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I’ve loved to cook since I was a little girl learning from my mother. I don’t like washing the dirty dishes it creates but that goes with it.

I use directions for nearly everything I make and carefully measure ingredients so a dish tastes the same each time I stir it up. I don’t remember recipes, just where to find them. Many of our meals come from one of my two favorite, well-worn cook books–Betty Crocker’s or Better Homes and Gardens.

Most gatherings I’ve attended through the years included eating whether a full meal or just coffee and dessert. It’s always a compliment to the hostess to have guests ask for a recipe. I keep these in a card file and a notebook. When I see the friend’s or relative’s name, I recall the good times we spent together.

I hope my cooking makes memories for my family, especially the German Chocolate Cake I prepare for my grandson’s birthday plus the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. The menu for the holiday meals never varies from the fresh turkey Grandpa cooks on the Weber grill plus dressing, cranberry relish, mashed potatoes and gravy. I think in this day and age, it may be the only time some members of our family eat mashed potatoes and gravy, a staple of my daily dinners when I was a farmer’s wife feeding three little kids.

Thanksgiving dessert is two pies–pumpkin and country apple. For Christmas dessert, I make bratzelies, a thin, wafer-like cookie made on a special iron similar to a waffle iron, which my folks and Dad’s Swiss family always made at holiday time. I add the rosettes that my mother-in-law made by dipping a hot iron into batter then a pot of melted lard to remind our children and grandchildren of our parents who always made the goodies as part of our celebrations when we were young.

Most of my meals consist of things we’ve eaten for years, but to break the routine, I still collect recipes. We don’t do much socializing so the new recipe is often from a Face Book friend.

Do you like to cook?

“Names are the sweetest and most important sound in any language,” to quote Dale Carnegie, whose 1936 self-help book, “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” is one of the best-sellers of all time.

Mom, my oracle of wisdom, told me that people who have the same name are often alike. Years ago, we belonged to a couple’s card club with three of the six young, men called Ken. One way those fellows were similar was when one of us wives raised our voice and said, “Ken,” to get a husband’s attention, we were always answered by the two that weren’t our spouse.

I’ve noticed I often can guess a person’s age by their first name–popularity of names changes every few years. When our granddaughter was in grade school, four other girls in her class shared her moniker but each was spelled differently.

Names also may have variations as a baby grows up. When little Billy, Donnie and Bobbie misbehaved, their mothers chastised William, Donald and Robert. The adult men are known as Bill, Don and Bob.

For a long time, I had a bias against any female named Marie. While I attended a country grade school, one of the ‘big girls’ was named Marie and she picked on me. When I started junior high in the village, a senior named Marie, who rode the same bus, often teased me. After I was married, it took a long time for me to develop a friendship with the wife of one of my husband’s buddies, a lovely woman named Marie.

Even machines have a prejudice against some names. When our son tried to register my new computer, the company refused to acknowledge my name. I assumed it was because of Vladimir Nabokov’s 1955 best-selling novel, “Lolita,” the story of a twelve-year-old nymphet. There are no similarities between that fictional girl and me; I even pronounce my name differently using a long I sound instead of a long E. Still, I had to dig up a high school nickname to be accepted.

What are your thoughts when you hear a person’s name for the first time?

At last, it’s spring according to the calendar. The signs have been showing up for some time. Road crews removed the snow fences from rural fields. Plans to get together with friends quit including the caveat, if weather permits. TV ads hawking over-the-counter allergy remedies replace those for cold and flu medicines. Robins hop around brown lawns. Dandelions pop up in sheltered places. Sprouting rhubarb creates visions of tasty pies.

It also creates a few problems. Pot holes appear in all of the roads aggravating motorists. Farmers beginning field work often temporarily tie up traffic when moving their equipment from place to place.

The warmer temperatures bring out young mothers pushing baby strollers along village sidewalks. At the grocery store, some of the men shopping are wearing shorts and revealing their winter-white legs.

Yard sales around the neighborhood show the results of people cleaning out storage areas and adjusting to growing children. Residents roll out grills, picnic tables and patio furniture for outdoor gatherings. We can enjoy longer daylight, especially since the time change.

Practices begin for the many forms of ball played by all ages: Little Leagues for youngsters, softball teams for teens and adults plus slow pitch for the aging athletes.

I miss the signs that I was accustomed to seeing but have gone by the wayside. Few housewives engage in vigorous, spring cleaning, which included washing windows inside and out. Grade-schoolers no longer use chalk to draw a hopscotch design and play the game on concrete walks. Younger children aren’t enjoying a backyard swing set. No more basketball hoops on garage roofs with teenagers in the driveways trying to duplicate one another’s shots in a game of HORSE. Failure gave the player one letter in the word–the loser was the first to complete the word.

What means spring to you?

I’ve joined a new group of writers, Authors Supporting Authors. We meet in Rockford on the last Tuesday of the month from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. in the Community Room at the Goodwill store, 3068 McFarland Road. New members are welcome.

To get acquainted at our first meeting, we each gave a brief bio. Age wasn’t mentioned, but, as I looked around, it was obvious I was the oldest person in the room. Many of the others resembled my children.

