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For more than fifty years, I’ve lived in Durand, Illinois. I try to buy what I can in my hometown. The merchants are an asset and the sales taxes go toward keeping the water and sewer running, the streets paved and the police on duty. From time to time, I have to go elsewhere for things such as Christmas shopping.

Our village is centrally located. Half-an-hour of driving in various directions takes me to four different cities and several small towns in between. Whether I’m looking for clothes, hardware or something else that isn’t available here, I have a long list of establishments in Rockford or Freeport, Illinois, and across the state line in Beloit or Monroe, Wisconsin. Sometimes, I see this as a good thing–others a curse.

Often, I can’t group my errands. I can find a chain store such as Walgreen’s on a corner in most towns and it doesn’t matter which one I patronize, but smaller businesses that I’ve developed a personal relationship with through the years are in different locations. Yesterday, I needed to visit two places in opposite directions–the Winnebago County Clerk’s office in Rockford to obtain a copy of a legal document and Pinnow’s Home Town Pharmacy in Brodhead to pick up a prescription renewal.

Since becoming a writer, I’ve taken advantage of a couple larger cities within easy driving distance. An hour of travelling mostly backroads takes me to Madison where I’ve attended workshops at the Continuing Education Department of the University of Wisconsin. For more than thirty years, I’ve belonged to the Illinois Woman’s Press Association that meets in Chicago. The toll road makes the two-hour drive to the Windy City fly by.

Where do you do business?

Next Tuesday is December 7, Pearl Harbor Day. In 1941, Japan bombed Hawaii forcing the United States into World War II. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s War Address termed it “a date which will live in infamy.” Every family had men who enlisted or were drafted into the armed forces.

Women also played a large part in the war effort. At least 150,000 served in the Women’s Army Corp (WAC); 84,000 became WAVES, the U.S. Navy’s Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service; and at least 20,000 Women Marines helped “free a man to fight.” More than 59,000 American nurses served in the Army Nurse Corps.

Similar to World War I, the females on the home front took the places of the males who went to war. ‘Rosie, the Riveters’ worked in the factories building war materials. Completed airplanes were ferried from the manufacturers to military bases by the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASPS). They were considered civilians although they flew almost every type of military aircraft including B-26 and B-29 bombers.

Bright red lipstick roared into fashion for a surprising reason. Germany’s dictator, Hitler, reportedly hated the cosmetic, so American women painted their lips. The color represented the U.S. Flag and symbolized strength.

Fans of the ‘great American pastime’ were entertained by girls. Our area Rockford Peaches was one of the six teams that made up the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (AAGPBL), which existed from 1943 – 1954.

When Allied victory seemed assured in 1944, government-sponsored propaganda began urging women to “return to normalcy” and work at home. It didn’t matter that some of the ladies enjoyed the autonomy their employment provided; the returning men would need the jobs.

In 1945, the war ended, our nation celebrated in the streets and then everyone headed home. The young people settled down. The grooms became breadwinners and their brides were housewives. Together, they produced about 77 million ‘baby boomers’, the largest generation ever created.

The veterans of the Big War are dying. Will the American people still “remember Pearl Harbor” when the Greatest Generation is gone?

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I am thankful for our family, our health and my memoir. Earlier this year, Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, published “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback. If anyone wants to buy a signed copy, stop by my house or email me at DitzlerLTD@aol.com.

I spent ten years composing the story of our seven-year courtship in the fifties. I attended workshops to learn to write creative nonfiction, a style similar to a novel. I’d been a freelance journalist submitting newspaper and magazine articles since 1969, but never written a book. I had my mother’s diaries to remind me what happened during those years and stir my memories. I also visited area libraries to read old newspaper accounts of events. I joined writers’ groups that gave me camaraderie and constructive criticism.

When I finished the manuscript, I attended workshops to learn to write a book proposal for publishers. I expected to send multiple submissions, but I started with the one a couple writer friends recommended. The editor, Stevan V. Nikolic, asked to see the entire book and then offered a contract. I was amazed and delighted.

I didn’t realize Ken and I are a part of history until five years ago when we attended the Fireside Dinner Theater at Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin. We walked into the building with a busload of high school students from La Crosse. After a delicious meal, we enjoyed a portrayal of The Million Dollar Quartet including Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash. The four rocked and rolled like they did in the ’50s. For the students, it was a music lesson from the ‘old days’; for us, reliving yesterday.

What are you thankful for?

With dinners to make for the holidays coming up, I dug out the old recipes. I use a notebook where I record the instructions that I get from friends or relatives, a card file and several tomes. My Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book, a shower gift from Ken’s Aunt Irma, is 62 years old and raggedy but it still helps me make meals.

Some families number in the twenties or thirties for gatherings with everyone bringing a dish to pass. We’re a small group–less than ten. It doesn’t take more food than I can prepare. Some years, I haven’t been up to par and needed help, which is always available because everyone lives close.

Current magazines feature new twists, but I look forward to the old favorites. Years ago, when my husband was a farmer and we had three little kids, I mashed potatoes every day for dinner. Now mashed potatoes are a treat I only make once in a while. The same with dressing and gravy.

