Author: admin

During the summer, the Ditzlers dig out a relic–the family reunion, a meeting of the descendants of my husband’s grandfather, Eugene Ditzler, who spent most of his life as proprietor of the drugstore in the village of Davis. He was married twice. His first wife, Minnie, died while their children, Irene and Rolland, were growing up. His second wife, Henrietta, was the mother of Robert and also Minnie’s younger sister. In those days, when a woman died leaving the man with children to raise, he often married another one of her family.

Although Grandpa loved all his great-grandchildren, he was especially pleased when our son, Kurt, was born. At last, there was a boy to carry on the family name. Ken and his younger brother, Tom, have become the oldest Ditzler men in the clan.

When I was a kid, family reunions were a common warm weather event. It was a once-a-year time to see distant cousins and observe how people had changed–children matured, some adults grew fat, and the old might have “slipped a little.”

Each family had their designated Sunday, the only day of the week farmers socialized. Everyone arrived to eat dinner at noon so the festivities would be finished late in the afternoon to allow attendees to return home by chore time. Food was plentiful and tasty because every woman brought her favorite dish-to-pass.

My dad’s family, the Tschabolds, always met on the last Sunday in June at cousin Johnny’s Wisconsin farm. Dad said his kin liked to show off his modern, dairy set-up, but the gathering included a keg of beer, which wasn’t allowed in public forest preserves or parks. A few relatives came from Arkansas and Minnesota, but most lived in the area.

In families, first names were used generation after generation. At our gathering, stand up and shout, “Margaret,” and several females of different ages would answer.

I never did figure out how many brothers my grandfather had. Sometimes, Dad would refer to his uncles using monikers including Jug, Pork or Bean, and then again he said given names such as Will, Herman or Emil.

Do you attend any family reunions?

Friday is the 4th of July–a time for appreciating our freedoms. One thing that we often take for granted is the sanctity of our homes. As I grow older, I think more about how grateful I am to live in our own abode with my husband, Ken. When I return from a vacation or a grueling day out and about, I sigh with relief when I walk through our door again. I cast off the public clothes and shoes I’m wearing and don a comfortable leisure outfit. We lock our doors. No one enters unless we invite them.

When I was nineteen, legally an adult, I complained my parents were too controlling. They responded with the saying, “You put your feet under our table, you abide by our rules.” I had an office job in Rockford and daydreamed about moving out on my own. I made the change, but not in the manner I fantasized. I spent five months living in a tuberculosis sanitarium. The institution was well-run. I had a room to myself but my day was laid out for me. I had no choice in the time I arose in the morning, the meals I ate and when they were served, one to two in the afternoon was naptime and all patients went to bed at ten p.m. The hours family and friends could visit me were limited. It surprised me how excited I was to return home.

Mentally, home is where many of my memories reside. My parents rented farms instead of owning the property. Only one of the five places I lived while growing up remains standing and my parents have been gone for many years. Still, I remember the rooms in the houses, the barns and the life our family led when we resided there. Those flashbacks are joined by remembrances of our own family created in the two places we have lived.

Do you appreciate the freedom of living where you call home?

The word glass evokes a mental picture of my wineglass that I handle carefully because it would shatter if I dropped it, but there are several forms of glass.

There are the baking dishes that I slide into the oven and pull out a thirteen-by-nine devil’s food cake or a meat loaf for supper. Pyrex is a brand introduced by Corning Inc., in 1915, initially for a line of clear, low-thermal-expansion borosilicate glass used for laboratory glassware and kitchenware. It was later expanded in the 1930s to include kitchenware products made of soda-lime glass and other materials. Its name has become famous for making rectangular roasters.

While I was stirring the recipes up, I used a Pyrex measuring cup featuring gradations in both U.S. and metric units to put in the proper amount of ingredients.

If you’re like us, you eat your meals from Corelle tableware. I like it much better than the plastic set of dishes I obtained with Green Stamps, a grocery store premium, when our kids were growing up. It comes in many patterns, is light weight and doesn’t chip easily like the cheap, tableware we had when we were first married, but it does break. I still have remnants of our first set. I got curious about what the Corelle was made of. A little research told me it’s Vitelli, a tempered glass product consisting of two types of glass laminated into three layers. It was introduced by Corning Glass Works in 1970, but it is now manufactured and sold by Corelle Brands. A couple of my casserole dishes are also Corelle.

Sometimes plastic has taken the place of glass but we still refer to the items as glass. The tumblers I put on the table for water or milk are nearly unbreakable. Saves replacing often as the glass beverage holders broke easily.

Do you know more about glass now than you did?

A week ago, I was looking forward to spending the afternoon with two of my oldest friends, Janice and Joyce, plus a writing group. After eating a breakfast of an English muffin, orange juice and coffee, my stomach was upset. I didn’t understand why–I’d had nothing unusual but I would remain close to the bathroom. I called Joyce to say that I would not be attending our planned meeting. Because she carried her cell phone, I reached her at a rehab facility where she was convalescing after being hospitalized. In notifying people, she had missed me–there would be no meeting. I realized, I should have called to verify the day before setting out on a fifty-mile drive. I would have been irate if I’d reached her home, knocked on the door and nobody was there.