Most of these people pen stories but I am a nonfiction writer. Except for my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com, which I’ve posted on Wednesdays for the last four years, much of my experience is outdated. In 1969, all this stay-at-home mom needed to begin a career as a freelance journalist was a typewriter and a 35 mm camera. I learned by doing and joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, which is affiliated with the National Federation of Press Women. Through the years, I’ve received many awards from both organizations for articles published by area newspapers, national magazines and a literary journal. My memoir and one of my radio interviews for In Print also garnered recognition.

After my husband and I celebrated our Golden Anniversary in 2009, I began a memoir about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s. To make my book read like a novel, I attended workshops to learn to write creative nonfiction. Twice a month on Wednesday evenings, I drove forty-five minutes to meet with the Janesville (Wisconsin) Area Writers. I read aloud ten-minute excerpts from my tale and received constructive criticism from the other dozen members. It took a decade of research, writing and rewriting before I submitted my proposal to Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm. I was elated when they offered me a contract to publish “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel” in paperback and Kindle. I’ve received some royalties but now I’m hoping to learn more about boosting area sale. I’ll be looking for opportunities to contribute to the group.

How do you relate to the younger generations?

Often, I’ve looked at my daily routine and thought boring. Now, I’m happily saying, “Welcome back.”

While I was caring for Linda, our developmentally different daughter, I instituted a writing schedule. At 9 a.m., we walked a total of six blocks to get our mail from the post office box. Then, she was content for the rest of the morning and I could sit at my computer. At that time, the fire whistle blew at noon alerting villagers that it was lunch time. I quickly found a stopping place because Linda was ready to eat. After her death 15 years ago, I have continued that routine.

My disruption began Valentine’s Day when the computer died. Our son ordered a new one on line and I prepared to wait about three weeks for the replacement.

At first, I cleaned by file cabinet. Two Thursday evenings, Ken had a recycle bin full of used paper that he carried to the curb. That was the end of my industry. I tried doing some pencil and paper jotting during that down time so I wouldn’t lose my thoughts, but it didn’t work very well.

About a week later, the ice storm brought down a tree limb in our front yard, which caught the line attaching our house to the electric power. So much wasn’t working from the heated water bed to the pencil sharpener. We have a generator so we had necessities such as heat, frig, freezer and sump pump needed to keep our basement water free. There was also a place to charge our phones and our hearing aids. The coffee maker and toaster could be plugged in for breakfast. Cold lunches and supper from Cimino’s kept us fed. Forty-eight hours passed before the lights came back on.

I’m not good without my usual rut. I got tired of reading and doing crosswords or sudokus. I even found a deck of cards and played some solitaire, which I haven’t done in years.

How do you cope when your days are disrupted?

Nest Tuesday is Valentine’s Day, a time to celebrate love. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over, the stores blossomed with red hears and they began pushing gifts for that special someone including jewelry, boxes of chocolates and cards. Florists have a special price for roses.

Young love is the subject of songs, poems and stories. I remember the first time eighteen-year-old Kenny told me, “I love you, honey.” It was our last Saturday night date before he would begin a four-year-hitch in the navy. It took several seconds for this sunned, sixteen-year-old to respond, “I love you, too, and I’ll wait for you.” All the next day, I felt like the crooners on the radio were serenading me, especially Nat “King” Cole singing “Too Young.”

But falling in love is thrilling no matter how old you are. When my cousin, Doris, who was in her forties, asked me to be matron of honor for her marriage, she was as giddy as a young girl making plans. I was still in my twenties but, as the mother of three small children, I felt like we had switched ages. Before she met Bob, she had resigned herself to being an old maid like her aunt, who worked as a secretary. She’d even bought her own tombstone so her sister’s family wouldn’t have the expense.

Love also isn’t limited ‘one to a customer’. My friend, Joyce, who was a widow, played euchre at a senior center where she met Sid, a fellow who had lost his wife. They married so they could spend the remainder of their lives together.

There are also couples like Ken and me who are living the saying, “The most romantic love story isn’t Romeo and Juliet who died together…but Grandma and Grandpa who grew old together.”

How have you experienced love?

As a beginning journalist, I spent thirteen years attending local school board and village board meetings. I wasn’t always welcome but the Open Meetings Law assured my access. Before my 10 p.m. deadline, I phoned in reports to the Rockford Morning Star. Most of the people who lived in this community subscribed to the daily newspaper and could read my published articles the next morning.

All of us are affected by the actions of these governing bodies. For example, their annual budgets become part of our property tax bills. If you’re a renter, an increase in your landlord’s assessment may be passed along to you.

The community unit school district trustees, who receive no compensation, hire and fire teachers and administrators. They also decide what can and cannot be taught to the students. In the past, one father influenced his fellow members to add a German language class to the high school curriculum. His son planned to be a doctor and needed the instruction.

Those of us who don’t have kids in school are still concerned. Will our educational system attract families? Will our future community citizens be educated or not?

The village board members, who are paid a stipend, oversee the police department and the public works department. They also pass ordinances that govern the residents such as speed limits on the streets and how a home may be remodeled.

