Author: admin

In past generations, people just got too old to work. Now, retirement has become a part of life’s plan. My husband and our two kids are retired.

I hope to never quit writing. I would walk away from housework today but my husband says he never heard of a housewife retiring. I haven’t thought of myself as a housewife for many years but those tasks remain. He has taken over some chores.

One of the problems of living to an old age is having those retire whom I’ve counted on for their expertise. With computers, their replacements have easy access to my records but that’s not the same as the person-to-person rapport that existed between us.

The extra work brought about by COVID-19 prompted my dentist to retire. I had known him since our daughter, Linda, was referred to him so we had a long relationship. The buyer of his practice sees me for just a few minutes twice a year. Members of his staff do the work I need. We all remain strangers.

The mechanic I trusted to do the service and needed repairs to my car has retired to easier, part-time employment. I hope the replacement hired by the small-town business owner will continue to do the same thorough job.,

Every six weeks, I looked forward to visiting with my hair stylist while she gave me a cut. She reached the age where standing all day wasn’t what she wanted to continue. A younger person in the salon follows the same pattern–it will take a while to develop the conversation.

I still miss the physician that delivered our three children and helped us raise them. It took a while for my current family doctor and me to get used to each other. I hope he lasts as long as I do. Recently, I had an appointment with a specialist who didn’t know me. I felt he was seeing his stereotype of an octogenarian instead of listening to me.

How do you view you retirement and others?

Monday is the 4th of July. We’ll celebrate the beginning of our country in 1776 and our freedoms.

I am especially concerned with the freedom of the press. At an early age, Mom taught me to keep quiet when the news was on the radio. She knew the times of day that each of the local stations did their broadcasts and she listened to all of them. We subscribed to the area daily paper, Rockford Morning Star, that arrived with our mail. When TV became a fixture in our home, we didn’t go to bed until we’d watched the ten o’clock news.

After I was an adult with kids of my own, I became a freelancer reporting the happenings in the Durand community to the area daily I had read since I was a child. I was surprised when my editor explained the ‘news hole’, the space for news after the advertisements had been laid out for the next day’s edition. I had assumed the size of the paper was determined by the news of the day–instead, it’s the amount of advertising sold. TV broadcasts also rely on sponsors’ dollars.

For thirteen years, I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t always wanted at school board and village board meetings. Their actions affect everyone in the community and I believe in the public’s right to know. Most of our residents subscribed to the newspaper and read my reports.

Journalists exist on all levels. Some risk their lives going where there’s a war such as Ukraine. Others are Washington, D.C., regulars who serve as ‘watch dogs’ on our national government. We may be acquainted with those at the local level.

In this age of the 24-hour news cycle and vast resources, competition for audience and advertiser attention has increased. We are inundated with stories. Although writers are expected to report the facts on both sides of an issue, that isn’t always the case. Some are guided by their personal bias. As consumers of news, we have an obligation to question what we’re seeing and hearing.

Which news sources do you use?

Tomorrow marks fifty years since Title IX of the Education Amendments of 1972 was enacted by Congress and signed into law by President Richard Nixon. It prohibited sex discrimination in any educational program or activity receiving any type of federal financial aid. It brought girls’ competitive sports into high schools just in time for our daughter, Lisa. Three years later, she was a freshman who began participating in girls’ track, volley ball and softball teams. The retired Illinois State Trooper continues to play slow pitch softball and volley ball with women’s recreational league teams.

When I attended the same high school in the 1950s, the Rockford Peaches were playing with the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League but the idea of competitive sports for females hadn’t trickled down. Twenty or thirty of us belonged to the Girls’ Athletic Association that met after school twice a week to play sports among ourselves.

Besides learning to play a game, a girl who is a member of a school team acquires many life-long skills such as leadership, competition and friendship. She establishes priorities and manages her time–practices and games take a chunk out of her day but she still must do her homework and maintain her grades. Dealing with coaches and game officials, she might not always agree, but she respects authority. She makes sacrifices for teammates such as bunting a softball pitch to advance the runner on base knowing she will be out at first but her team will score a run. She ranks her abilities between the star player and the bench-sitter. By the time she enters the adult world, she is ready to take an active part.

In 2002, after the death of Hawaii’s congresswoman, Title IX was renamed the Patsy T. Mink Equal Opportunity in Education Act to honor the bill’s major author. Mink, who was the first Asian-American woman to serve in the legislative body, had been familiar with discrimination.

Have you ever been a member of a competitive sports team?

Sunday will be Father’s Day. I think it’s marvelous that millions of us buy T-shirts with the words “World’s Greatest Dad.”

I was a Daddy’s girl and spent a lot of time outside with him on the farm. One of the things I remember was his waiting while Mom washed my face and combed my hair so I was “presentable” to accompany him to town on an errand.

They say girls marry men like their father. I had a good role-model to measure my boyfriends against. After I’d made my choice, there have been times I’d bite my tongue to keep from saying to my husband, “My dad wouldn’t have done that.”

