Author: admin

Yesterday, I went to Rockford for a dental appointment. As I drove along Illinois Route 70, which runs between Durand and Rockford, I wondered how many times in my life I had travelled that concrete road. I have always lived in the Durand area and Rockford has been my main shopping area and the Winnebago County seat for legal business. The road sign just south of the mile-corner reads 18 miles to the city but I always figure half-an-hour to get where I want to go. Years ago, the business area shifted from downtown to the east side, making it take longer to reach the stores.

My first trip would have been when I was ten days old–Dad brought Mom and me home from the Rockford Memorial Hospital where I was born. At that time, women were kept in the institution for ten days after giving birth.

Many of the trips were routine, but some have been memorable. I was four years old when we went to Dad’s surprise party for his 29th birthday. Mom and I shared a secret and a blanket over our legs to keep warm on a December evening in our coupe driving to our friends, Charlie and Aline’s apartment in the city.

I remember the speedy trip home after eating hamburgers at Tuckwood’s restaurant after my first prom date with Kenny. The two of us were in the back seat, when our friend, Wayne, who was driving his father’s Ford, was trying to beat my 2 a.m. curfew, but it was 2:15 when he pulled into our gravel driveway.

I spent four years making the trip five days a week when I worked at the U.S. Department of Agriculture office before I was married.

I’m not sure if 70 is a rut or a path to adventure. In the 1980s, I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association. Their camaraderie and contests assured me that journalism was my calling. The meetings were always held in the Chicago area. Seventy was only the beginning of my journey.

What paths has your life taken?

Sunday is Mother’s Day, a special time to honor the women who gave us life and have been a big influence. Although my mother passed away more than twenty years ago, her voice is still in my head. I can’t leave the house without going to the bathroom and getting a drink just like I was admonished as a child.

Mom. she never wanted to be called Mother or Ma, taught me many things but probably the most valuable was to be myself. When I was a teenager, Mom said, “No,” to a lot of my requests. It did no good to argue, “But everybody else can.”

Her response was always, “You’re not everybody else.”

My mother’s example also led to my being a tomboy, a term used during the forties and fifties for a girl who dressed and behaved more like a boy. Mom showed me that a woman could wear pants and work on the farm beside a man all week but on Saturday night, she donned a dress and high heels to dance with her husband.

I was prepared to be a housewife when I married Ken because Mom had trained me to cook meals, clean the house plus wash and iron clothes.

When I became a mother, Mom taught me to make formula, change a diaper and give a baby a bath in a kitchen sink. After our family included three children, my friends envied me because my folks were often over-night, babysitters when Ken and I wanted to go out with other adults. My parents thought of it as enjoying their only grandchildren.

A time came in our lives when roles were reversed–I cared for my mother. I was fortunate to have her in my life until she turned ninety and I was sixty-five.

How were you influenced by your mother?

It was the end of a grueling day when I was a farmer’s wife and the mother of three small children and I was contemplating an event to attend in the evening. As I thought about the effort it would take for me to get ready and show up, Carson Robison’s twenty-year old recording, “Life Gits Tee-Jus, Don’t it,” popped into my mind. The lines that fit my situation were: “My shoes untied but I don’t care, I ain’t figurin’ on goin’ nowhere, For I’d have to wash and comb my hair, and that’s just wasted effort.” I added. “and be sociable,” which for an introvert like me takes energy, too. Many times, since that day I’ve asked myself, “Is attending the gathering worth it?”

We don’t have a way to measure personal energy like industry uses ergs and dynes. (I knew taking a physics class in high school would come in handy someday.) As I age, I notice how much effort various tasks require such as taking a shower and dressing for the day. I know it’ll take me about half-an-hour but I have no way to estimate the exertion it requires or how much vitality I have.

When I was younger, I never thought about how much energy I had. I walked most places I was going around town. Before making a trip to the grocery store, I evaluated what I needed. Could I carry all of the items six blocks home or did I need to take the car? Now I drive the car for all errands.

For some time, I’ve had a saying on our refrigerator, “The less I do, the less I can do.” I firmly believe that. Yet, I find myself sitting more than I really want to. “Maybe I’ll do tomorrow,” has become my mantra.

Do you lack energy to do what you want to?

In this throw-away age, everyone is urged to recycle.. We have a separate can for it that is set out each week for pick-up with the garbage. It’s good advice but it can backfire.

Recently, I ordered two jars of raspberry salsa that we like from the Galena Canning Company. When they arrived, the glass jars were wrapped in scads of insulation to ensure that they wouldn’t break enroute. Ken proceeded to remove the paper and plastic with his knife. I didn’t pay any attention to where he put the bottles.

