lolita-s-bigtoe.com

Dad named me Lolita. Any time I displeased my mother when I was growing up, she knew the reason for my misbehavior–I’m just like my father.

I don’t know if that statement was supposed to make me feel bad, but it secretly elated me because he was my knight in shining armor. He always had time for me when I was small. When he was going to the neighbor’s or town, he would wait while Mom washed my face and combed my hair so I was presentable to go along.

Dad was ahead of his time with his attitude that males and females were equals. He and Mom were partners and he didn’t expect me to do only “girl” things.

On a family dairy farm in the 40’s and 50’s, there were many child=sized jobs. I loved helping Dad. I could sprinkle a cow’s pile of ground oats with molasses, use a small pail of milk to feed the calf he was raising to replenish the herd and hold the gunny sack while he used a scoop shovel to fill it with oats to take to the Davis mill to be ground into feed for the animals.

Our dogs and horses were part of our family. Dad had tears in his eyes when he came in from the pasture to tell Mom and me that his horse, Mickey, had been struck by lightnining.

When I was a teen-ager, he and I each drove a tractor pulling a wagon load of oats to the Davis mill.

I was thrilled when my friend, Mary, said, “I always thought your dad was a handsome man.”

Dad was my role-model for choosing a husband and father of my fututre children. He gave his seal of approval to my boyfriend with the words, “Ken’s a gentleman.”

What are your favorite memories of your father?

Our kitchen table is the center of our household. The rooms in our home are arranged so that we have a dining area in the kitchen. For holiday dinners, our family is small enough that we fit around the table after its leaves have been put in place.

When I have paper work to do such as pay bills, I sit at the kitchen table. My desk is littered with my writing materials.

The other day, Ken was meeting with a contractor about the roof we need replaced. The two men sat at the kitchen table to negotiate the deal.

The kitchen table is the right height when I’m doing such things as peeling potatoes. Our countertops are a little too high to be comfortable for me. It also works if I decide to sit on the stool instead of standing to do the chore.

When I get creative and start a craft project, I do it at the kitchen table.

In the days when our kids were in school and the women in our neighborhood were “stay at home moms,” we gathered around our kitchen table to enjoy a cup of coffee while we gossiped.

It was the place to play board games. When we belonged to a 500 club, it was our third card table.

When Ken and I entertained another couple for supper, the wife would sit at the table and chat with me while I put the finishing touches on the meal. Our husbands discussed men things in the living room.

When our children were growing up, Ken and I sat at the ends of the oval and our three sat at the sides. When we became empty nesters, we moved across from one another at the sides so we weren’t so far apart.

Every day, we sit down together for lunch and supper. The rest of the day, we pursue our own interests. Breakfast, we eat separately because Ken’s an early bird and I’m not.

Do you gather around your kitchen table?

A premium is defined as a reward or recognition for a particular act. Several non-profit groups hype on TV that you will receive a t-shirt or a blanket if you send a donation. Seeing the plight of the children they are helping is enough incentive for me.

If your heart goes out to animals who need saving, the organizations supporting them advertise that you will receive a small, stuffed imitation for your donation.

We have received stacks of notepads and return address labels sent with requests for funds to support charities. I only write lists for the grocery store three or four times per week and send less than half-a-dozen letters each month. There ought to be a way to notify the charities I support that I don’t want their offerings but I haven’t found it.

Among the unsolicited gifts we’ve received are insulated bags, gloves and socks. The products aren’t something I use and usually end up in the trash. These things have to be purchased. I would prefer the organizations used their funds for the purpose donated.

Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way. I have noticed many who write letters to the editor in the newspaper include the words, “I know I speak for a lot of people.” I can’t say that. I have found that I’ve become the independent person that my mother raised me to be. While I was growing up, every time I used the excuse, “But everyone else can,” she countered with, “You’re not everybody else.” I don’t need an incentive to donate to a worthy cause but maybe those gifts spur gifts from some people. Perhaps, if I wore the t-shirt I received, it would convince someone else to give.

Would you continue to donate if you didn’t receive a gift for doing so?

You never know when you might need an ambulance.

Late Friday afternoon, April 17, Ken and I were ready to go to Beloit to celebrate our 67th anniversary with supper at the 615 Club. Ken wore his suit and I had donned my good dress. The predicted storm began and we decided to stay home and changed our clothes. I started having trouble breathing, which is scary when I have only one lung. We called the ambulance to take me to the ER at the hospital in Monroe. Ken, Kurt and Lisa followed.

At the ER, they found I had an infection in my lung. I was admitted to the ICU where they treated the malady with an antibiotic and a steroid. By Wednesday, I was ready to go home with Ken to take care of me.

