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Tonight, most Christian churches will be conducting services recognizing Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem. The congregations will sing the traditional carols such as “Silent Night,” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”

It’s a story that endures through the centuries. Here in Durand, St. Mary’s parish youth presented the Live Nativity Sunday. December 7, at 1 p.m. in the courtyard at Medina.

When our three kids were Sunday school age, the children re-enacted the manger scene in a program in front of the congregation. Bathrobes and towels garbed the boys. The girl who played Mary wore a long dress.

Today, Christian churches don’t have the large membership that made them thrive during the sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties. At that time, babies were baptized, older children attended Sunday school and vacation Bible school while teens were accorded the rite of confirmation, making them members. When the young people married, they walked down the aisle to the altar where the minister read the traditional vows. The new families continued the traditions as grandparents looked on. Most congregations have dwindled and fallen on hard times, struggling to continue.

Each year, I set up my plaster of Paris nativity set, that my Aunt Frannie painted before I was married. It’s battered and chipped but I cherish it. I constructed a stable using the kids’ Lincoln Logs and added a cardboard roof cut from a shoe box and covered with brown paper and straw from Dad’s farm. The figures depict Jesus in the manger with Mary and Joseph being visited by an angel. They are also joined by a shepherd with his sheep and a man with a camel. The Three Wise Men from the East are also included.

Do you honor Jesus’ birth?

Holiday decorations usually start with a fir tree, a tradition which began in Central Europe during the 16th century. Protestant, Christian reformer, Martin Luther, is said to have first added lighted candles to an evergreen tree in his Germany home.

One of our first trees when we had three little children was a “cut your own.” Grandparents accompanied us to the farm. The proprietor provided the saw and Ken cut down a five-foot-tall evergreen. Our ceilings were only seven-foot, so a taller tree wouldn’t fit.

For several years, getting our tree was an event. On a Sunday afternoon in December, we met with Jon and Susan and their children plus Wayne and Gloria with their family and went to Williams Tree Farm on Yale Bridge Road. After we’d each selected a pine and husbands had used ropes to tie them to individual car roofs, we all went to Jon and Susan’s home for a chili supper. This continued for only a short time before moves ended the tradition.

For years, our family continued to make an annual trip to the same farm. A few of the ornaments we use date back to my childhood. When I took over making the family Christmas Eve supper, my folks quit having a tree and passed their decorations to us.

Our tree has always been set up in front of a window so the lights could be seen by passers-by. Neither my folks nor Ken and I have done exterior decorating. While I was growing up and continuing with our children, we went for an evening ride to see the outdoor decorations in nearby towns. Some communities sponsor contests among residents who light-up outside.

Although, tree farms have proliferated, we converted to an artificial tree a few years ago. Ken got tired of cleaning up the dry needles when Christmas was over and he took down the tree.

How do you decorate for Christmas?

Many memories are evoked when I see a Santa Claus. There were the days when I was little and believed in the jolly, old elf. On Christmas Eve, I kept Dad company in the barn while he did the evening milking so Santa could come–I was one of his first stops. Mom never saw the man in the red suit enter our living room through the front door and leave my gifts under the tree. She was busy in the kitchen preparing supper for my aunt, uncle and cousins who would join us at 7 p.m. for the meal and gift exchange.

I never wrote a letter to Santa but my parents always took me to a department store so I could tell him what I wanted. Of course, I mentioned my desires many times at home so they had no doubt what I hoped to find under the tree.

I was a second-grader but no longer believed in Santa when Dad was drafted to play the part. Our teacher was boarding with us because we lived next door to the one-room building making it an easy walk to work for the gray-haired lady. For our school Christmas party, her brother planned to don the costume, but he was sick at the last minute. When she approached Dad to take his place, my father couldn’t turn her down, much as he wanted to. When he entered the classroom with a, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” a preschooler was scared and dove under the sandbox, which stood on tall legs. Even the offering of a gift didn’t lure him from his sanctuary.

