Author: admin

For the past month, I’ve been slotting things to do into two categories–before my book signing Saturday afternoon and after. I will greet people from 2 to 4 p.m. at the Durand State Bank Community Room, 1005 Cameron Drive at the south edge of the village. I’ll read an excerpt and then invite everyone to enjoy punch, cookies and conversation while I sign books that have been previously purchased and have some for sale, $22 cash or personal check.

Having Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, publish my memoir is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. Two of my writer friends were happy with the company’s work so it topped my list of publishers to send a proposal. When the editor asked to see my complete manuscript, I was elated. This was followed by the offer of a contract, which was a dream come true. When I received the cover and edited copy to approve, I thought they were beautiful. Earlier this year, my book became available in Kindle and paperback from Amazon. One morning in May, I was surprised when the blue cover of “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel” was looking back at me from my computer while I was going through the AOL — News, Politics, Sports, Mail & Latest Headlines. Amazon provided the ad for at least five days. My granddaughter, Katelyn, saw my book listed on the Good Reads app on her phone. COVID has caused a few glitches but, all in all, I have been pleased. I’ve reconnected with friends I haven’t heard from in years and met new people who have read my memoir.

Sometimes the anticipation outshines the actual occasion. What has been your experience in anticipating an event and its happening?

My husband and I recently spent nine days on a bus tour with fifty other senior citizens. When we stopped for the night, each couple was assigned one motel room. Several of the pairs had different last names. I didn’t know if some of the women didn’t change their names when they wed or if they were just living together like those that told us, “We’re not married.”

This is the same generation who was stymied several years ago when their college-age child planned to bring a ‘significant other’ along when coming home for a holiday. Morals were changing. The parents, part of a generation that expected brides to be virgins, suspected the couple slept together when away from home but wrote “Dear Abby” to ask, “Do we assign them one or two bedrooms?”

When we’re young, it’s easy to say, “I’d never do that,” or “I’ll always do this.” As we age, we find times change and so do people. The man who proposed to me in September 1958 wore a suit and drove his Lincoln to collet money from people who were behind in repaying small loans from a finance company. By the time we married the following April, he was wearing coveralls and driving a tractor as the hired man on his brother-in-law’s farm. Seven years later, he got down off the tractor. He put on a uniform, badge and gun belt to climb into a Winnebago County squad car and begin a 37-year career in law enforcement.

I played a newspaper woman in our high school junior class play. At that time, females were slotted to the society pages writing about women’s clubs, engagements and weddings. Only men covered the hard news. I had no idea that fifteen years later I would become a freelance journalist chasing firetrucks, reporting on civic meetings and writing feature articles about people in our community doing interesting things.

Ken and I raised three children and enjoyed watching two grandchildren grow from babies to adults. Each generation does things differently. We try to ‘go with the flow’ although we may not always agree.

What changes have you made in your thinking through the years?

As fall looms, we see organizations that have been on hiatus during the summer resume meetings. Most of us belong to at least one club or group. The duties of various officers are usually spelled out but not those of members.

We may have gone beyond the era of women’s clubs, but many of their ideas are still valid. I have adapted the following from the General Federation of Women’s Clubs list of the responsibilities of a member:

Attend meetings regularly. A list of the organizations you belong to may be impressive on a resume, but only of you’re an active member.

Be on time and prepared for each meeting. A lack of preparation is one of the main reasons for an unproductive meeting.

Think for yourself. Make an effort to be a thinker instead of a perennial “yes” member.

Communicate. Stand up and make your voice heard. The voice of one individual may save the group from making an unwise decision. Blend gentleness with firmness when taking a stand.

Promote a spirit of teamwork. Don’t let your organization be crippled by a membership that splinters into uncooperative or hostile cliques.

Expect frustration and difficulty when dealing with people.

Be a peacemaker–when misunderstandings, disputes and clashes arise, help to clear the air by trying to reach a peaceful accord.

Encourage others. Don’t be a ‘wet blanket’, a person that dampens enthusiasm.

Be willing to fulfill responsibilities as well as exercise rights.

Give credit where credit is due. Don’t be a “credit grabber”–one who is always first in line when it comes to taking a bow, but nowhere to be seen in the midst of working. Don’t hesitate to praise a fellow member for a job well done.

Have a sense of humor. Don’t take yourself too seriously or others not seriously enough.

Do you have anything to add or subtract from this list?

Nicknames have been a part of our vernacular for a long time. Some are descriptive–others have a reason for being coined, but few know what that was.

One evening during the 1940s, my parents loaded their car with friends and drove an hour to reach the Dutch Mill Ballroom at Delavan Lake, Wisconsin, where they danced to the famous Tiny Hill Orchestra. The popular maestro was billed as “America’s biggest band leader.” Like others who shared his nickname, he weighed more than 300 pounds.