The EMTs that staff the ambulance are trained to deal with a variety of problems. After dealing with this 88-year-old woman having breathing problems, their next call might be a toddler that’s running a high fever. Later that night, they may be called for a drunk who has hit a tree with his car. The man has to be cut out of his vehicle and the EMTs must stabilize his broken bones. While on their way to a hospital, their patient vomits.

From time to time, a call comes in that echoes the TV ad, ” I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” The EMTs go to a residence and lift the person back to their feet.

When Durand first got their ambulance, donated by twin sisters, Gladys Bliss and Grace Thoren, several volunteer firemen took the EMT training and answered the calls for help. Citizens were reluctant to bother the EMTs. That feeling was soon set aside. As the calls increased, the tax-payers approved a referendum and a full-time crew was hired.

Sometimes the neighboring ambulances cover for one another. Although we live a block from the fire station, we might have to wait about ten minutes if our local ambulance already is out on a call and a vehicle comes from a neighboring district.

Have you ever needed the ambulance?

Monday, May 25, is our nation’s observance of Memorial Day, a holiday honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Activities will include flying Old Glory, parades and the American Legion organizations selling artificial, red poppies as a fund raiser. The flower has been a symbol of lives lost since the World War I poem by John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.”

The first commemoration was held three years after the ending of the Civil War (1861 – 1865). General John Logan designated May 30, 1868, as Decoration Day, because it wasn’t the anniversary of any battle. He asked people to strew flowers or otherwise decorate the graves in a nationwide remembrance of his comrades who died in defense of our country during the late rebellion and whose bodies lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. The tradition continued until 1971 when an Act of Congress designated the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, an official federal holiday.

According to the United States Census Bureau, at least 1.2 million people have been killed in battle beginning with the Revolutionary War (1775 – 1783). A few casualties were female, mostly nurses, but the majority were male. Some enlisted in the armed services and others were drafted.

Most of the people were young–just beginning their adult lives. Some weren’t considered mature enough to vote in elections or drink alcohol but they were the right age to fight for our country. Our armed services have standards to meet–only the fit are welcomed.

Many people consider Memorial weekend the unofficial beginning of summer activities. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off for picnics, bar-b-ques and parties. Businesses will conduct sales urging customers to buy big ticket items such as furniture.

I hope everyone will take time to look around and consider, “Was my freedom worth someone’s life?”

The fourth Friday morning of each month, I attend a book club. We each read the same fiction or non-fiction and then discuss it. I am by far the oldest in the group. which usually consists of eight women. The others are probably in their seventies although I don’t know for sure.

The last novel we read was “Churchill’s Secret Messenger” by Alan Hlad about World War II. I was appalled when the others all said they hadn’t studied the conflict when they were in school. For example, they were not familiar with the details of The Holocaust when from 1941 to 1945, Nazi-Germany and its collaborators systematically murdered around six million Jews across Germany occupied Europe, approximately two-thirds of Europe’s Jewish population. The girls had attended a variety of schools in various locations so apparently, at that time, all districts didn’t teach about the hostilities.

I remember the era, although I was only four years old on December 7, 1941, when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and dragged the United States into the battle, which was in progress. Although our country wasn’t invaded, we made sacrifices for the war effort. Every family had members serving in the armed forces. Young women became “Rosie, the Riveters” taking the men’s places working in the factories, which converted from manufacturing products such as cars to war materials.

Some items such as sugar, meat and gasoline were rationed and our government issued coupons that were needed for purchases.

When I was in eighth grade, before we could study WW II, our teacher, Mr. Mulera, who had been a soldier, wrote information about the clash on the blackboard and we copied pages and pages of notebook paper because our text books were too old to contain the data.

Country leaders depend on their citizens to “Remember Pearl Harbor” so the tragedy doesn’t happen again.

Are you familiar with the details of World War II?

Sunday, May 10, will be Mother’s Day. Few people need a special day to think of their mothers. Those women cross our minds many times daily. Most of our habits were instilled by our female parent as we were growing up: we brush our teeth before we go to bed, we put on clean underwear every morning and don’t talk with our mouths full.

If you still have your mother in your life, you’re fortunate. Most of us are making do with memories and photots.

I can take a step back and look at the woman I called Mom. Little Edith was seven years old when her mother died in 1920. Her two much older sisters soon married. Her father raised her and her brother, Lawrence. He died in December 1934 before she and Alex were married February 7, 1935.

Both of my parents were farmers. Mom donned pants, rode a tractor and miled dairy cows twice a day alongside my dad. On Saturday night, she dressed up in a dress, stockings and high heels to dance with her husband.

I am an only child so it was always the three of us working and playing together.

Mom’s watchwords were, “Actions speak louder than words.” I don’t remember hugs, kisses and “I love you,” but I’ve always felt loved. When I married Ken, he felt her affection.

Our three children were able to spend a lot of time with their grandparents. I’m sure it made me a better mother because she gave me a break.