The following day, I bought some corn chips in the store. At lunch time, I took one of the two bottles with a Galena label from the refrigerator and asked my husband to open it. We ate some of the salsa and commented that it had a different texture and tasted different than we remembered. The next day, we had the same lunch. Ken observed, “This tastes a lot like the barbecue sauce I make.”

The next morning, I checked our pantry to see if I had any more strawberry preserves because the jar I used for breakfast was getting low. As I scanned the shelves, I saw two bottles of raspberry salsa, right where Ken had put them when he opened the package. The jars in the refrigerator that I thought were salsa were Ken’s barbecue sauce.

My husband is a fixer who saves everything used or broken because someday, it might come in handy. When he made his last batch of barbecue sauce, he put it in old pint jars with a Galena Canning Company label without marking them. We had been eating his sauce as salsa. I used a marker to put a big K on both of them.

The next time we ate lunch; I opened one of the new jars of salsa. It was the same as we remembered.

Do you recycle?

Tomorrow, we’ll observe sixty-six years of marriage. In the evening, we’ll have supper at Merrill and Houston’s in Beloit. It’s that once-a-year occasion when Ken puts on his suit and I don my only dress.

The best part of our life together is the family we’ve created. We cherish our children, grandchildren and those who have married into our clan.

In some ways, it doesn’t seem that long ago that Dad escorted me down the Trinity Lutheran Church aisle to the altar where Ken and I repeated the traditional vows, “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish until death us do part.” During the 24,106 days we’ve been together, we’ve lived those promises that we renewed in front of the same altar in a new church as part of the celebration of our Golden Anniversary.

There have been many changes from those beginning days when we settled down on the farm where Ken worked as his brother-in-law’s hired man. I followed the norm of the time and was a housewife who became a mother. Seven years and three kids later, Ken took off his coveralls and replaced them with a Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police uniform. We moved from the house that belonged to the farm to the home we bought in the village of Durand.

A few things still serve us. We sleep in the same bed and store our underthings in the same drawers. When I cook a meal, I use the copper-bottomed, stainless-steel pots and pans that were wedding gifts. A few squirts of Pam and they are as easy to clean as the modern, nonstick varieties.

We realize how fortunate we are to still be together and in pretty good health. Ken is retired from law enforcement. I hope to never quit writing. My husband has said he never heard of a housewife retiring so I’ll continue to prepare our meals and do the other little things that make up my days.

Although, we’re both home most of the time, we aren’t always together. During the warm part of the year, Ken takes care of the outside work including mowing the lawn and gardening.

We have two TV sets–one is in the family room, which Ken sits in his recliner and watches. The other is in the living room across from my rocker. The kitchen is between the two rooms so the sounds don’t clash. Years ago, when there were only three stations available, we always agreed on the programs to watch but with more than 200 options via cable, we have different tastes.

I’m thankful for that bold, sixteen-year-old guy who started our life together with the words, “Would you care to ride the Ferris wheel?”

For many years, April sent people to stores to buy new Easter outfits to wear to church that Sunday. Pews would be crowded because for some, it was time for their annual pilgrimage.

Most of us follow the latest styles. If we look at old photographs, we see how fashion has evolved

Occasions sometimes play a part in what we choose. There are special mother-of-the-bride dresses. It was obvious that some of these were dragged out of the closet for a second wearing when I attended a formal dinner that required a long gown.

Age and peer approval are also components. A friend who’s in her twenties stopped for a visit recently. It’s hard for me to believe she paid a higher price for her blue jeans that had ragged holes in the legs. When I see a young woman with a metal ring in her nose, all I can think of are pigs on the farm. Dad put rings in the animals’ noses so they wouldn’t dig under the fence.

Most of us follow the looks set by the famous who are pictured on TV or in publications. Younger women have long hair reaching the middle of their back. Many older women are wearing the short style popularized by Angela Lansbury who appeared in TV’s “Murder She Wrote” during the 90’s. I recently changed stylists and brought along a picture I’d clipped from a magazine of Helen Mirren, an older actress, with a coif I liked.

I’m glad straight hair is the norm and permanents have fallen out of favor. At least once a year beginning when I was four years old, I sat in a beauty parlor for that time consuming, stinky process so my stubbornly, straight hair would curl. For several years, I’ve been freed of that torture.

Guys follow styles as much as women. A few years ago, men were wearing turtle-neck, knit shirts with their sport coats. A particular shade of brown called cognac is popular for men’s shoes. I often have trouble recognizing friends because many have a variety of beards.

What is your style?

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?