Every summer when I was a kid, we went to the annual Tschabold reunion, which included Grandpa’s siblings and their families. I never figured out how many brothers my grandfather had because not all of them attended. If Dad talked about his uncles, sometimes he said Oscar, Emil or William and other times it was ‘Bean’, ‘Pork’ or ‘Flat’.

Some people dropped the label as they matured. Back when pregnancy seemed to be an epidemic in my generation, a lot of my friends named their boy babies after their fathers and called the child ‘Junior’. Recently at a friend’s retirement party, I had to keep reminding myself the gray-haired man was Ray not ‘Junior’ or the family favorite, ‘Junie’.

Others used the appellation all of their lives. During the seven years Ken and I lived on the farm, ‘Bump’ delivered our mail. Some people never knew his legal name was Floyd. One of our village mayors introduced himself to everyone as ‘Pokey’, his high school moniker. He signed papers with his initials M. M. I never heard anyone call him Marion. Our friend, Harold, became ‘Grandpa Sonny’.

Girls, too, were given nicknames. Families tended to use the same first name over and over. Dad’s clan had ‘Big Margaret’ and ‘Little Margaret’ to distinguish between the generations. On Mom’s side, one of my cousins was named after her dad’s only sibling and we called her ‘Sis’. Her sister’s golfing buddy was a short, chubby woman who everybody called ‘Pudge’.

Some women preferred their appellation. When Uncle Bobbie married Viola, she asked us all to call her ‘Babe’.

Are nicknames still popular?

Learning isn’t confined to the time we spend in school or the years when we are young. In 1969, I was ‘over thirty’ when I became a freelance journalist with neither education or experience. I learned by doing. Through the years, my articles have appeared in area newspapers and national magazines for women, farmers and police officers. I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, an affiliate of the National Federation of Press Women. My work has earned awards from both groups.

In 2009, my husband and I celebrated our Golden Anniversary. It set me thinking about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s, which began with a Ferris wheel ride when Kenny was 16 and I was 14. I had time on my hands and a new computer–I needed a writing project. I began reading the diaries my mother had left behind when she died. Her daily, barebones jottings of who, what, when and where began in 1952 and served as a guide to start my memoir. To learn to write creative nonfiction, a genre that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives, I made the easy one-hour drive north to Madison to attend workshops conducted by the Division of Continuing Studies at the University of Wisconsin. I also joined several area writers’ groups for comradery and critiques of my work in progress. Although I was writing about my memories, I checked details by reading old newspapers at area libraries and my high school annuals. A sign on my refrigerator, “You are not too old and it is not too late,” kept me going during the ten years it took me to finish my book, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” Last year, I submitted a proposal to Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, that published my memoir. It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

I now am learning to promote my work. I will have a book signing on Saturday, August 7, from 2 to 4 p.m. in the Community Room of the Durand State Bank, 1005 Cameron Drive on the south edge of the village.

What new things are you learning?

Sunday we’ll celebrate the 4th of July with noise–marches played by the parade bands, loud conversations of people enjoying picnics in backyards and the booms of evening fireworks. Pets will hide to avoid the cacophony.

Let’s take a few minutes to ponder the meaning of these familiar words from the Declaration of Independence written in 1776. We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” When I was in school, teachers assured me that the term Men included Women and I took their word for it.

In our free country, we each have our own definition of happiness. My family and my writing are the major components of mine. When our oldest child, Linda, started first grade in 1966, she was psychologically tested, diagnosed as retarded and referred to special education classes. My plan to return to a part-time office job as soon as Lisa and Kurt also entered school evaporated, but not my desire to be more than “just a housewife.” In looking for a job I could do at home, I became a community correspondent reporting local happenings to the Rockford Morning Star, the area daily newspaper serving the small towns surrounding the city. I soon realized I had found my calling as a journalist. The occupation had never crossed my mind when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When my mother reached the age that she needed my help, Linda was done with school and at home all of the time. I quit writing so I could continue to tend to Linda and provide the aid Mom needed to remain in her own house here in Durand. I was sure nothing I could write would be as important as caring for my family. I found another aspect of happiness.

How do you define happiness?

This past week, I’ve enjoyed a cup of coffee with others twice, the first since Governor JB Pritzker issued his Executive Order to stay at home during the pandemic. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to just sit and visit while drinking coffee.

Last Tuesday morning, I met Loraine downtown at the Center Street Creamery. It was the first time I’d had a cappuccino since before COVID-19 changed our way of life. She was a former Durand area resident who liked to return to the village from time to time. She never knew me but had read my memoir and wrote me a letter suggesting our get-together. I love to meet anyone who has enjoyed my book. She was about our kids age, but we seemed to have a lot in common.