Ken and I lived on a farm just a few miles from my parents’ place. Mom had a flock of chickens and I stopped by to get eggs at least once a week. Dad interrupted the chores he was doing outside to come into the house and visit with Mom and me. I was no longer under his roof, but he still found time for me.

Dad also was a good grandfather. As a farmer, he spent more time with our three children than a lot of men could. One of the things I remember his saying about our son, “When Kurt asks a question, he listens to my answer instead of continuing to chatter.”

After my parents moved to town, Dad took a job as janitor at the school. I saw him when I stopped by the complex. Although he wasn’t the boss, he took time to sit down with me on a hall bench and ‘pass the time of day’.

Dad was only sixty-three when he died of a heart attack in 1976. I still miss him.

What are your thoughts of your father?

Scars, marks on our bodies that never go away, mean we survived. I have a large cicatrix on my back to remind me that Monday makes 42 years I’ve lived with one lung–the same amount of time I existed with two. Histoplasmosis, caused by a fungus often found in bird droppings, made my left lung collapse and be surgically removed. The only difference I’ve ever noticed was during a vacation in Las Vegas, I couldn’t run to catch a bus. Ken could and asked the driver to wait for me.

Every time I put on make-up, I use a little extra eyebrow pencil to cover the small pit chicken pox left above my right eye. The communicable, childhood disease was my Christmas present from my cousins who were coming down with the malady when we all gathered at Grandpa and Grandma’s house for a family Thanksgiving dinner. I cried when I had to miss our one-room, country school’s family holiday party. I’d prepared for my first box social by covering a shoe box with red crepe paper and decorated it with snowmen cut from wrapping paper. Dad and Mom tried to make me feel better by theorizing that the old man who chewed tobacco and let the juice run down his chin would probably have been the buyer and I would have had to share my lunch with him.

I also acquired a scar on the shin of my left leg while attending the same grade school but that one was more fun. During the winter, we brought our sleds to school to spend recesses sliding down the hill on the gravel road in front of Putnam. I had belly-flopped and bent my knees. One of the boys didn’t steer very well and the metal corner on the front of his sled hit my leg. I suffered a laceration through my pants because we got up pretty good speed.

What memories do your scars summon?

The English language consists of more than 400,000 words. Comedian George Carlin had a routine, “The Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.” It amazes me that two words that mean the same thing are viewed differently–one can be used in polite conversation and the other is considered nasty. It’s fine to say, “I stepped in some excrement,” but not, “I’ve got s*** on my shoe.”

Words come and go. Each year, new words that have become widely used are added to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Some expressions you’ll hear in our house aren’t used much anywhere else: nuts, phooey, neat, holy cow and Fred Flintstone’s yabba yabba do.

The first writers’ group I joined included several poets. They talked about agonizing over one word for hours. I thought they were being pretentious.

I was a freelancer attending evening, civic board meetings and phoning in my report to the Rockford Morning Star before the area daily’s ten o’clock deadline. I was often jotting down my article while continuing to listen to the ongoing session. I didn’t have time to think about the words I was using, I depended on the editor for any revisions my piece might need.

As I began writing feature articles for national magazines about people and their passions, I had more time to spend on my stories. I often grabbed the dictionary to look up a familiar word to be sure it meant what I thought it did. Terms that mean almost the same thing could have different connotations. There’s a big difference between saying a woman wore an evening gown and she wore a nightgown.

We all need to think about what we’re saying or writing. Angry words spoken in haste can never be taken back no matter how many times we apologize. Degrading epithets linger in memories.

Do you think about the words you’re using?

Next Monday is Memorial Day, a time set aside to honor those who have been killed while serving with the United States military forces. We refer to them as ‘our boys in service’ and most of soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen slain in battle were kids. They were still living with their parents and contemplating, “What will I be when I grow up?” Some hastily married their sweethearts and fathered children they never saw.

A little history. In 1868, three years after the Civil War ended, people began laying flowers on the graves of soldiers killed in the bloodiest four years in American history. May 30 was referred to as Decoration Day or Memorial Day. In 1970, Congress passed the Uniform Holiday Act designating the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, a federal holiday. This year, the two dates coincide.

In Durand, the Stars and Stripes fly along Center Street. The Legion members have visited the area’s cemeteries and placed a small American flag on the grave of every veteran. Last Friday and Saturday, artificial poppies were sold 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.” Saturday, May 28, at 7 p.m., the Auxiliary’s annual Memorial Day Ceremony will be conducted at the Hall.

Memorial weekend is also considered the unofficial beginning of summer, but don’t wish me a ‘happy Memorial Day’. I think that’s the biggest oxymoron in the American vocabulary–it’s like saying, “Have fun at the funeral.”

Many things vie for our attention. Stores will advertise bargains for shoppers. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planned. I hope you take a few minutes to ponder the meaning of Memorial Day and offer a prayer of thanksgiving for our freedom preserved with peoples’ lives.

How will you observe Memorial Day?

