Author: admin

My name, Lolita, sits on our coffee table. When we were on a bus tour of Savannah, Georgia, I saw a young man crafting names using electric fence wire. I had to have one for two reasons: (1) while I was growing up, barrettes bearing popular girls’ names such as Pat and Carol were on sale in Woolworth’s Five and Dime stores. I was always disappointed that my name was never there; and (2) once in a while when I was growing up on the farm, Dad used a temporary electric fence to pasture the cows in a different area. To make sure the battery-operated fence was working, I touched the wire with a long, dried-out horseweed. I could faintly feel its pulse in my wrist.

Another item that was useful on the farm was baling wire. Balers used a pair of wires to hold the hay together. During the winter. when dairymen fed the cows, they saved the wire.

When my first teenage boyfriend came to visit me during the summer of 1952, he drove a decrepit, pick-up truck. The front bumper was held in place with baling wire.

Until plastic hangers became popular, the old-fashioned ones made from wire provided material for household projects. In our bedroom, a piece was salvaged and became a fastener to keep our pair of closet doors closed.

When my husband was a deputy on patrol, he became quite adept at using a wire hanger to open car doors for motorists who inadvertently locked their keys inside.

Dry cleaners still return garments on wire hangers. Recently, I found one in an upstairs closet which provided a temporary repair for our shower until a professional plumber could visit and solve the problem.

Do you use any wires as a fix-it in your household or do you rely on duct tape and super glue?

Many traits divide the population into two groups such as introverts and extroverts or night owls and early birds. Recently, I was visiting with a friend, who is a goal-setter. She said, “Every morning, I ask my husband, ‘What’s your goal for today?'”

I was a young mother when I learned that setting goals does not work for me.

When Ken and I were married in 1959, I complied with the old routine: Monday – wash clothes; Tuesday – iron; Wednesday – baking, mending and sewing; Thursday – buy groceries; Friday – clean the house; Saturday – bake a cake and fix food for Sunday meals; Sunday – attend church and enjoy a day of rest. Modern conveniences revamped that schedule–laundry became a small, daily chore and ironing nearly nonexistent.

When our three children neared school age, I decided it was a chance for me to change my habits. I read several self-help books about life-plans. I devised what I thought was the prefect twenty-year strategy. By the time, our trio were all enrolled, real life had made a shambles of my scheme.

I’ve learned to open the door to opportunity any time I hear a feeble knock. I’ve ended up doing things that would never have crossed my mind if left to my own devices.

For 46 years, I served as Durand Town clerk–a part-time, position I didn’t know existed until we moved into the village. Our elderly neighbor, Ernie Baker, who was the supervisor, asked me to be a trustee candidate in the current township election. Two years later, the clerk left the area and Baker appointed me to take her place. It was ideal for me because I could accomplish most of the duties from home. One evening a month, I attended the regular board of trustees’ meeting to take notes. Later, I typed a record of the proceedings. I ran unopposed in each of the following elections until I retired. I never figured out if that meant I was doing a terrific job or just nobody else wanted the post.

In the summer of 1969, I was looking for additional part-time employment when I answered a Rockford Morning Star ad for a freelance reporter in our community. I qualified because no education or experience was required. After becoming a journalist, I felt I had found my calling.

Are you a goal-setter or do you take advantage of whatever comes along?

Tomorrow will be my 88th birthday. I’m a one percenter, that sliver of the population born between 1930 and 1946 who are still enjoying life. Strong ancestors, healthy eating, exercise and medical care help us continue, but physical and mental impairments can reduce us to climbing molehills instead of mountains.