Yesterday, Ken and I enjoyed coffee, delicious Bundt cupcakes and conversation with Mary Ann and Tom, another retired cop like my husband. There’s a special joy in visiting with couples in our age bracket. We’ve all been there, done that, and are dealing with similar problems and rewards today. It was a beautiful day for a convertible ride to Rockford unless we had to spend a long time sitting at a stoplight. We also brought along a copy of my memoir for them.

Many of my friends are married to retired cops. When we were young, our husbands assumed we women had a lot in common because most of us began marriage as housewives and mothers. With our husbands rotating schedules around a 24/7 job, it was hard to socialize with our non-law-enforcement friends from the old days. Our social life was often limited to other officers working the same shift and their wives.

Are you seeing others for coffee?

My dad was a dairy farmer, my mother worked outside alongside him and so did I. During the nineteen-forties and fifties, there were child-sized jobs on a family enterprise. For example, before evening milking, he dipped ground feed from a five-gallon bucket and placed it in a pile in front of each cow’s stanchion. I followed and topped each mound with a small scoop of dry molasses taken from my sand pail. When more feed needed to be ground at the Davis Mill, I held gunny sacks open while Dad used a scoop shovel to fill them with oats stored in the granary bin.

Dad and I also did fun things. My parents bought a pony for me when I was 4 1/2. To take rides together, Dad would mount his horse, Mickey, and hold onto a lead rope attached to Millie’s bridle do she couldn’t run away with me.

As I was growing up, Illinois law required the owner’s name and address be painted on the pick-up truck’s doors to prevent rustling of farm animals. For years, I secretly hoped that when Dad could afford a pick-up, he’d include “& Daughter” with his name like other men included “& Son.” I was twenty years old before Dad could purchase a good used, 12-year-old truck for $250. I painted his name and address on the blue doors. I was still Daddy’s girl, but no longer needed it proclaimed on the side of the vehicle.

Dad’s death from a heart attack when he was only 63 was a big shock. I relish the time I spent with him. I’m also thankful for the time our three children spent with their grandfather.

What are your memories of your father?

Older women were raised not to boast, except maybe about our grandchildren. We have a tough time accepting compliments. Instead of a simple, “Thank you,” the admirer hears a litany of reasons why the compliment is undeserved. For example, when someone says, “That’s a pretty dress. Is it new?”

The ‘old chestnut’ answer was. “This old thing?”

The other day, I met Pat while I was walking in Saelens Memorial Park. We often strolled at the same time and when we did, we sat down on a bench and visited. During our conversation, she commented, “While we were young, we weren’t too smart.”

I disagreed and responded, “I’ve always been smart.” I considered it something that I was given–not something I had anything to do with.

When I repeated our conversation to my husband, he said, “How could you say that?”

I answered, “I was just being truthful.”

Our conversation reminded me of Walter Brennan, the character actor who starred as the grandfather in “The Guns of Will Sonnet,” an 1890’s Western that ran on TV from 1967-1969. His, “no brag, just fact” became a catch phrase and stuck in my mind.

When I joined a writers’ group that critiqued one another’s work in progress, I learned to also say, “Thank you,” when someone gave constructive criticism about a piece I’d written. Thinking things over later, I usually took the advice to heart.

Since the publishing of my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Wheel,” I’ve had more opportunities to receive compliments. I continue to think “no brag, just fact,” but out loud I simply say, “Thank you.”

What is your usual response to a compliment?

I don’t feel complimented when someone I haven’t seen for a while says, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

I prefer what I heard when my parents and I attended the annual Tschabold family reunion, “My, how you’ve grown.”

No matter what age we are, every day changes us a little bit. Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher born in 544 BSc said, “No man ever stepped in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” I’m sure that applies to women, too.

When a female goes from preschooler to student to adult worker, she changes. If she passes from single to married, to motherhood, to mother-in-law and grandmother, the new roles give her different perspectives. Even various stages of the same classification cause change–there’s a big difference between mothers of toddlers and mothers. The same when she buries her parents and she becomes an orphan instead of a daughter. Her core remains the same but each of those events causes her to grow.

While I was growing up, girls who didn’t marry in their twenties were considered old maids. They worked as executives secretaries, school teachers, nurses or moved in with a sibling and were known as the family’s maiden aunt. Today’s women have a lot more choices.

It isn’t just our personal lives that change us. What’s happening around us also influences us. Those who survive the COVID-19 pandemic will be different from what they were before our world changed.

It doesn’t have to be a traumatic moment to change a person. When I was 14 years old, I said yes when 16-year-old Kenny asked me to ride the Ferris Wheel at a carnival and it set the course of the rest of my life.

What have been some of your exceptional moments of growth?