There were the years, our three children believed in Santa. Ken spent many late Christmas Eves opening the boxes that were emblazoned “some assembly required.” The kids were always up early the next morning to find their gifts waiting under the tree.

One year, we were hosting the Christmas Day gathering for Ken’s sister, brother and their families when Santa visited our house. I can still see the looks of wonder on the faces of our grandnieces and nephews when the fat man with the white beard walked in our front door.

With no small children in our family now, we have no visitor on Christmas Eve except in memory.

Did you believe in Santa when you were little?

One of those signs Christmas is coming is Seals arriving in the mail asking for donations. For as long as I can remember, they have been a part of the holiday. The design, different each year, included the red, double-barred Cross of Lorraine. I knew the money donated was to fight tuberculosis. The lung disease was the leading cause of death in the United States during the early 20th century. At that time, physicians were just experiencing their first signs of success treating TB in special hospitals called sanitoriums. Years of rest and fresh air were the main stays of the cure. In 1907, a tiny sanitorium in Delaware had fallen on hard times and would have to close if $300 wasn’t raised to save it. Emily Bissell, a volunteer and a veteran fund raiser, came up with a plan that had worked in Denmark. She designed and printed a special holiday seal and sold them in post offices for a penny each. By the end of her holiday campaign, which was endorsed by President Theodore Roosevelt, ten times the goal was raised and Christmas Seals were born.

In January of 1957, when I was nineteen, I learned about TB from the inside of the Rockford Municipal Sanitorium. After a nagging cough that defied doctor’s treatment for three months was finally diagnosed as the disease, I was admitted to the well-run institution. In 1946, streptomycin had become the accepted treatment. After five months of residence in the “San” and receiving painful shots in the butt twice a week (I was certain the needles the nurses used were rejects from WWII), I was sent home instead of spending years undergoing the rest cure. The convalescence cost nothing.

I’m thankful for the people who funded that non-profit in the past. It can be compared to planting a tree knowing that you won’t be around to enjoy its shade.

In 1971, The College of Medicine Rockford a regional campus of the University of Illinois at Chicago, was founded. TB had ended its reign as a threat to Americans and sanitoriums were closed. The three-story brick building on Parkview Avenue was utilize to train doctors. One of the physicians I’ve seen recently, said he took his schooling there.

Keeping up with the times, the organization that sponsors the seals has revised its name to the American Lung Association and fights various breathing diseases.

This time of year, we are asked to contribute for everything from children with birth defects to elephants threatened with extinction. Do you include a worthy cause in your Christmas gifts?

I am thankful that Ken and I are together and enjoy relatively good health. We can’t accomplish all of the things we used to, which can be frustrating, but something we have to accept. We both have our age-related problems and have endured serious illnesses, but neither of us is incapacitated. Before our fall birthdays, we each passed our driver’s test continuing our freedom to go where we want when we want.

Each morning, we awake from a good night’s sleep. It has been interrupted by trips to the bathroom but we have drifted back to dreamland. We each fix our own breakfast because Ken is an early bird while I think the day doesn’t exist before seven a.m.

Through the day, I prepare lunch and supper. Sandwiches usually suffice for our noon meal. We eat a lot of soups and casseroles in the evening. With just the two of us, I have a couple days or more that all I have to do is reheat the main course leftovers.

The usual household chores such as laundry are shared by Ken and me. We have a cleaning service, which comes every two weeks. I can no longer vacuum rugs or mop kitchen floors.

Thanksgiving Day, our kids and grandkids will gather at our house for dinner at noon. Our daughter, Lisa, helps me prepare the food while Ken cooks the turkey on the grill. We hope to keep the tradition alive as long as possible.

I am thankful that everyone has settled in the area so we can celebrate all occasions together. There is some give and take on setting times because of work hours and other sides of the family. Dates don’t matter–it’s the people that make the gathering festive.

What are you thankful for?

Older people are categorized as hating change, but I look forward to the change of seasons. I think it would be boring to live in a place where the weather remained basically the same year-round.