Thanksgiving calls for two kinds of pie–a Country Apple and a pumpkin topped with whipped cream.

Christmas requires bratzelies, a thin Swiss cookie, my folks baked on a special iron similar to a waffle maker and rosettes that Ken’s mother made by dipping irons into batter and hot grease. I’ll also sir up the red, white, and green Jell-O salad that’s traditional. A few guests will say, “No thank you.” I learned a long time ago, it’s nearly impossible to make meals that everyone eats everything. I’m the cook and my menus are what I like.

The highlight of both festive meals will be the fresh turkeys Ken fixes on our charcoal grill. The direction booklet that came with the Weber guides him through it.

What are your plans for the holidays?

Tomorrow is Veterans Day, a time to honor all veterans who have honorably served our country. The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the end of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.

The last time our GIs were welcomed home with national celebrations was 1945 when the Allies won World War II. At that time, every family had members in the service. The men, women and children on the home front had also participated in the war effort and were glad to return to normal.

The United States has continued to be involved in wars, but the people at home haven’t endured the deprivations and shortages of the forties. At times, if you asked citizens on the street, they might not be aware that our members of the armed services were fighting.

There was the Cold War, a state of political and military tension between the United States and Russia. In 1950, that situation erupted in the Korean Conflict. When President Dwight Eisenhower signed an armistice in 1953, the Cold War and the draft continued. The threat of nuclear weapons wafted over the globe like a mushroom cloud.

During the Vietnam War in the ’60s, President Lyndon Baines Johnson maintained our country could have both “guns and butter.” Protests against that combat exploded, especially on college campuses. Many of those who served were spit upon and called rude names.

Through the years, there have been other skirmishes in various places. Our soldiers were recently brought home from Afghanistan after twenty years of fighting there.

Sometimes, the only recognition these men and women receive is a thank you from an appreciative citizen. Have you voiced your gratitude to a veteran for his or her contribution to your freedom?

On a recent Saturday, Ken and I ate lunch at Lucy’s #7 Burger Bar in Beloit, Wisconsin. We got there a little after noon and were told we’d have a 45-minute wait for a table. When we were seated, the woman next to us said they were from Chicago. No wonder the place was crowded.

Hamburger joints have always been a part of my life. When I was a youngster, we would go shopping in Rockford, Illinois, on a rainy day. When we finished late in the afternoon, my parents stopped at Sam’s on Auburn St. and bought burgers to go. We ate them on the way to the farm so Dad and Mom were ready to start evening chores as soon as we arrived.

While I was in Junior High, I joined kids across the country taking accordion lessons. Each of us hoped to become the next Dick Contino, a famous 18-year-old musician who made the instrument popular. Every Saturday morning, Dad and Mom drove me to Voight Music Center in Beloit. Afterward, we crossed the street to eat lunch at Walt’s, a hole-in-the-wall, hamburger joint.

In high school, I dated Kenny. On Saturday nights, he took me to movies in Rockford and followed it with hamburgers at the Hollywood drive-in.

When I was 19, I had to spend five months in the Rockford Municipal Sanitarium to recover from TB. At the institution, our supper was a small meal served at 4:30 p.m. By the time visiting hours rolled around at seven, I was hungry again. My parents brought hamburgers from Sam’s.

While our three kids were growing up, I took them for swimming lessons at the Rockford YW once a week after school. McDonald’s was popular and we always stopped at the Golden Arches for supper.

There’s something about meat cooked on a commercial grill that makes it taste better than a hamburger prepared at home.

Do you frequent a burger joint?

Next Sunday will be Halloween. There was a time and place when witches were thought to be real–not just costumes for children to wear ‘trick or treating’.

In 1692, the English settlers of Salem, Massachusetts, conducted a witch hunt, declared twenty women to be evil and executed them. That was just a part of the history I studied in school.

My thinking changed in 1990 when I interviewed Harold King to write an article about genealogy for an Elgin magazine. My first-cousin-once-removed had spent more than fifty years climbing his family tree. While pursuing his ancestors’ records, he’d discovered that one of the Salem women executed as a witch, Susanna North Martin, was also his grandmother with a bunch of ‘greats’ added.

Harold also mentioned the annual King-Knight family reunion held in Albany, Wisconsin, each summer. Mom’s mother had been a King and I remembered attending that gathering when I was a youngster. It was easy to locate the group in a forest preserve–just look for little, redheaded kids running around.

Realizing Susanna North Martin was also my forbearer, I looked her up on the internet and discovered she was a redhead. The Salem witch hunt was the second time she had been accused of witchcraft. In 1669, her husband, Gorge Martin, fought a protracted legal defense against her accuser.

By 1692, Susanna’s circumstances had drastically changed. The mother of five boys and three girls was a 71-year-old, impoverished widow who had a history of flouting authority and was widely disliked. She was arrested May 1 for practicing witchcraft and pleaded not guilty. A preliminary examination by presiding magistrates followed. Her vigorous answers and lack of respect she showed the officials was noted. She kept her sharp tongue to the end of the hearing.