I met the sisters when we were grade-schoolers attending country, one-roomers. Janice and I took weekly accordion lessons from Dallas, a dark-haired, sixteen-year-old fellow who worked at Voight Music Center in Beloit, Wisconsin. Girls and boys of that era flocked to studios with hopes of emulating Dick Contino, an eighteen-year-old, California squeeze-box player who became famous after winning a nationwide talent contest that was broadcast to millions of people listening to their radios.

While our farmer fathers sat waiting for their budding musicians, they chatted and formed a friendship that soon included their families. I envied Janice having a sister just one grade ahead of her. They traded clothes, which I thought was neat. The girls and I were never classmates but we attended similar, small high school in different towns. We confided secrets. Our conversations included problems maturing from tomboys to ’50s young ladies, tales of current boyfriends and dreams for our futures.

Through the years, our comradery has ebbed and flowed as our lives have taken us in different directions. Today, we are older women who continue to love writing. We live about fifty miles apart so get-togethers are few and far between although each of us still drives her own car.

Was my stomach upset just a coincidence or was God working in my life? Many times, I’ve wondered the same thing but I’ll never know the answer. For years, I have stood in church and recited the Apostles’ Creed, which begins, “I believe in God…” but I have trouble accepting that He would be involved in my day-to-day activities with such big things vying for His concern.

Do you ever wonder if happenings are just a coincidence?

Sunday, June 15th, is Father’s Day. I knew what my father did for a living because he was a farmer and was at work when he walked out of the house through the back door. I was fortunate to spend a lot of time with him because my mother worked beside him most of the time so as an only child, I was there, too.

On the family farm. there were child-sized jobs. I remember one of my tasks during the summer fly season when Dad was milking cows by hand. He would have me hold on to a cow’s tail so she couldn’t switch him in the face while he was seated beside her. I felt so proud standing there on the walkway ’cause I was helping Dad.

As I grew older, I chose cleaning the manure from the barn gutters with Dad instead of dusting furniture in the house with Mom.

It was always the three of us–we worked together and played together. I went along to visit friends, attend a public card party at a nearby Grange Hall or a Saturday night dance at an area ballroom.

Dad was an ideal model when I chose a husband. I thought it amusing that he seemed more nervous than I was when he walked me down the church aisle at my wedding. At the time, I didn’t realize it was the end of an era for him–he went from being the number one man in my life to number two after my new husband.

My dad was a patient grandfather. Our three kids spent a lot of time at the farm because they were the only grandchildren and my folks were their only grandparents. Dad always answered the kid’s questions even if it was just “Why?”

A dairy farmer doesn’t have a day off but he doesn’t have a boss breathing down his neck either. Sometimes, he rearranged his workload to accommodate fun things he wanted to do with his family.

What kind of a relationship did you have with your dad?

Warmer weather has me thinking about rides with the top down on our 1965 Plymouth convertible. Lunch is always our destination–we’re familiar with restaurants within 100 miles in each direction.

While I was growing up, going for a Sunday drive was often our weekly recreation. Sometimes, Dad just turned this way and that at an intersection. He never got lost because eventually he’d come to a familiar highway.

Rural roads sometimes were gravel or one-lane blacktop. They didn’t have names except in Wisconsin where county roads were designated with a letter. We might come across two or three C’s if we traveled from one jurisdiction to another.

My folks viewed the crops along the way. Comments were made on the hay mowed and raked, the combining of oats or picking corn. If we went south, they were a little ahead of ours–those to the north, a little behind. They also commented on the farms such as those that appeared prosperous with a blue Harvestore silo.

Sitting alone in the back seat, I noted the animals in the pastures, mostly herds of black and white Holstein milk cows or a few bunches of beef cattle, which were black Angus or while-faced, red Herefords. Most farms had at least a team of horses grazing. Once in a while, I’d see a flock of sheep or goats.

When a friend moved to another neighborhood, we’d find their new home. Directions were vague such as go east from the village, turn left at the schoolhouse and it’s the third place on the right. Farmers all put their names on their mail boxes so that was our guide. We didn’t visit the people–just saw where they lived and compared the new place to the old.

Before returning home, we’d always top at a root beer stand or an ice cream parlor for a treat.

Whenever I happen across a detour today, the roads usually have a familiar look thanks to the rides we took while I was growing up,

Do you ever just go for a ride?

Many people touch our lives and leave an imprint. We may not remember it happening, but it’s there.

Recently, I attended a book signing at the Ethic Heritage Museum in Rockford. When I saw it publicized on Facebook, the author’s name, Bob Hill, rang a bell. In the ’70s, he had served as one of the state editors at the Rockford Morning Star while I was a community correspondent. He sat at the newspaper’s desk, accepted my collect call before the 10 p.m. deadline and cradled the telephone with his shoulder while typing as I dictated my report from a local school board or a village board evening meeting.

We met face to face after the superintendent’s secretary phoned me one afternoon to pass along the information that the school board planned to close their evening meeting to the public while they discussed whether to send busses to pick up students at their homes in the nearby, private, recreational development, Lake Summerset. Their proposed action would be contrary to the state’s open meeting act and I tattled to my editor.