I am happy to see the dandelions and violets erupting in the yard signaling spring. The reds and golds of autumn leaves can be breath-taking.

Now there is a nip in the air although winter doesn’t officially begin until next month. We’ve ha a snowfall but it was courteous enough to not remain on the roads and sidewalks–only the grass and quickly disappeared. Ken has the snow blower ready to go when it’s needed.

Summer tee shirts and short pants are tired looking but the winter jeans and sweat shirts take on a fresh look although they are the same ones I have worn for years. We have limited clothes space in our bedroom so I keep off-season outfits in an upstairs closet.

Flannel sheets on our bed are cozy feeling. Makes it harder to get up in the morning. When we begin having warm days of spring, I’ll go back to regular sheets.

Running a quick errand takes longer. I have to bundle up with coat, scarf and gloves even if I won’t be outside but a few minutes.

I remember the old days, riding my sled on our gravel driveway, which slanted downhill. Building a snow man was a treat when the snow was wet. At school, playing Fox and Goose was a recess game after we tramped down the snow into a wheel pattern with spokes.

Our menu has also changed. It’s time to make chili for supper. Meals of shrimp salad will wait until next summer.

Keeping warm is no problem. I just push the thermostat if it feels chilly in the house. While I was growing up, my parents burned wood in the furnace to heat the house. It was free while coal cost money. Dad used his chain saw to cut up fallen, dead trees in the fifty acres of timber on the northern edge of the farm. Driving the tractor and pulling the trailer, he hauled the chunks to the house and tossed them through an open window into the cellar. Mom went to the basement to throw the pieces into the fire. On below zero nights, she got out of bed at two in the morning to keep the furnace fed.

Do you like the change of seasons?

Last week we celebrated Ken’s ninetieth birthday. On Sunday evening, our family gathered at The Butterfly near Beloit, Wisconsin, for supper followed by Watergate Cake, candles and singing “Happy Birthday” at our house.

Saturday, his actual birthday, the two of us planned to go to Big O’s on the Hollow near Freeport, Illinois. Instead, an ambulance took Ken to the Emergency Room in Monroe, Wisconsin. He then was transferred to St. Mary’s Hospital in Madison, Wisconsin. A hiatal hernia was causing problems. Yesterday, he came home.

I’ve been thinking about the surprise parties we had for his fiftieth and seventieth birthdays. I think my husband is the only person who asked for a surprise party and then was shocked when one materialized. After we had attended a surprise party for his longtime friend, Wayne, who turned fifty October 19th, I asked my husband how he wanted to acknowledge his half-a-century birthday, which was coming up November 8th. He mumbled, “I’d really like a surprise party like Wayne’s.” I assured him it was too late to plan a party. After he left for work, I started phoning our closest friends and was assured they were free to join us. As a ruse, his brother, Tom, called to invite the two of us to go to supper in New Glarus, Wisconsin, on the designated date.

The night of Ken’s birthday, Tom and his wife, Jan, arrived at our house a little early so we could enjoy a celebratory drink before the sitter for our daughter, Linda, arrived. When there was a knock on the door, the birthday boy went to let in the caretaker but instead was greeted by his friends yelling, “Surprise.”

Twenty years later, the ruse was our grandson, Jacob, had a Cub Scout event at the Legion Hall. When we walked into the building, a large group of friends and relatives echoed, “Surprise.”

So many of those people are gone but it’s fun to reminisce. The good times live on in our photos and memories. I’m thankful for our family to continue enjoying a party.

How do you celebrate your birthday?

Next Tuesday is Veterans Day, a time to recognize all veterans who have honorably served our country. If you see a man or woman wearing a tee shirt or cap denoting a veteran, it’s a good chance to voice your gratitude for the person devoting a slice of their young life to guaranteeing your freedom.

The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the ending of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. At the time, it was known as “the war to end all wars.” If only that proved true.

