Author: admin

Merry Christmas!

To spend the holidays at home in 1954, Ken flew from Norman, Oklahoma, where he was training to go aboard an aircraft carrier. Last July, he’d begun a four-year hitch in the navy.

I was a senior in high school. To signify we were going steady, I wore my boyfriend’s class ring wrapped with adhesive tape.

Christmas Eve afternoon, we exchanged presents. I gave him a Ronson cigarette lighter. Like most adults, he’d started smoking a year ago when he graduated and immediately became a working man operating a machine at Barber Colman, a Rockford factory.

Ken gave me a black, short-sleeved, cashmere cardigan. My first thought when I opened the box and saw the sweater was it’s beautiful. Then I wondered, was it too intimate a gift for me to accept when we weren’t engaged? One glance at the pride in his face convinced me I couldn’t refuse it. Besides, I’d never worn an expensive, cashmere sweater. I said a heartfelt, “Thank you.” I silently hoped I wouldn’t be allergic to the fiber made from goat’s hair like I was wool sheared from sheep.

The following week, I bought a beige, calf-length, straight skirt to wear with my new garment. New Year’s Eve, I dressed in my fancy outfit for our date to celebrate. At seven p.m., Ken walked into the living room and greeted my parents who were sitting in easy chairs. After eyeing me, he said, “It looks like the sweater fits fine.” I blushed and wondered what my parents thought of his remark.

Our friends, Wayne and Gloria, joined us to see the movie, “White Christmas,” at the Coronado in Rockford followed by dancing in the new year at the grange hall in Durand. We finished the night with cheeseburgers at the Hilltop, a mile south of town. At four a.m. New Year’s Day, Ken walked me along the sidewalk from the Nash to the house steps. His final goodbye kiss would have to last for months until I saw him again.

In my bedroom, I removed my sweater to get ready for bed. I smiled in the mirror–no rash. I wasn’t allergic to the expensive cashmere. My gift proved I was made for finer things.

Have you ever received a gift that made you feel rich although you weren’t?

It’s ten o’clock Christmas Eve. Carols play softly on the radio. Five candles flicker in the Advent Wreath sitting on a small table in the front hallway. The tree lights add a multi-colored glow to the pine-scented, living room. Santa has left toys for our three children–Linda, 6, Lisa, 5, and Kurt,3–who are sound asleep upstairs.

I’m relaxing in Ken’s lounge chair. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day to sit down alone and put my feet up. I’ve changed into a lace-trimmed, long, turquoise nightgown and peignoir. My cop husband will soon be home from working the three to eleven shift with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. I’m looking forward to a romantic interlude. We will exchange gifts while he drinks a beer and I sip a glass of wine.

A large box wrapped in red and green, wreath-printed paper waits under the tree for Ken. It contains a burgundy-colored, wool sport coat that I’ve made. His brother, Tom, who’s the same size, served as my clothes dummy for fittings so I could keep the garment a secret.

I see no package for me under the tree, but I have large expectations. A few days ago, my husband made a big deal of going shopping.

Earlier in the evening, my parents and my cousin, Doris, with her husband, Bob, joined the kids and me for supper and presents. I took over hosting my family’s traditional Christmas Eve observance after we had children. It’s easier to just put them to bed than to gather gifts and bundle up little ones to drive home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Last week, when I stopped at my parents’ rural home to get eggs to do my holiday baking, I broke the news that Ken would be working instead of spending the evening with us.

“How can you have Christmas Eve without Ken?” Dad asked.

“It’s something we have to get used to,” I responded. Last October, my husband climbed down from a tractor on Irish Acres where he was his brother-in-law’s hired man and slid into a squad car. We moved from the farmhouse that went with his job into our own home in the village of Durand. We’re still adjusting to the change in lifestyle.

The back door closes softly. Ken’s home. I jump out of the chair to greet him with a kiss.

“What a night!” he exclaims. “We got a call for a welfare check and found a man who had probably been dead for a couple days. It must have been eighty degrees in that house. The stink was terrible. Then the coroner’s people spread some sweet-smelling stuff and that was worse.”

He doesn’t need to describe the smells–the odors cling to him like fermented after shave. He strides into the bedroom to remove his gun belt and uniform so he can take a much-needed shower.

