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Next Monday is Memorial Day, a time set aside to honor those who have been killed while serving in the United States military forces. 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.”

A little background: 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. Some of the usual parades and services honoring those who were killed fighting a war may be cancelled because of COVID-19 restrictions.

In Durand, the Stars and stripes will line Center Street. The Legion members will visit each of the area’s cemeteries and place a small American flag on the grave of each veteran. To support veterans, the Durand Legion and Auxiliary sold poppies in Durand and Davis last Friday and Saturday. The Auxiliary will hold their annual Memorial Day Ceremony at the Hall on Saturday, May 29, at 7 p.m.

On Sunday, May 30, at 2 p.m. (weather permitting) Medina Nursing Center will organize a Memorial Day Parade for the residents. People may decorate their vehicle, make signs, dress up their kids and pets in patriotic red, white and blue and walk, ride or drive. The lineup will be along Ruby Street and the parade will loop through the parking lot.

Memorial weekend is also considered the unofficial beginning of summer. Many things vie for our attention. Stores advertise bargains. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planed.

I urge you to 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?

On a beautiful summer day, our three preschoolers and I stopped by my parents’ farm to get eggs and show Mom our eight-week-old puppy. After greetings, the kids took their new friend outside to play while Mom and I visited. When I was ready to go home, I went outside and called, “Get Clancy and get in the car.” I didn’t see the pup and asked, “Where’s Clancy?”

Silence. Finally, Lisa, 4, piped up, “Doggie’s down the hole.”

My parents’ house was modern but the white outhouse still stood in the backyard. As we approached the little building, I could faintly hear the small dog whimpering. I opened the door and looked down the hole. The brown and white pup cowered against a cement wall. Obviously, as short as his legs were, he couldn’t have gotten in there by himself. For some unknown reason. the kids put him there. I immediately did what any child does in a crisis–I ran to tell my mother and ask, “What do we do now?

Mom answered, “Well, they’re your kids and your dog. I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

I returned to the outhouse. The little animal looked fairly clean because the only time the facility was used was if nature called while my folks were working outside. It looked like I could reach to pull the pup out if I could coax him to the peak of the mound of dried excrement. I went back into the house, snatched a slice of bread and returned to the outhouse. I knelt beside the hole and dangled the bread to coax Clancy away from the wall. It took about five minutes of cajoling before he started crawling toward my hand. When he was within my reach, I dropped the morsel, grabbed the scruff of his neck, lifted him out of the pit and put him down on the grass. He was so happy to be free that he ran circles around the kids’ feet. When he calmed down a bit, I gave him his first bath before putting him in the station wagon to go home.

I continued to be our family’s problem solver for years. Now, our kids are middle-aged, our grandchildren are adults and my husband is retired. When a member of my family has a dilemma, I have learned to be a good listener. I’m tempted to offer my solution, but I follow my mother’s example of standing back while everyone handles his or her own affairs.

Who solves problems in your family?

Today is the middle of National Police Week May 9 – 15. It was established by Congressional resolution in 1962 to “pay special attention to those law enforcement officers who have lost their lives in the line of duty for the safety and protection of others.” Each year our nation loses 140 – 160 cops in the line of duty.

I am the proud matriarch of a police family. In 1966, my husband, Ken, began a twenty-five year career with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first female Illinois State Troopers. Our son, Kurt, joined his father as a deputy. To schedule family celebrations for holidays and special occasions, I worked around three shifts and sleep times. It wasn’t the date on the calendar that was important, but the people gathered around our table.

Friends often asked, “Aren’t you worried all of the time?”

My stock reply, “No. If worry would keep them safe, I’d do it, but it won’t. I pray they won’t get shot and that they won’t have to shoot someone.”

I’ve taken part in the rituals that accompany the death of a police officer in the line of duty. On March 15, 1974, Winnebago County Deputy Michael Mayborne, 28, was shot and killed by Ted Bacino, a fleeing bank robber. As a detective’s wife, I empathized with Mike’s family and supported my husband as he grieved for his bomb squad partner.

Ken, Lisa and Kurt are retired from law enforcement. Two years ago, our grandson, Jacob, joined the Rockford Police Department.

Today’s officers are under bombardment. Yet, these men and women protect and serve all of you and your families. They walk out the doors of their homes knowing it may be the last time their families get to hug and kiss them.

How do you view the police?

Mother’s Day is Sunday, May 9th. For the past month, we’ve been inundated with ads extolling jewelry, flowers, candy and other traditional gifts for Mom. Although it’s been eighteen years since my mother died, it still feels odd not to buy a Mother’s Day card and gift.

Mom and I had quite different tastes. For example, when we were shopping together, she would admire a dress displayed in a store window that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

Instead of purchasing flowers or a box of candy that only lasted a few days, I bought practical gifts for her. My thought was she could splurge with the money she saved for something she wouldn’t normally buy.