While my husband was donning his uniform and paraphernalia for his 3 to 11 shift at the sheriff’s department, we had a row about the upcoming meeting. In general, cops don’t have much love for reporters. Ken said, “Your dad will be fired and our kids will flunk just because you won’t keep your nose out of where it isn’t wanted,” At that time, my dad was a janitor at the school and our three children were students.

That evening, with Bob Hill and another reporter, Joe Baker, sitting at the press table with Sue, the editor of the local weekly, and me, the board complied with the law. My family experienced no repercussions.

At the book signing, I didn’t recognize the old man who used a walking stick to move from the chair beside his wife of 63 years, Janet, to the stool positioned in front of the microphone.

After his presentation, he signed copies of his memoir, “Out There.” When I told him we used to talk on the telephone, he didn’t remember me. I didn’t expect that he would.

Who are some of the people who have touched your life briefly?

Monday, May 26, is our nation’s observance of Memorial Day, a holiday honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Activities will include flying Old Glory, parades and the American Legion organization selling artificial, red poppies as a fund raiser. The flower has been a symbol of lives lost since the World War I poem by John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.:”

The first commemoration was held just three years after the ending of the Civil War (1861 – 1865). General John Logan designated May 30, 1868, as Decoration Day because it wasn’t the anniversary of any battle. He asked people to strew flowers or otherwise decorate the graves in a nationwide remembrance of his comrades who died in defense of our country during the late rebellion and whose bodies lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. The tradition continued until 1971 when an Act of Congress designated the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, an official federal holiday.

Most of the people killed were young–just beginning their adult lives. Some weren’t considered mature enough to vote in elections or drink alcohol but they were the right age to fight for our country.

During World War II, service flags featuring a blue star against a white background and a red border hung in the windows of many homes. A gold star replaced the blue star as a heart-wrenching signal to the community of the family’s devasting loss. For those families, every day is memorial day. Left behind are parents, siblings, spouses, children and friends.

Many people consider Memorial weekend the unofficial beginning of summer activities. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off for picnics, bar-b-ques and parties. Businesses will conduct sales urging customers to buy big-ticket items such as furniture.

I hope each person will take time to consider, “Is my freedom worth other peoples’ lives?”

Yesterday, I went to Rockford for a dental appointment. As I drove along Illinois Route 70, which runs between Durand and Rockford, I wondered how many times in my life I had travelled that concrete road. I have always lived in the Durand area and Rockford has been my main shopping area and the Winnebago County seat for legal business. The road sign just south of the mile-corner reads 18 miles to the city but I always figure half-an-hour to get where I want to go. Years ago, the business area shifted from downtown to the east side, making it take longer to reach the stores.

My first trip would have been when I was ten days old–Dad brought Mom and me home from the Rockford Memorial Hospital where I was born. At that time, women were kept in the institution for ten days after giving birth.

Many of the trips were routine, but some have been memorable. I was four years old when we went to Dad’s surprise party for his 29th birthday. Mom and I shared a secret and a blanket over our legs to keep warm on a December evening in our coupe driving to our friends, Charlie and Aline’s apartment in the city.

I remember the speedy trip home after eating hamburgers at Tuckwood’s restaurant after my first prom date with Kenny. The two of us were in the back seat, when our friend, Wayne, who was driving his father’s Ford, was trying to beat my 2 a.m. curfew, but it was 2:15 when he pulled into our gravel driveway.

I spent four years making the trip five days a week when I worked at the U.S. Department of Agriculture office before I was married.

I’m not sure if 70 is a rut or a path to adventure. In the 1980s, I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association. Their camaraderie and contests assured me that journalism was my calling. The meetings were always held in the Chicago area. Seventy was only the beginning of my journey.

What paths has your life taken?

Sunday is Mother’s Day, a special time to honor the women who gave us life and have been a big influence. Although my mother passed away more than twenty years ago, her voice is still in my head. I can’t leave the house without going to the bathroom and getting a drink just like I was admonished as a child.

Mom. she never wanted to be called Mother or Ma, taught me many things but probably the most valuable was to be myself. When I was a teenager, Mom said, “No,” to a lot of my requests. It did no good to argue, “But everybody else can.”

Her response was always, “You’re not everybody else.”

My mother’s example also led to my being a tomboy, a term used during the forties and fifties for a girl who dressed and behaved more like a boy. Mom showed me that a woman could wear pants and work on the farm beside a man all week but on Saturday night, she donned a dress and high heels to dance with her husband.

I was prepared to be a housewife when I married Ken because Mom had trained me to cook meals, clean the house plus wash and iron clothes.

When I became a mother, Mom taught me to make formula, change a diaper and give a baby a bath in a kitchen sink. After our family included three children, my friends envied me because my folks were often over-night, babysitters when Ken and I wanted to go out with other adults. My parents thought of it as enjoying their only grandchildren.

A time came in our lives when roles were reversed–I cared for my mother. I was fortunate to have her in my life until she turned ninety and I was sixty-five.

How were you influenced by your mother?