My romantic ambiance is shot by reality.

Have you had plans for a holiday celebration go awry?

Grown-ups should talk less and eat faster, my opinion during our traditional Christmas Eve supper in 1945. I was eight, too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I was anxious to get to the gifts piled under the decorated tree. I was sure my name was on most of them.

Aunt Frannie, Uncle Hookie and their daughters, Doris and Sis, had joined us to eat Mom’s usual company meal–ham, mashed potatoes with gravy, fruit salad and baked beans. Mom’s parents had died before she married, but her eldest sister and husband loved me like a grandchild. My cousins, who were in their early twenties, were my heroines. Finally, all plates were clean. Mom and Aunt Frannie quickly cleared the table putting the leftover food in the refrigerator and stacking the dirty dishes in the sink. Dessert, homemade vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, would be served later.

The men carried a couple kitchen chairs into the living room and everyone found a seat. I began distributing the presents. I tried to duck between the heating stove and the wall to get to Dad, but my path was blocked. I was flabbergasted. My attention had been riveted on the tree and I didn’t notice the bicycle sitting there.

The two-wheeler had belonged to Doris, which made it extra special to me. Several years ago, her first bike had been stolen from their front porch. Her father replaced it with this one bought second-hand from a neighbor. During World War II, which ended last September, factories produced armaments instead of bicycles.

The girl’s style bike was in perfect shape–no dents or scratches in the blue and white paint with red pinstriping. It had fat, white-sidewall tires and a luggage carrier over the back fender. The horn button beeped and the light on the front fender glowed. Doris pointed to the head badge fastened under the handlebars, a silver, winged H, symbolizing Montgomery Ward’s Hawthorne brand. She said, “That means it’s a great coaster.”

I could hardly wait for the snow on the ground to melt so I could learn to ride my better than new bicycle.

Have you ever received a second-hand gift that you treasured?

Christmas cards are being pushed aside by modern technology. People used to send hundreds to those near and far. The number of names on the list attested to a family’s popularity. Busy people ordered cards with their names imprinted to eliminate so much pen and ink signing.

Outside of cities, addresses required only the town and state. Rural mail carriers and village postmasters knew their people. With the addition of road names and fire numbers in the country and home delivery in small municipalities instead of post office boxes, the destination had to be more precise and include a zip code or the envelope ended up in the dead letter office.

Cards began arriving in the mail in early December. We looked at the envelope and played a guessing game. Before mail was processed at central locations, the postmark was a clue to its origin. Handwriting of close friends and relatives was easily recognized. Some of the missives were annual reports from people we might not hear from otherwise. Photos, which showed how much children had changed in a year, were often included. If we received a card from someone we’d neglected, an envelope was quickly addressed and mailed. If it was close to Christmas, we hoped the recipient would assume it had been delayed by the postal service.

Duplicated Christmas letters became popular. The accomplishments of each family member were described in glorious detail. Many read like the people lived in Garrison Keillor’s fictional town, Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average.

Do you still send Christmas cards by snail mail or rely on social media to keep in contact with people?

I’m thankful for the little things that brighten my life. Every day, Ken kisses me good morning and good night. I feel loved.

Our family likes dinner rolls from Great Harvest Bread Co. on the east side of Rockford. Our daughter, Lisa, picks them up for our holiday meals. When we take a trip, our son, Kurt, checks our house allowing us to travel worry-free. I can rely on our kids.

Last Spring, while Ken and Kurt were in Kentucky for a week’s fishing, I had just finished lunch and was settled in my rocking chair to read a book. I looked up at the sound of footsteps. Our daughter-in-law, Sandy, was crossing the kitchen. Members of our family have buttons in their vehicles to open our garage door and enter our house through the back door. She had tried to phone me and got no answer. She stopped by to check that I was okay. I felt cared for.

During the summer, I was walking home from the post office on a sunny day. Our grandadults, Katelyn and Jacob, rode by me on their bicycles and hollered, “Hi Grandma! Want to race?”

“No. I don’t want to embarrass you by beating you.” I felt joy.

Ken and I thank God that we were given the strict, loving mothers and fathers we had. At times when we were growing up, we complained, “But everyone else can.” As adults, we have realized they were doing what was best for us. By the time we became parents, we raised our children the same way.