When my folks moved into their new house in Durand at the beginning of the seventies, the builder had the lawn sodded. It didn’t take long for dandelions to invade the pristine grass. Mom’s complaining about the wild flowers gave me an idea–I would give her a dandelion digger for Mother’s Day. The implement had a long, hardwood handle with a small, metal two-tined fork attached. She could stand upright and remove the pesky weeds from her lawn for many years. She seemed pleased.

On the following Monday afternoon, her neighbor, Mildred, walked over to chat. The two women had been friends since they were young, farm wives living in Laona Township. Both couples had retired from farming and moved to town where their homes were two blocks apart. Mildred bragged about the traditional gifts she had received from her six children. Then she asked, “What did Lolita give you?”

Mom replied, “A dandelion digger.”

Mildred was incredulous when she repeated, “A dandelion digger?”

Mom answered, “She knew I could use one.”

Do you have a memorable gift that you gave your mother?

Dandelions and violets are blooming in our yard. Obviously, anything green is allowed to grow, not just luxurious grass. The flowers remind me of my days attending a country grade school. This week, I would have used my spare time to make May baskets from pieces of colorful construction paper. First, I’d cut a half-inch strip from the wide side of the sheet to use as the handle. Then I’d snip in about an inch from the edges to make a square basket. Before pasting the corners of the folded sides, I drew a rebus on one side. I wrote the word My, drew pictures of a heart and a pair of pants and finished with 4 you. I added the handle by pasting its ends to middle of each long side.

On May 1, I’d bring the baskets home from school, pick flowers from the lawn and add pieces of the fudge Mom had made. I would place the filled containers in the wire basket on the front of my bike and ride to our neighbors’ houses. I’d set a basket on the doorstep, knock, shout “May basket” and quickly pedal away. The object was not to get caught.

With schoolchildren at home more because of the Coronavirus, I wonder if modern parents know about May baskets or can show their kids how to make one. The homemade fudge that I used could be replaced with purchased, individually wrapped morsels. Because the object is to be anonymous, the child could leave the basket on a neighbor’s stoop without making contact.

Did you hang May baskets when you were a grade schooler or are you too young to have participated in the ritual?

Recently, I read in the Rockford Register Star about a study published in the journal “Science” showing a fix to the food climate problem. Co-author of the study, Jason Hill, a biosystems engineering professor at U of Minnesota, was quoted, “The whole world doesn’t have to give up meat for us to meet climate goals. (set in the 2015 Paris climate accord) “We can eat better, healthier foods. We can improve how we grow foods. And we can waste less food.” Many adults need around 2,100 calories a day.

I like to cook but I also enjoy going to a restaurant. My biggest complaint when eating out Is the large portions they bring each individual. The servers are quick to offer a box to take uneaten food home. I usually decline because I’ve found few meals reheated in a microwave the next day taste like they did when served.

In 2009, we celebrated our 50th anniversary by joining other senior citizens on a tour of Alaska, which ended with a cruise. One evening, we were told we would be served a 7-course supper. I didn’t expect to enjoy all 7-courses because I couldn’t eat like I did when I was younger. I was pleased that each course was small enough that I could consume them all. It showed me chefs can create meals that fit an older person’s appetite.

Several years ago, flying to Las Vegas upset my stomach. After landing, I quickly recovered, but, during our stay, I limited my food intake. It was up to me how much I ate of the meal I had ordered. I’d grown up with the admonition, “Clean up your plate or no dessert.” I love desserts so I ate everything whether I liked it or not. Now, I’m mature enough to have dessert without cleaning my plate, but I hate wasting food.

When a contemporary tells me about a new restaurant she’s found, she extolls their large portions as a good thing.

Are you satisfied with the size of the meals restaurants serve?

Saturday, April 17, will be our anniversary. On a Friday evening sixty-two years ago, I wore a long, white dress when my father and I did the step-stop pace down the aisle at the Trinity Lutheran Church here in Durand. During the candle light ceremony, Ken’s longtime friend, Wayne, and my cousin, Doris, stood beside us. We 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.” Our reception was a light lunch served in the church basement by the Ladies Aid Society. A wedding dance followed at the nearby Grange hall with music provided by John Pela, the Chevrolet dealer in Rock City, and his band the Bel-Air Ranch Boys. I had borrowed Doris’s book, “Emily Post Etiquette,” to make sure we did everything properly.

Last September, we attended the wedding of our granddaughter, Katelyn, and Sean on a Saturday afternoon at Kilbuck Creek, a rustic countryside wedding venue near Monroe Center. She wore a long white dress with a train when her parents walked her down the aisle. The couple each had six attendants standing with them during the outdoor ceremony. The bride and groom had each written their own vows. Their reception included a catered meal served inside the pavilion followed by dancing to music furnished by a DJ. Various professionals assisted in the planning.

