lolita-s-bigtoe.com

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?

This week, strains of the song, “Easter Parade,” run through my mind. In a bygone day, I would have been shopping for a new bonnet to wear Sunday. The church I attended didn’t require women to cover their head but I liked wearing a chapeau.

I enjoy 1940 movies showing the men wearing hats. I think the headgear makes them more attractive. I recently watched the movie, “The Sting,” on TV. In my eyes, fedoras enhanced my favorite actors, Paul Newman and Robert Redford.

When I went to work as an office clerk right after high school in the ’50s, business attire was required. Every day, I wore a skirt and blouse during warm weather and changed my top to a sweater during the colder months. Nylon stockings with a seam up the back of each leg and leather shoes completed my outfit.

During the ’60s, young people convinced the older generation that it didn’t matter how you looked as long as you could do the job. Does the idiom, “clothes make the man,” still apply? Today, there’s a sea of suits in the U.S. Senate except for Pennsylvania’s John Fetterman (D) whose usual garb is shorts and a hoodie.

When camping became a popular, summer, family vacation, churches located near the tent cities relaxed their standards for attire. This trend has crept far and wide. Today, I’m surprised to see what people wear to a house of worship. I’m from the era of Sunday best.

Company manners were also assumed with our good clothes. I wonder if our easing dress standards has also relaxed behavior demands. There seems to be less respect among individuals. The term “road rage” has made me more cautious as a driver. I don’t want to inadvertently tick off another motorist.

Do you have multiple wardrobes or just one?

Some companies collect public ratings for the president of the United States but approval is something we all crave.

In January, I sought professional validation of my writing by submitting four of my 2025 blogs to the Illinois Woman’s Press Association annual contest. I just received the results: LINDA – 1st place and will be submitted to the National Federation of Press Women competition; BIRTHDAY – 3rd place; and honorable mentions for INCHES and WORRY. I am so pleased. Since 1984, I have belonged to the two organizations, which are about as old as I am.

During the months of May and June, thousands of tee-shirts will be sold proclaiming “Best Mom” and Best Dad.” Although as parents, we often butt heads while our youngsters are growing up, we still hope for their esteem.

When our family enjoys a holiday dinner at our house, I like to hear compliments about the meal that Grandpa and I have taken days to prepare but is consumed in about an hour.

Many of the residents of our community devote time to worthy projects. For example, school board members serve without pay. When I was covering their monthly, 8:00 p.m. meetings to report to the Rockford Morning Star, the members often went into a closed session after a couple hours. I was excluded and went home to bed but they might continue discussing clandestine issues until midnight.

At community churches, the organists may be regarded as part of the furnishings. She or he has spent years practicing besides showing up each Sunday morning to provide the necessary music.

Meeting a significant other’s parents is a big time of hoping for approval. Ahead of time, many hours are spent considering the questions, “What will I wear? What will I say?”

It isn’t just adults that seek acceptance. If a student has to change schools, their biggest question is, “Will I find new friends?”

How have you acquired approval?

By the time a person becomes a senior citizen, a lot of people have crossed their path. Memories of family and close friends come to mind often–thoughts of others are stirred by an odd word or gesture.

One area of our front hallway has turned into Tracy corner. Our first ride on the Ferris Wheel was instigated by Ken’s longtime buddy, Wayne, who seven years later served as best man at our wedding. He and his wife, Gloria, were our pals until their deaths. A wooden, corner-shelf inscribed “Home Sweet Home” was their present for our 40th anniversary. The large, artificial plant sitting on the floor was sent by the family for the funeral of our daughter, Linda. A banner hanging on the wall says, “Friends are like quilts…treasures and comforts,” and was their gift.

A recent posting on Facebook of a photo of the Durand 1st grade class of 1967 – 1968 that included our daughter, Lisa, and our neighbor, Lester, reminded me of the years Sherill and her sons, Junior, Lester and Paul, were our fast friends after our family moved into the village in 1966. The boys were similar in age to our Linda, Lisa and Kurt and lived in the same block. The group played outside whenever they weren’t in school.

Sherrill’s husband, Ronnie, worked second shift in a Rockford factory and Ken often put in similar hours. During our quiet evenings after our children were in bed, Sherrill and I competed in many games of Scrabble.