All of them might endure flak from their constituents. A disgruntled citizen may button-hole the public servants on the street, in a coffee shop or at church. Rarely do the trustees receive kudos for a decision.

In the Durand community, there’ll be a Consolidated Election April4 for members of these two boards. Residents have time to learn about the aspirants for office. All candidates run independently–none are affiliated with a party. A variety of representatives is needed because as a wise man once told me, “All of us are smarter than one of us.”

Do you vote in the local elections?

“I don’t want to do that.” Unless we’re dealing with a five-year-old, we don’t hear that candor. Instead, an adult invokes an acceptable social excuse saying something like, “I’d love to, but I’m just too busy right now.” It’s a well-known fact, we can usually make room in our lives for the things we really want to do.

A similar nuance crops up if I run into someone I haven’t seen for a long time. The two of us spend a few minutes catching up with what’s been happening in each other’s lives. The meeting ends with, “We must get together…” but no time is set. Unless cell numbers are exchanged, a promised ‘buzz’ never materializes. We can no longer rely on a phone book or Information.

Another conversational response that’s usually glossed over is the true, physical condition of an acquaintance. Although it happened forty years ago, I’ll never forget a call from an older friend of my husband’s. I answered the wall phone and told Freddy, “I’m sorry, Ken isn’t home.” I knew he’d recently undergone surgery, so I added a casual, “How are you?” I expected to hear, “Fine.” Instead, I listened to a blow-by-blow account of his prostate operation.

Although, I was brought up with the dictum, “Don’t lie,” I’ve also learned not to answer a probing question with, “It’s none of your business.” I skirt the truth with a little embroidery in my response that doesn’t reveal any deep, dark secrets.

Another question that doesn’t really want a true opinion is, “What do you think about…” It’s obvious that concurrence is sought, not argument. All I have to do is figure out the person’s stance and come up with a non-committal reply if my thoughts go in the opposite direction.

Do you use subterfuge at times?

Each one of us is unique and can be identified by a finger print or DNA. Personality and lifestyle combine with genetics to make each individual distinctive. I can cite several things that have contributed to my being different.

When I was bussed to the new Durand Junior High School and joined the seventh-grade class of more than 30 pupils, I was the only one who didn’t have a sibling and did still have my tonsils. It was an era when tonsillectomies were as much a part of childhood as losing baby teeth. But my parents didn’t believe in surgery unless absolutely necessary.

In high school, I began dating Ken, who’s still the man in my life. The year I graduated, 1955, Vladimir Nabokov published his best-selling novel, “Lolita,” pronounced with a long “E” sound. Dad had named me Lolita with a long “I” sound. Apparently, I’m the only one who says it that way–I’m always correcting strangers who think they know how to enunciate my name.

Some of my habits set me apart; I enjoy my own company. The advent of COVID forced people to be homebound instead of working and socializing with others. It didn’t make much difference in my life–I was used to spending most of my time in our house. When I go shopping in the city, I eat lunch alone in a nice restaurant. Looking around the dining room, I’m the only person sitting at a table for one.

Although I’m a writer, I’ve always enjoyed working with numbers. At conferences of wordsmiths, I’ve found the others abhor math. At a recent gathering of grandmothers, the conversation drifted to helping grade-schoolers with homework. The group agreed–arithmetic story problems were the worst. I’ve always found story problems fun.

What attributes make you unique?

During the 1970s, the TV show “Emergency!” introduced viewers to emergency medical services (EMS) provided by paramedics John Gage and Roy De Soto who staffed the Los Angeles County Fire Department ambulance. As communities across the nation adopted the assistance, local twins, Gladys Bliss and Grace Thoren, decided it was time for the Durand community’s Fire Protection District No. 1 to have an ambulance and donated one. A few of the volunteer firefighters each spent more than 100 hours at a hospital in Rockford being trained as emergency medical technicians (EMTs). As residents got used to having an ambulance available, calls increased. Voters approved a tax hike to contract a professional crew to be at the local fire station 24/7.

First responders pursue a demanding career. Physically, it requires carrying patients of all sizes while working indoors and outdoors in varying weather such as rain, snow or heat. While working long shifts, they must remain calm and professional plus be emotionally supportive to patients who may be vomiting, scared or drunk. The workers risk exposure to contagious diseases and viruses. Like other aspects of the medical field, there is a need for more EMTs and paramedics to replace those retiring or leaving. The pay, which averages $30,000 to $40,000 annually, convinces some there are better ways to earn a living.

We never know when we might experience a serious, unexpected and often dangerous situation requiring immediate action. Last Halloween morning, Ken and I attended the funeral of my 100-year-old aunt, Viola Tschabold, at McCorkle’s. Following the service and burial in Durand Township Cemetery, we were sitting at a lunch table in Cimino’s visiting with some of my cousins and enjoying the Italian food. My last bite of pizza caught in my esophagus and I started coughing. I couldn’t get it loose. A nurse in the crowd came over to assist. I fainted and was laid on the floor. Someone called 911. An ambulance staffed by two EMT’s arrived to take me to the hospital in Monroe, Wisconsin, where I was kept overnight.

Have you ever needed an ambulance?