Sixty years makes quite a difference in how things are done. What hasn’t changed is the love that is the basis of a good marriage. I don’t know who originated a saying I copied from Facebook and display on the door of our refrigerator: “Marriage is not a beautiful wedding, fancy homes, cute kids, nice cars and white picket fences.

“Marriage is hospital stays, working long hours, fighting through struggles, paying bills, and keeping the faith and staying together through it all.

How do you define marriage?

I loved playing dress-up when I was a second-grader at the Dobson country school. My best friend, Karen, and I spent many Saturday afternoons in her farmhouse attic donning her mother’s cast-off clothes and high-heeled shoes. We pretended to be young women out on the town, smoking candy cigarettes and drinking Kool-Aid cocktails with imaginary boyfriends. I could hardly wait to grow up.

Today it seems to me people don’t want to be mature. I see statements on Facebook, “You may grow old, but you don’t have to grow up,” and “I’m tired of adulting.”

Was it really so much fun to be a youngster a teenager or a young adult? When I was a child, my white English bulldog, Tuffy, soaked up a lot of tears when my parents wouldn’t let me do what I wanted such as spend a week during the summer with my friend, Sandy. As a teenager, the hinges on my bedroom door took a beating every tine I slammed it in frustration when my strict folks said “no” to such things as dating or driving the car alone at night. My whine was, “EVERYONE ELSE CAN!”

Turning eighteen and getting a job quickly taught me that as an adult I still couldn’t do as I pleased. Everything was expensive when I had to dig in my own purse to pay for it. I also had to deal with society’s rules for ladies during the 1950s. Even when I “flipped the bird” at being a lady, there were just so many things a female wasn’t allowed to do.

I married and had kids–a whole new set of responsibilities, but also many rewards. As a grandmother, I enjoy our adult children and grandchildren. Looking at my memories from the vantage point of an older woman, I wouldn’t relive or change any of my life.

If you could, would you go back to being a child, a teenager or a young adult?

Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day. The right to be foolish isn’t mentioned in the “Declaration of Independence” but I think it’s part of “the pursuit of happiness.”

We’ve all done foolish things. Often people who considered themselves wiser than us tried to convince us not to do them, but we didn’t heed the warnings. A few of those decisions turned out great and some ended with, “I told you so.”

One of my misadventures was going to beauty school. When I graduated from high school, girls who went to college became teachers or nurses. Neither of those professions appealed to me. I would become a hair stylist.

Mom tried to persuade me to first try office work using the typing, shorthand and bookkeeping skills I’d learned in high school, but I knew what I wanted to do. When I was a grade schooler, I’d visited the Rockford School of Beauty Culture with my mother. While she sat for a bargain-priced permanent, I admired the girls working on customers or each other. My parents gave in and paid the tuition for me to begin the six-month course.

It took only a few weeks for me to reluctantly admit Mom was right. Hair styling didn’t give me the satisfaction I’d expected to feel at the end of the day. I was ready to quit and look for an office job.

Mom insisted I finish because tuition money had been paid. I resigned myself to continuing until the course ended in January. I passed the state board test in Chicago and became a licensed cosmetologist in the State of Illinois.

A family friend offered me a job in the Rockford office of the U.S. Department of Agriculture. I enjoyed assisting Winnebago County farmers to take advantage of the federal programs.

What have been some of your foolish decisions?

I’ve had many friends come and go during my life. Some have stayed a long time like those who attend the reunions of my high school graduating class. A few moved away for a while, but returned to this area I’ve never left. I remember them all fondly.

As I think back, some seem to have served a specific purpose. In 1966, our family moved into the home we bought in Durand. My neighbor, Sherrill, who lived two houses down the block, became my lifeline. We each had three children who were matching ages and played together. Her husband, who worked the second shift in a Rockford factory, was gone during the late afternoons and evenings. My husband was often gone at that time, too, either working a shift with the sheriff’s police or moonlighting driving a semi.

Sherrill knocked on our front door so often that when my kids went to see who was there they got in the habit of yelling to me, “It’s just Sherrill,” and invited her in.

She and I played a lot of Scrabble or just enjoyed adult conversation. We were both interested in the community. The actions of the village government and the school board affected us directly. Our oldest children were in first grade and the others would soon follow. Sherrill and her husband moved away after their kids finished high school.

I don’t include family on my list of friends. Each one of them holds a unique place in my heart. I lived with my parents until I married at twenty-one. No one has shared as much of my life as my husband of nearly sixty-two years. I’ve added in-laws, children and grandchildren. Friends are the people I complain to when I’m upset with someone related to me.

Who makes up your friends list?