Not all people I remember played a large part in my life. To me, it’s amazing the ones that come to mind when I hear a certain word or see a specific movement. The other morning while I was finishing breakfast, Ken left for a doctor’s appointment. As he was going out the back door, he waved and said, “Bye.”

I responded with, “Bye,” and lifted the index finger of my left hand because I was holding my toast. The gesture reminded me of Gladys Bliss. For many years, she ran a grocery store here in Durand and was active in the community. She was also the mother of twin boys who were classmates of Ken’s. Any time she was driving along village streets and met someone, she always waved by lifting only her index finger.

What are your memories of various people?

As long as I can remember, books have fascinated me–beginning when my mother read to me and continuing as I sit down with one each evening before I go to bed.

Every morning, I solve the cryptoquote in the Rockford Register Star. A recent quote by Laura Bush was, “A good book is like an unreachable itch you just can’t leave alone.”

Years ago, when I was engrossed in a book and Ken thought I should be taking care of household chores, he threatened, “My next wife isn’t going to be able to read.” He’s still keeping me around.

One of my first favorites was “The Little Engine that Could,” by Watty Piper. It’s the story of a little blue train that helps deliver toys and food after a larger engine refuses. Despite feeling small and unsure she chants, “I think I can,” while climbing a mountain proving that determination and hard work can overcome obstacles. It still comes to mind when I prove to myself that I’m not too old to complete a task.

After I entered school and completed the adventures of Dick and Jane, I discovered Albert Payson Terhune’s writings about his collie dogs.

In high school, the first adult story I read was Margaret Mitchell’s “Gone with the Wind.” I liked how a novel could transport me from my mundane life across time and space to another time and place with exciting people.

When I’m reading and get interrupted, a bookmark always allows me to resume where I left off.

I’ve found that I don’t perfectly say some of the words that have entered my vocabulary because I’ve only read them and not heard them in conversation. Years ago, I learned the correct pronunciation of cacophony at a writers’ group I attended.

I usually read murder mysteries instead of the latest best sellers. After I’ve read them, I donate them to a used book shop at the library instead of accumulating them on a shelf.

I belong to a book club so once a month I read something that I wouldn’t otherwise know about. It’s fascinating to hear what others think about the same story.

Do you enjoy reading?

In March 2019, I started my blog–this is #354. I aim at older women. a fast growing segment of the population. I’ve found some men read what I write, too, which pleases me. My title, lolita-s-bigtoe.com, refers to how, as older people, we are constantly testing the waters of change like a swimmer preparing to dive into the ocean. My comments are limited from 300 to 500 words because of people’s short attention span.

Each Wednesday, my subject is whatever crosses my mind. Since I learned to talk, one of my favorite words has been “why.” Any time I find myself seeking an answer, I think maybe some of my contemporaries have wondered about the same thing. I try to educate my readers to the point of saying, “I didn’t know that.” From time to time, I share my frustrations with our changing society; or comment on my day-to-day. I hope to encourage others to think about their own lives. According to Socrates, a polarizing Greek Philosopher in 399 B.C., an unexamined life is not worth living.

When I started covering Durand school board and village board meetings for the daily Rockford Morning Star, I didn’t have time to rewrite my articles before the 10:00 p.m., phone-in deadline. I left that up to my editor. One of the first things I learned when I started preparing newspaper features and magazine stories was that the most time is spent rewriting. In-active verbs and cliches spring to my mind first. Maybe while I’m washing our lunch dishes, I’ll think of the exact word I’m looking for.

These essays allow me to continue to use the skills I have honed since 1969, when I became a freelancer submitting articles to area newspapers or national periodicals devoted to women, farmers or police officers. For many years, I’ve spent my mornings writing. At first, I sat at the portable typewriter my parents had bought as a Christmas gift when I was a high schooler. Eventually, I progressed to a computer. My modernization has been possible because I have my own, personal techie on call, also known as our son, Kurt.

Are you learning new skills to keep up with our changing society?

I think there is nothing that we are more critical of than one another’s driving. Men seem to think they have a corner on the skill because they were the first motorists. My dad had an eye disease in middle age that made it impossible for him to pass the eye test for a driver’s license. He would agree that Mom was a good driver but it was obviously a blow to his manhood to be the rider.

In my mother’s generation, she was part of a very small minority when she quit riding her horse to school and began propelling a ’29 Dodge from their farm to attend classes at Durand High where she was a senior.