We’ve been dubbed the Silent Generation sandwiched between the Greatest (1901 – 1927) who fought World War II and their children, the Baby Boomers (1946 – 1964) but many of us have been outstanding. To name a few: Elvis Presley, the king of rock n’ roll; Sandra Day O’Conner, the first female to serve on the Supreme Court; Eldridge Cleaver, Black Power advocate, changed politics; Ralph Nader became a voice for consumers with his book, “Unsafe at Any Speed,” that focused on the Chevrolet Corvair and resulted in the National Traffic and Motor Vehicle Safety Act of 1966 establishing safety standards for new cars; and Gail Henion Sheehy whose publication, “The Silent Passage: Menopause,” cracked the last taboo.

We were a small group to begin with. Only 24.4 million birth cries were heard in the U.S. during the decade following the stock market crash of 1929, less than any other ten-year-period in the 20th century. This compares to 31.7 million in the forties and 40.3 million in the fifties. We are unique–conceived during the Great Depression and shaped by World War II. We were born before radar, credit cards, television, penicillin, polio shots and air conditioners.

Ninety-six percent of our females married and at a younger age than any other age group. Only 7% of the wives remained childless, the lowest proportion of any generation in American history. In 1960, ladies’ lives were revolutionized by The Pill. Spouses, who had sacrificed their own career aspirations for their husbands, went back to school and to work. Women’s new independence led to our being the first generation to have more than one-quarter of our marriages terminated by divorce.

Which generation are you?

I can’t ignore a ringing phone–it might be an important message. I’m receiving quite a few calls in a day but I rarely talk to a person. Most are listed as potential spam or an unknown number from a faraway city. It’s annoying to have to check each one to be sure it isn’t someone I want to speak with. A message is usually left on my voice mail, which I have to clear, too. There used to be a number to call to be put on a do not call list but I haven’t seen anything about that for quite a while.

Some of my friends amuse themselves by answering and giving bogus information but I don’t want to waste my time that way.

The calls come in streaks. I’ll have a bunch and then respite for a short while. According to my limited, highly, unscientific survey, I believe that women are targeted. The men I’ve questioned don’t seem to be bothered. Perhaps the callers are hawking products used by females or they just think we are more gullible.

I wonder how they get my number. If I want to call a person who isn’t on my contact list, I have to go through a “six degrees from Kevin Bacon” ritual. Who do I know that might have the number I need or know someone who does?

It’s hard to believe that not long ago, telephone companies supplied customers with a book listing everyone’s name, address and phone number. To make a long distance call, I could contact an operator for the needed number and address.

Before phones identified the caller, I remember teenagers making anonymous calls asking innocuous questions such as, “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” referring to the popular pipe tobacco. After an affirmative reply, “Well, let him out–he can’t breathe.” Mobile devices have ended that nonsense.

Are you bothered by unwanted phone calls?

Recently, I took my annual driver’s test required in Illinois by my birthday to renew my license. Another female, who looked to be in my age group, was also in the secretary of state’s office doing the same thing. She had recently received a traffic ticket, which just showed up on her record requiring her to also complete the written test in addition to the eye exam and driving.

While the woman waited, I overheard her confide to the young man who accompanied her, “I’m nervous–I haven’t had a chance to study.”

As I remember the questionnaire from when I was sixteen and seeking my first permit, there were answers that required a number of feet. I had judiciously reviewed the booklet, “Rules of the Road.”

It’s still referred to as the written test but instead of handing the lady a pencil and paper, an employee led her to a machine and gave her instruction on how to use it. I don’t know if the senior citizen was familiar with modern technology or if this added to her jitters. Three attempts to pass the state exam are allowed.

I’m glad I only had to pass the eye exam and drive my car with a friendly person in the seat beside me giving directions.

Like it or not, older people are forced to keep up with the times. I’ve learned to pump my own gasoline, get my cash from an ATM and use a computer the same way I drive a car–turn it on and turn it off. If we’re lucky, we have someone close to us who can help when there’s a problem.

Some Amish families live about twenty miles north of us in Wisconsin. I often see a man driving a horse and buggy when I travel the road to Madison to visit friends. On a nice, summer day, I sometimes think they have the right idea ignoring modern civilization. A blustery, winter afternoon, kills that thought–I’m enjoying my car with its heater and realize I wouldn’t be making the trip without it.