When I was growing up, we played a form of softball called work-up. Everyone at my one-room, country school joined in but with only ten or twelve students, there weren’t enough to form teams.

The size of our diamond was governed by the dimensions of the school yard and laid out by guess. Bases were a rock, a piece of clothing or anything else that was handy. We made our own rules to suit the group. First and second graders were rolled grounders and allowed six strikes instead of three. If one of the big boys hit the ball over the back fence, he was out.

Each day was a new game starting during morning recess and continuing through noon hour and afternoon recess. To begin, we yelled for the position we wanted to play. Two were batters, one was pitcher and three were basemen. The rest were outfielders. Each time a hitter was out, we all moved up one slot–the rotation was right field, left field, around the bases beginning with third, pitcher and batter.

The pitcher didn’t try for strike-outs. He or she lobbed the ball. The batter who missed was also the catcher retrieving the ball and tossing it back. With a hit, the batter ran to as many bases as possible before the ball was returned. There was no stealing. When the second batter got a hit, the one on base had to make it home or be out.

If the batter hit a fly ball and it was snagged, the person catching the ball changed places with the slugger. Catching a fly stung our hands because nobody wore ball gloves. The big boys with callouses from working on the farm had an advantage.

During the summer, family reunions were a picnic held at a forest preserve with a playground and a ball diamond. At least one person brought a bat and a softball. After the potluck dinner, a work-up ball game was a great way to renew acquaintances between distant cousins that only saw one another once a year. Sometimes a few of the young adults played, too.

What games did you play while growing up?

One of my first words was, “Why?’ It’s still my favorite. My nonfiction urges people to think about the answer to that question.

While I was growing up, I never thought about becoming a writer. In high school, I took office courses and worked in one while I was single. After our three children were in school, I expected to return to that sort of job. Instead, I was intrigued by a newspaper ad and became a freelancer reporting on the Durand community for the Rockford Morning Star. Most area residents subscribed to the daily and read my articles about village board and school board actions, which affect everyone in the community.

I joined area writers’ groups and attended workshops to improve the craft I was learning by doing.

Thirteen years later, the newspaper dropped their part-time freelancers. I queried national magazines for women, farmers and police. Some accepted my articles about people and their passions whether it was seeking ancestors, participating in an antique tractor pull or enforcing the law.

I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, which is affiliated with the National Federation of Press Women. Their numerous awards for my published articles assured me I was doing the right thing.

At the beginning of 2008, our 48-year-old, developmentally different daughter, Linda, was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. I quit writing to care for her. After she died in August, I was at loose ends.

As Ken and I made plans for our 50th anniversary celebration the following April, I decided to write a memoir about our seven-year courtship in the 1950s. A lot had been penned about the ’40s with World War II and the wild ’60s but little about the decade in between. As a guideline, I had Mom’s diaries that she’d left behind when she died. Every day, she jotted down what they were doing on the family dairy farm. That gave me the who, what, when and where of the times. I checked our high school annuals and old newspapers for specific events. My memories fleshed out the happenings. Attending workshops on creative nonfiction taught me to write my story like a novel. I joined the Janesville Area Writers and read aloud excerpts from my work-in-progress at their monthly meetings. The other members gave thoughtful critiques. It took ten years of writing and rewriting to finish the manuscript. I was elated when Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, offered me a contract to publish “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

Writing a blog was my next step. I started lolita-s-bigtoe.com aimed at the growing contingent of older women but I do have some male readers, too. On Wednesdays, I share what’s on my mind hoping to stir others’ thoughts.

Why did you pursue your career?

I was fortunate to have my mother with me until she turned ninety. I miss the many women she was during those years.

When I was a first grader at Rockton Grade School, a playground swing, constructed with a thick, board seat hung from a pair of chains, hit me in the head giving me a brain concussion. I remember the thirty-year-old woman who spent the night with me at the Beloit Hospital. To check my eyesight, I can still see her standing at the foot of my bed and asking, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Mom and I didn’t always see eye to eye. For seventh grade, I started riding the yellow bus to the new Durand Junior High School. During breaks in the day, I joined a group of girls practicing for cheerleading tryouts. In years past, I’d admired the dresses Aunt Frannie made for some of the high school cheerleaders. I dreamed that would be me someday. To participate in the tryouts, I brought home a permission slip to be signed by a parent. Mom said I couldn’t because she would be busy with evening milking when I would need to be taken to town to attend boys’ basketball games. I was mad at her for days.

When Dad and Mom became grandparents, they were usually available to babysit when my husband and I went out. Our three children spent the night at their house. Friends envied our being able to sleep in the next morning after being up late the night before.

My mother was my relief when Linda, our developmentally different daughter, pushed me to my wits’ end. Mom suggested I take a day off once a week. I looked forward to time by myself shopping in Rockford and enjoying a leisurely lunch in a nice restaurant.

I knew my mother didn’t want to be the dependent, old woman she turned into during her eighties. Helping her remain in her home was my chance to return some of the love and care she had shown me.

How do you see your mother?