What little things are you thankful for?

A recent national news program showed climbers lining up on Mount Everest like shoppers waiting in front of Walmart on Black Friday. My thought was some people climb mountains for a thrill–others raise children for a lifelong challenge.

That first day I leaned over the toilet bowl with morning sickness, each of our three kids carved out a part of my life. Like all mothers-to-be of my era, I studied Dr. Spock’s book, Baby and Child Care, but nothing prepared me for parenthood.

With three babies in four years, we had sieges of development such as toilet training. When Linda, Lisa and Kurt were toddlers, they liked to play in the pots and pans cupboard in the kitchen while I was making a farmer’s meal. I wondered if I would ever walk across the linoleum normally instead of shuffling my feet so I didn’t trip oever a child or a skillet. At least I knew where they were and what they were doing.

Grade school days brought skinned knees, bruises and stitches as the fledglings tested their wings. A new authority was often quoted, “My teacher said…” High school meant moments of elation, broken hearts and a driver’s license.

When a child turns eighteen, the government says he or she is a grown-up and grants independence. I could no longer heal injuries with a BAND-AID and a kiss. My advice was often unwanted. First jobs were begun.

As our adults matured, parental counsel was again sought. Young people are more adept at modern technology, but many of life’s problems remain the same from generation to generation and experience counts. I may not know the answer, but I have a sympathetic ear.

Today, Lisa and Kurt are middle-aged and Linda has died, but they are still part of my thoughts the same as when they were under my feet. Our family has grown to include daughter-in-law, Sandy, and grandadults, Katelyn and Jacob.

What do you find challenging in your life?

How did okay become the punctuation mark to a sentence?

When I was raising kids, I was a dictator. When I said, “Time for bed,” it was a statement. At that time a popular TV program was Father Knows Best. In our house, it was Mom who knew best. Most of the time, Dad was working a shift as a cop, moonlighting driving a semi or sleeping. The little time he could spend with the kids, he didn’t want to be a disciplinarian.

After our children were grown, I noticed young parents telling their sons and daughters to do something and ending their directions with okay, which sounded like a question. Of course, when the adults said something such as, “It’s time for bed, okay?” they didn’t want to hear, “No,” but they often did.

I guess those little ones who were raised with sentences ending with okay have grown up. Much as we think we won’t, we tend to do as we were taught. Wherever I go, people end their directions with, “Okay?” The nurse in the doctor’s office at the clinic led me to the examining room and said, “Please climb up on the table, okay?”

My husband and I entered a restaurant. The hostess greeted us and said, “Follow me, okay?”

After we were seated, the server passed our table and said, “I’ll be right with you, okay?”

I was tempted to respond, “No, I want to order right now,” but I didn’t. I just murmured, “Okay.”

Not only spoken sentences end with the word. A recent post on Facebook read, “Dear church folk, your expectations of the pastor should match your commitment as a member. Okay.”

Do you end your statements with okay?

Lately, I’ve seen a lot of complaints on Facebook about the lack of humans at cash registers in Walmart stores. Customers are expected to use self-checkers. I, too, don’t like to see people lose their jobs. I get as annoyed as the next older person trying to figure out machine payment systems. Twice recently, Ken and I have stopped a young, passer-by in a strange city’s parking lot to help us follow the instructions to leave our car for a few hours. Alas, these changes are considered progress.

May I point out a few other jobs that have been eliminated through the years? In the forties, my cousin was a local telephone operator. She sat before a switchboard and connected a caller from one party line to a person on another party line and rang the required longs and shorts. The automatic dialing system replaced her job. What would people do today without their cell phones?

When my husband was a teenager in the fifties, he worked part-time at an oil station. Customers pulled up to the pumps and sat in their cars while he filled their tanks and washed the windshields. He asked, “Check the oil and tires?” He provided that service if the driver said, “Yes.” When I need gas on a cold, windy day, I cuss today’s self-service.

There was a time, I prepared for a drive to an Illinois Woman’s Press Association meeting in Chicago by filling an old pill bottle with dimes. They were the easiest way to pay the attendant forty cents at each toll booth along I-90. Today, I enjoy using my E-Z Pass and not having to slow down.

Have you or someone close to you lost a job because of automation?