Do you have problems coping with technology?

it may feel a little different but it’s great to be back in our double bed that Ken and I purchased when we were married in 1959. We’ve spent nearly two weeks with him sleeping in his family room lounge chair and me on the living room davenport.

For the past fifty years, we’ve been using a waterbed. At the height of their popularity, the industry came out with a water-mattress containing a plastic bladder, which worked for us. Our bedroom is too small to accommodate a queen or king-sized framework. Before we made the switch, we spent a summer night at a Madison, Wisconsin, motel to make ssure we would like sleeping on one.

The first cold day we had the water mattress with an electric heater, I thought I would be frugal like I was with our furnace, which I lowered ten degrees at night. I turned the bed warmer down during the time no one was sleeping. When I turned it up again for my cop husband who was working a night shift, it took a long time to heat up. Ken thought he was having a chill and getting a cold. I’ve never touched that dial again.

Through the years, waterbeds have fallen out of favor. The last time we needed a new bladder, we had to make a fifty-mile trip to Woodstock to buy one.

When our present set-up sprang a leak, Ken did the clean-up and declared enough. He had been an advocate for the waterbed because before we had one, he made regular trips to the chiropractor for a spinal adjustment. After making the sleeping change, he had no more back problems.

A couple weeks ago, we went mattress shopping in Rockford and found one that suited us but, the store didn’t deliver to the boondocks until last Thursday.

Did you succumb to the waterbed fad?

I can’t shrug my shoulders and say, “I don’t know what to do.” I can make detailed plans, but I need some way to follow through with them.

This blog is one motivation in my life. It gives me something to do when I sit down at my computer each morning. For years, I’ve reserved mornings for writing. It began when I was a freelance journalist and taking care of our oldest daughter, Linda, who was developmentally different and stayed at home. Morning chores out of the way by nine a.m., the two of us would walk the six blocks to get our mail at the post office. Then, I could work while she was quiet until the noon whistle blew. With my blog always in the back of my mind, I’m more aware of the goings on in my life. From time to time, I think, hey, that could be a subject for a blog. The word I’ve been looking for may pop up at an odd moment.

It’s things like cleaning the refrigerator that I keep putting off. Every time I’m preparing a meal, I think I should do something about this but that’s as far as it goes. The more I think about it, the Nike shoe company’s iconic, marketing slogan, “Just do it,” comes to mind. Tomorrow or the next day isn’t going to be better than today. I’m not going to suddenly wake-up feeling 45-years-old again. I should count my blessings and use the abilities I still have. Some duties, I can break down into smaller pieces such as do the frig door storage area one day and the main area another.

I’ve had to admit that some tasks have become more than I can handle. I’ve hired a cleaning service–I can no longer vacuum and mop. I don’t want to give up hosting holiday dinners, so our daughter, Lisa, helps me with the preparations.

How do you motivate yourself to do unpleasant jobs?

Since I’ve gotten older, I realize how heavy things have become. These changes don’t happen overnight, but they’re gradual enough that it often takes a specific event to notice them. Recently, I made a trip to the grocery store. After I returned home and carried the items one plastic bag at a time from the car into the kitchen and set them on the table, I was putting the foodstuffs away. I grabbed a gallon of milk off the table to place it in the refrigerator. The added weight, threw me off balance and I fell. Afterwards, I was curious how much a gallon of milk weighed. It registered 8 pounds 14 ounces on our kitchen scales. That’s probably the heaviest thing I lift regularly. I make sure my feet are firmly planted before I pick up the jug.

I’ve never lifted weights but growing up a farm girl, I’ve always felt strong and could heft most things in the household. Now, I carry the filled 2 1/2 quart casserole dish carefully to make sure I don’t drop it.

After stirring up a cake in my large mixing bowl, I start putting it in the 9 x 13 baking pan, one large spoonful at a time. When I’m about half done, I can hold the bowl up and scrape the rest of the batter out of it.