The Durand American Legion Gold Star Post 676 has recently installed street signs honoring Durand Gold Star Veterans at six locations in the village where the youngsters grew up. These aren’t just faceless names–the red, white and blue designations include photos of the young men in uniform. If you haven’t seen all of these honorariums, now might be a good time to take a ride around town.

Older generations remember the draft, which allowed the country to conscript the needed young men to serve in the Army. When a young male celebrated his eighteenth birthday, he had to register with the Selective Service System, an independent federal agency, that administers the program. Since 1973, the United States military has relied on an all-volunteer force but all young men still have to register in case it becomes necessary for Congress to reinstitute the draft.

It’s easy to assume that there will always be enough young people available to serve our country, but during the past decade, more Americans have been having an increasingly difficult time meeting military standards for enlistment. The Future Soldiers Preparatory Course, a ninety-day program that enables candidates to meet the service’s physical standards and academic standards before reporting for traditional basic training. The army gained 13,200 recruits through this route in 2024.

After World War II (1939 – 1945), which older folks like me remember, every family had at least one member who served our country. We were surrounded by veterans.

Recently, Air Force Gen. Paul J. Selva said only one percent of our population will wear the uniform of this nation in any of the incarnations–soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, active Guard or Reserve.

Do you know a veteran?

I don’t know if worry is a part of some people’s DNA or if it’s just a habit learned over time. When I say I don’t worry, people look at me like I’m the grandmother of Alfred E. Neuman, the fictional, gap-toothed, red-haired, cover boy for the 1950s humor magazine, MAD. His motto was, “What, me worry?”

During our first seven years of marriage, Ken was a farmer and so were most of our friends. In the fall of 1966, when he announced he was going to become a Winnebago County Sheriff’s Deputy, the first thing the other wives asked me was, “Won’t you be worried all the time?”

I was ready with my surprising answer, “Farming is considered more dangerous than police work.” The statistics were a shock to me, too. I had always lived in the country and felt safe.

Two of our children grew up to follow in their father’s duty shoe footsteps. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first women to join the Illinois State Troopers, followed two years later by our son, Kurt, who also became a cop. Some people were sure that three police officers in the family would set my nerves on edge.

My philosophy is, “If my worrying would keep my family safe, I would wear a string of worry beads around my neck, but I know it wouldn’t make a bit of difference–just ruin my days.” I love my family, but I don’t confuse love with worry.

I believe each of us should do the work we feel is our calling. When our grandson, Jacob, joined the Rockford Police Department, he became the fourth generation of Ditzlers to pin a badge over his heart. Ken’s father, Rolland, was a motorcycle cop in Freeport while he was a single man in the 1930s.

Are you a worrier?

My choice of social media is Facebook. Sometimes I think it’s just a good way to waste time. Then again, it allows me to keep track of friends, family and people I know who also subscribe. I take news items with a grain of salt and check them with another source.

Through the years, folks have entered and left my life. Social media has given me a chance to reconnect with some of those people that I knew along the way but for various reasons, we drifted apart. Others, I have met for a brief period while we attended an event. I would love to meet them for a cup of coffee or lunch but we live too far apart for that to happen.

I never agree with any of my friends on everything, which I think would be boring. I know each of us probably won’t change our opinions. When I disagree with a viewpoint someone expresses, I consider their viewpoint and just move on. I see no point in arguing on Facebook.

Sometimes it allows me to start my day with a good laugh.

I can keep track of current news such as strawberry season with the farms’ Facebook pages. When the fields I patronize are thirty or more miles away, this saves me making unnecessary trips such as alerting me that one is sold out of ready-picked berries by 9:00 a.m.

The pictures keep me up-to-date on what people currently look like. I tend to expect everyone to continue to look the same as the last time I saw them. I’d never imagine the little boy who use to live next door as a middle-aged man with a beard.

It’s been surprising how many people have the same name even when I think it’s not that common. I’ve had to check several entries to find the person I know. A lot of the women include both their single and married name so that makes it easier to find old girlfriends.

Do you take part with social media?