For me, part of traveling is buying souvenirs. I was disappointed during our recent New England tour. We visited a lot of gift shops, but unique items that represented the locale were hard to find. Apparently, t-shirts, coffee cups and shot glasses with the area name sold the best. The only things I brought home were a cute, little jug of maple syrup from a visit to a Vermont farm that produced it and a replica of the Old North Church in Boston.

I haven’t done a lot of traveling, but I treasure the reminders of trips I’ve taken. I love the rearing, wooden horse I purchased from the carver when Ken and I visited my cousin and her husband, Doris and Bob, at their timeshare condo in Mazatlan, Mexico, during January of ’89. I bought it from the artist who was standing along the street, holding his creation in his hands and rubbing it with brown Shinola shoe polish.

A jade butterfly that can be pinned to a garment as a brooch or attached to a chain and worn as a necklace reminds me of our tour of Alaska in 2009. I didn’t know the gemstone could be found anywhere but China.

In 2016, when we were on a bus tour to Savannah, Georgia, a man on the street was charging five dollars to form a name using electric fence wire. I’m always delighted to find anything that features my name. The “Lolita” that sits on our living room coffee table reminds me of that trip plus my childhood on the farm where we used electric fences for temporary cow pastures. I thought it was fun to touch the wire with a long, dry weed and feel the pulse of the battery supplied current to be sure it was working.

What souvenirs do you enjoy?

October 4 thru 13, Ken and I joined forty-three others going to New England on a Tri-State Travel bus tour. The group included couples, four pairs of women and a single man. People were congenial–at mealtimes we sat down at a table with anyone and enjoyed a pleasant conversation.

Hans, our driver, and Gene, our guide, were excellent at their jobs. Each day, Gene moved our seats. The people ahead and behind us remained the same but those across the aisle changed.

Each person’s large suitcase was stored under the bus. At the motels, it was delivered and picked up from outside our room door. We brought our carry-ons aboard and stowed them overhead. The bus had WIFI and outlets to recharge devices.

“Early to bed and early to rise” could have been the theme of the trip. Usually bags had to be ready by 7 A.M. Gene told us we were on a tour–not a vacation. He had a schedule to keep. Louis Armstrong’s recording of “What a Wonderful World” began our bus ride every morning. We covered a lot of ground, saw a lot and did a lot. Most of the days were cloudy but we enjoyed seeing the autumn leaves at the peak of their color.

One advantage of living in the Midwest, we can reach any place in the United States in a matter of a couple days of driving. While traveling to and from the East, Gene showed movies and documentaries, played games and told a few stories about his experiences. He and Hans each had a repertoire of jokes. The first day, a side trip to Niagara Falls was a surprise treat to break up the riding. About every two hours, we made a rest stop and the coach had a restroom.

Complimentary breakfast buffets were provided by the superior motels where we stayed. The tour fee included all dinners and we ate well. We usually had a choice of two entrees. One evening, most of us chose a whole lobster. It came with bibs and instructions on how to take it apaart. I prefer the way tails are served in our neighborhood restaurants. Lunches on our own were our only added expense other than gift shops.

Knowledgeable local guides joined us at four points of interest–Mt. Washington, the highest peak in the northeast United States; Kennebunkport, a popular resort town including the Bush’s summer home (which we viewed at a distance); Boston, historic city from the Colonial & Revolutionary era; and Cape Cod, including Plymouth Rock and Hyannis with its history of the Kennedy family.

I’m glad Hans was dealing with the Boston traffic, especially the rush hour congestion leaving the city. We experienced Cape Cod’s first Nor’easter of the season. The wind and rain were mild compared to the weather reports of days following our visit.

If you plan to take a bus trip, choose a reputable organization. Forty years ago, my parents took trips with the same Galena-based company. After Dad died, Mom continued to join their tours by herself.

In 2004, a friend and I went to Alaska with an incompetent guide. Two years earlier, a three-day trip to Agawa Canyon in Ontario, Canada, to ride a snow train went well, so we thought we were making a good choice, but it wasn’t. For example, on a Sunday afternoon we arrived at a huge, shopping center that included amusement rides. An hour later, it closed. We ate in a lot of McDonald’s.

How do you travel on vacation?