It’s all I can do to open some entrance doors to a large building. People who hold a door open for me don’t realize they’re doing more than a common courtesy.

I have trouble with those over-the-counter pill bottles that contain pain relievers or allergy remedies and a lid that says hold down and turn. It may take me several tries to hold down firm enough. The boxes with every pill in a separate little pocket require strong fingers to release one.

Do you have any tricks to by-pass a problem that requires strength?

Markings designating six-feet intervals remain on the grocery store floor, left-over from the COVID 19 pandemic when shoppers were urged not to get close to one another. They made me think about how everyone has personal and emotional space, the distance maintained to feel comfortable and secure during social encounters.

It reminds me of writers’ seminars I’ve attended. One of the objectives of the gatherings is for people to meet others who enjoy the same profession or pastime. We all wear comfortable summer clothes so there’s no hint of who we are in our everyday lives. It’s a time I’m just Lolita instead of my husband’s wife or our children’s mother. Everyone is friendly and there’s no lack of subjects to talk about with strangers.

It amazes me that when I enter a large room, which is filled with chairs for all who will be attending the lecture, the early entrants sit down leaving an empty spot between themselves and the person already seated. It seems that although everyone chats, it’s done from a distance. As the room fills with people, the latecomers are forced to crawl over legs and feet to claim a vacancy. I began to wonder why leave a space to be filled later? I adopted the habit of sitting down beside a person–I’ve received many startled looks

One morning, a man and I were the first for breakfast in the college cafeteria where the symposium was being held. He’d been there before and gave me a run-down of the procedure. I thanked him. When I had filled my plate, no one had joined us two early-birds. I sat down at his table for four so we could visit while we ate. He immediately started telling me about his wife. To quash any anxieties he had that I was flirting, I countered with tales about my husband. The room soon filled with people and two more joined us.

Do you ever feel someone is invading your space?

During my life, I’ve acquired many skills. When I was four years old, my parents bought a pony for me to ride. After I out-grew Millie, I spent my teenage years straddling our horse, Mickey. While I was in school, I did a pretty good job of playing softball. During the time our kids were small, I made my own clothes and some of theirs. I quit sewing when I became a reporter. As a mother, I didn’t have time to do both.

Does all expertise fall in the same category of the idiom, “it’s like riding a bike,” commonly used to describe competence once learned, is never forgotten even after a long period of inactivity? A few years ago, I planned on attending the National Federation of Press Women conference. It required donning a long dress for the formal, Saturday night awards dinner. It seemed like a waste of money to buy the necessary outfit to wear once. As I looked over my wardrobe, I decided one of my tops would work if I had a floor length, navy-blue skirt. I could make the garment quicker than shopping stores trying to find one. Although it had been years since I sewed, I hadn’t forgotten how but I lacked the finesse.

One of the skills I regret not learning is to swim–it always looked like such fun. During the summer while I was growing up, I longed to stop at the public pool on Kilburn Avenue when we drove into Rockford. Dad kiboshed that idea with, “Would you get into the bathtub with others?”

When I was dating Ken, who could swim, we would go to a lake on a hot, Sunday afternoon. He was considerate of me and only played in the shallow water to cool off. We enjoyed lying side by side on a blanket spread on the sandy beach.

While Ken was in the navy, my cousin, Doris, tried to teach me to swim one Sunday afternoon when we visited our mothers’ Aunt Maggie and Uncle Martin at Lake Koshkonong. I guess it was too little too late. I could do the Deadman’s Float but when I started moving my arms and legs, I sank.

As parents often do, I made sure our three children learned to swim by making weekly trips for lessons at the YWCA in Rockford. When we took a traveling vacation with our pick-up camper during the summer, I always looked for campgrounds with pools. The kids could burn some of the energy that had built up while they spent the day riding.

Do you ever wonder if you could still master any of the skills you once had?