The magistrates pronounced Susanna guilty of witchcraft and sentenced her to hang.

What would have gone through the woman’s mind as she awaited execution although she’d committed no crime? On July 19, 1692, Susanna was hanged with four others who had been tried at the same time. All five were placed in a shallow, unmarked grave.

It took more than three hundred years for Susanna North Martin to be declared innocent. October 31, 2001, Acting Massachusetts’s Governor Jane Swift signed a bill exonerating Susanna and four other convicted witches. A memorial service for the five women was held in Salem June 9, 2002.

I’ve never had much interest in genealogy, but Susanna came alive for me. I know of no redheads in our branch of the family, but the females have inherited her sharp tongue.

Have you come to know any of your ancestors?

With Halloween coming up, I see a lot of witches riding brooms. A broomstick taught me to handle my own problems.

When we moved to the Anderson farm northwest of Durand, I was a fourth grader who increased the enrollment to nine at Putnam. I rode my bicycle to the school located on the corner about a quarter-mile east of our house. The second day, I came home out-of-breath, scared and crying. At the farm that sat on the north side of the blacktop, two dogs, one a large, collie type and the other a small, short-haired one, barked, growled and chased me. I pedaled hard to climb the small hill to our driveway and leave the animals behind. I’d always liked dogs but apparently, those two didn’t like me. My parents commiserated with me.

Dad and Mom didn’t begin driving me to school to keep me safe nor did they confront our middle-aged neighbors. Instead, my folks gave me a tool to solve my problem. Mom found an old broom. Dad sawed off about two feet from the top of the handle. The broomstick made an excellent club I could easily grip. I was nine years old and adept at riding my bike. I could steer with my left hand and wield the weapon with my right.

The next day, I stashed the stick in the basket attached to the handlebars of my bike. In the morning, there was no sign of the dogs. On my way home, when I used their side of the road, the dogs came out to terrorize me. I swung the stick and they backed off. The next afternoon, the two came after me again. A couple thumps with the club sent them yelping back to their house. I carried the broomstick for a few more days but the dogs had lost their fascination with me. That was the beginning of my confidence to solve my own problems.

How did you learn self-sufficiency?

“Nice day.”

“Think it’ll rain?”

“Cold enough for you?”

All standard phrases we hear over and over. I’m not much for small talk. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to make conversation, I look for a more meaningful topic. One day, I was sitting in the chair having my hair cut. A photo of the man’s wife and children adorned the dresser. I asked, “Why did you become a hair stylist?”

His reply began, “Well, I flunked out of college.” I immediately wished I’d stuck with the weather. He continued, “The counselor told me I would do well in a profession involving people. I’d done Mom’s hair a few times while she was recovering from surgery. I’d enjoyed it so I went to beauty school.”

We were in a distant town, attending the wedding of one of my husband’s colleagues. During a conversation with a woman I didn’t know, she asked one of the usual get acquainted questions, “Where are you from?” When I said Durand, she responded, “Oh, do you know my brother?”

When she mentioned his name, I knew my husband had arrested the man. I said, “The name is familiar, but I don’t know him.”

I’m not the only one who got a shock from a routine question. My friend, Carol, is a nurse in the hospital emergency room in a nearby city. She met a patient with a familiar last name and asked the woman, “A couple with the same name belongs to our church. Are you related?”

The woman vehemently replied, “She stole my husband.” Another time the weather would have been a better topic.

Do you stick to small talk with people you don’t know well or take a chance with more meaningful conversation?

Early one morning, Ken accompanied a fishing buddy running the pole lines that had been set overnight along the bank of the Sugar River. Three catfish had been caught. My husband not only enjoyed his friend’s company, it brought to mind the youngster he’d been doing the same thing with his dad.

Memory is a marvelous thing. It allows us to spend a few minutes with someone who is no longer a part of our life. For us who are older, it can make us a child, a teenager or a young adult for a bit.

When I saw a PBS rerun of Lawrence Welk’s music program, I recalled a teenage me doing a polka with my friend, Trude, at the Wigwam, a rustic country dancehall situated just north of the Wisconsin line.

I came across a deck of cards laying on a closet shelf and recalled the seven women who made up my bridge club when our children were growing up. Snow or rain was rarely severe enough to cancel a monthly meeting at a member’s house. We were all bogged down with family responsibilities and looked forward to that night out with the girls.

Not all memories are pleasant, but that’s life. “Happily, ever after” happens only in fairy tales. A glimpse of Jack Klugman in an old film reminded me of taking our brain-damaged, teenage daughter, Linda, to a a neurologist in the hope of finding some answers for her problems. Instead, the doctor remarked, “If anything happens to that little girl, an autopsy would certainly be interesting.”

When I returned home, Ken asked, “What did you find out?”

By then, I had built up a head of steam and responded, “He referred me to Quincy!” At that time, Klugman was portraying Quincy, M.E., on TV. That was the end of our ‘seeking professional help.’

What are your favorite memories?