reported by groups such as percentage of men and women or Black, Hispanic and white or those under thirty and those over sixty-five. For example, looking at my husband, Ken, a retired county deputy, and Warren Buffet, an investor and philanthropist, who were both born in the 1930s, I see various characteristics but, in a survey, they would be lumped together as old, white men.

During the feminist movement of the seventies, I argued with several guys at various parties that girls are not born knowing certain things–we are taught “women’s work.” For my generation, it began with Christmas presents of baby dolls, small brooms and toy stoves. It continued when females contemplated attending college either to become nurses or school teachers.

We each have certain innate abilities. A few guitar lessons can start a child with a musical talent strumming away. A sibling with a “tin ear” hits many sour notes.

A couple years ago our family doctor sent me to a specialist. I was unhappy with my session with the new physician because I felt he was talking to his stereotype of “a little, old lady” instead of listening to me.

Have you ever met someone who turned out to be a much different person than you had pigeonholed them to be?

CARPENTERS

Two carpenters have made our house the home we enjoy. In October of 1966, when Ken became a Winnebago County deputy, we needed a new place to live. We wanted to raise our family in Durand but there were no ‘for sale’ signs. Through the grapevine, we learned that Ernie and his wife, Audrey, friends of my parents, had bought the place at the corner of Howard and Fremont Streets to remodel and resell. We talked to them and obtained the Durand State Bank’s commitment to a mortgage so we could purchase one of the oldest, two-story houses in the village. The three-bedroom residence was ideally located–two blocks from the school, two blocks from our church and two blocks from the downtown. Ken would drive our car to Rockford for work every day so our three kids and I would be walking to do our activities. We moved in the day before Ken started his new job.

A few years later, Ken wanted a two-car garage. We talked to Ernie about the project. I asked if he could include a family room in between our residence and the new structure making it about nine feet wide like the kitchen. He said it wouldn’t cost a lot more to make it the same dimension as the garage length, twenty-four feet. Through the years, we’ve appreciated the larger room.

From time to time, we needed small, remodeling projects and hired various carpenters who were available.

In 2011, we needed a big update. We engaged Jim, who had grown up in our neighborhood and recently completed an addition for our son. He worked alone and Ken, who was retired, sometimes helped him. The two men figured out that our washer and dryer, which had always sat in the basement, would fit on a remodeled, back porch. I argued against the move but the fellows reminded me, “You’re not getting any younger.” They were right–with the machines on the main floor, it doesn’t take much effort to do our laundry. I’m glad they insisted on the change,

Jim also made one of my long-term ideas an actuality. After our family room was completed, I used a paint-by-number outline to add a western mural to one wall. I had always envisioned Ken’s toy train from his childhood added to the backdrop, but I needed an elevated, wooden, railroad bridge to hold it. I talked to Jim about the project and he made just what I wanted.

Have you ever had a carpenter’s skills turn your dreams into reality?