When Kurt married Sandy, she was welcomed by Grandma. Their two children, Katelyn and Jacob, had a chance to know Grandma T.

Our family learned from her to look at the person and to accept and return love in the manner she gave it.

What are your favorite remembrances of your mother?

Today is the birthday of our daughter, Lisa. She becomes eligible for Medicare. It’s hard for me to realize that our children are moving past midddle-age.

Lisa is our middle child but does not fit the definition of middle child syndrome–no one could ever ignore her. In many ways, she substituted for Linda as the oldest, taking charge in my place as our three kids were growing up.

Lisa has always been active. Girls’ athletics in school came along just in time for her to participate. She continues to enjoy sports and belongs to a gym to stay in shape.

During her teen years, I felt like the ad that featured two horned animals butting heads. Independence has served her well as she embarked on a career as one of the first women to join the Illinois State Police.

Since Lisa retired from law enforcement, she has kept busy volunteering. Groups soon learned she is a person that can be depended upon.

Aunt Lisa has been a part of Katelyn’s and Jacob’s lives since they were born. She attended their school events and continues to be involved in their activities. She and her niece are teammates in a women’s volleyball league. Last summer, she and her nephew went sky diving.

All of our family live in the area so we celebrate special occasions together. I have reached the point that I need her help to prepare our holiday dinners.

Lisa continues her robust lifestyle. She rides her motorcycle and belongs to the “Blue Knights,” an international group of active and retired police officers. Every winter, she vacations in Colorado skiing.

When I meet someone who asks, “Are you related to Lisa Ditzler?” I am proud to respond, “I’m her mother.”

Are you watching your children become senior citizens?

Friday will be our 67th anniversary and we’ll celebrate with supper at the 615 Club in Beloit. It’s the same day of the week that we were married. We chose Friday to give us the additional weekend for our honeymoon in New Orleans.

At that time, Mom stated, “My dad always said you don’t begin anything on Friday–it’s bad luck.”

When she drove me from our farm home to Trinity Lutheran Church in Durand at 5:00 p.m. to get dressed for our 7:00 p.m., candlelight ceremony, it was raining, another bad omen. By the time guests began arriving, it had quit.

Ken has said that he decided he would marry me during our first ride on the Ferris wheel at the Davis carnival in the summer of 1952 when he was sixteen. I’m glad he had such determination. My thought at that time was I hope my folks will let me begin dating when I turn fifteen in September.

The two of us are fortunate to have such a long time together. It hasn’t been the fairy tale “happily ever after” but they have been good years. We can look at our family and be proud. We will always wonder how we could have made life better for our oldest, Linda. At least, we were able to care for her all of her life.

There have been times I would have walked out the door but I had nowhere to go. Some of my friends did as their mothers told them and went back home whenever they were peeved at their new husbands. My mother said the opposite, “Remember, you can’t come home again.” It was the best advice she could have given me. Ken has assured me that he faced the same thing. Our only solution has been to make peace after a disagreement.

I don’t have any words of advice other than make sure you marry the right person.

Today would have been the birthday of Ken’s dad, Rolland. I didn’t have long to appreciate my in-laws. They were killed in a car crash October 19. 1962, while driving home from their office jobs in a Rockford factory. Ken and I had been married only three years. Our children have no memories of the pair as grandparents–Linda was only 2, Lisa, 1, and Kurt hadn’t been born.

Hazel and Rolland always made me feel welcome. I met Kenny’s family at the farewell party his parents hosted when he enlisted in the U.S. Navy in July 1954. We were “going steady” so I was considered a serious girlfriend, although I still had another year of high school to complete.

They took me along to the Rockford railroad station on the early Monday morning when Kenny left for Naval Station Great Lakes near Chicago. As we were exiting the car, I overheard Hazel murmuring to her son, “Kiss Lolita last–she’s the most important.”

Kenny’s older sister, Lola Mae, was married to a farmer, Joe, and they had six kids. His younger brother, Tommy, was still living at home. I was learning to be part of a larger family besides just the three of us.

Our marriage was serendipity. My mother and Ken’s mother had been best friends when they were classmates attending Durand High School and graduating with the class of 1930. As often happens when women marry, the two had drifted apart. They were reunited when Ken and I began making wedding plans.

Rolland liked my coffee better than what they drank at home. On the farm, we used well water instead of city water containing chlorine, which made the difference in taste.

One thing I always admired about my mother-in-law was her neat house. Hazel told me, “I don’t like to clean but I like the way it looks when I’m done.”

I hated dusting, vacuuming and mopping. I tried to adopt her philosophy.

Rolland worried about his elderly father who lived in Davis with his second wife. Early in the fall, he remarked, “I don’t think Grandpa Ditzler will make another winter.” Grandpa made several more winters than Rolland did.

Have some members of your family been called home too soon?