By the time I took Drivers’ Education at the same high school during my junior year, all of the girls as well as the boys in the class took the elective course. Each of us wanted to be ready to pass the test required to obtain a state driver’s license when we turned sixteen.

Our school bus drivers were men. Today, when I meet the yellow vehicles on the road, I notice most of the people behind the steering wheels are women. Automatic transmissions plus power steering and power brakes have made buses and trucks easier to handle.

I’m sure my skills remain intact because I must pass a state required eye test and a driving test to annually renew my license. Illinois is the only state in the union to require this of its elderly.

There is probably a reason the righthand front side of a vehicle is called the passenger seat. The word begins the same way as passive, which is defined as accepting or allowing what happens or what others do, without active response or resistance. This could mean the rider does not make derogatory remarks or gestures such as stomping an imaginary brake when someone else is behind the wheel.

Do you enjoy driving?

On this day sixty-six years ago, I became a mother. It’s a good thing there was no qualification test because I’d never have passed. Ken had more experience with a child than I did–he’d babysat his oldest niece, Judy, when he was a teenager. I knew nothing about little ones because I’ve been an only child and never a babysitter. I was afraid of babies. I’d never held an infant until I held my own.

The only preparation I had was buying and absorbing “Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care,” the current handbook for parents.

After three days in the hospital, Daddy brought Linda and me home from Monroe. My mother, who lived about three miles away, came to help me cook formula made from evaporated milk, Karo syrup and water; bathe Linda in the kitchen sink and change cloth diapers fastened with two, huge safety pins and covered with plastic pants. The used ones were stored in a covered pail soaking in water and bleach until there was a washer load.

The next morning, when I opened my eyes in our upstairs bedroom and it was light, I realized Linda hadn’t woken up during the night for the 2 a.m. feeding. I quickly checked our daughter, who was sleeping in a basket beside our bed, to make sure she was breathing.

Her glass bottles stayed in the refrigerator. I had a small, electric warmer that I kept on the upstairs, bathroom windowsill to use during the night. During the day, I heated each one in a pan of water on the stove. To make sure the contents were the right temperature for baby, I squirted it on the inside of my wrist.

Mom returned many times to help me through the stressful days of caring for our little girl. Luckily, Linda was a good baby who slept a lot.

Our needed furniture had been gathered from relatives. The metal crib in the small, upstairs, nursery had been Uncle Hookie’s baby bed. The bathinette and the playpen sitting in our living room belonged to Ken’s sister, Lola Mae. Most of Linda’s baby clothes had been worn by her cousins, the six Gaffney kids.

When I began to feel confident that I knew what I was doing, I realized we would soon have a second child. Lisa was born the following April. Caring for two wasn’t much different than doing for one. Kurt came along, two years later. With three babies in four years, I became adept at child care.

Were you experienced with children when you became a parent?

We think of love during February because stores are pushing Valentine’s Day sales. But not everybody has a satisfying relationship–some people endure unrequited affection.

I sometimes wonder if we would have country music, which always tells a story, if it wasn’t for heartbreak. Whenever I ride in the truck with Ken, “Willie’s Roadhouse” plays on the radio because we’re fans of the classics that were popular during our younger days. A lot of the tunes relate a man’s misery. One of my favorites is George Jones singing “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” It took the fellow’s death to end his affection for a woman who was no longer his one and only. It isn’t so much the song but the memory it evokes. It was popular in the summer of 1980 when I had histoplasmosis and my left lung was surgically removed.

Dolly Parton wrote “Jolene” in 1973 and it was her first smash, solo hit. I think that song is ridiculous. One woman begs another, “Please don’t take my man just because you can.” I only want a man who loves me through all happenings of life. I expect him to stick with me when I look a wreck or am unlovable. If he’s tempted by a prettier face, a lither figure or a sunnier manner. I don’t want him–she is welcome to him.

I think there seem to be few songs like “You Are My Sunshine” written by Jimmie Davis in 1940 that extol a loved one in a person’s life. I guess we share sadness quicker than we share happiness.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to love someone who doesn’t love me in return. I’ve been fortunate to have the same guy in my life since I was fourteen. We’ve gone from teenage crush to old age satisfaction.

Have you suffered heartbreak during your lifetime?