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Next Monday is Memorial Day, an American holiday honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Many people visit cemeteries or memorials, hold family gatherings and participate in parades.

The observance originated three years after the Civil War ended. 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 an act of Congress designated the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, an official federal holiday beginning in 1971.

The Civil War was the last time Americans witnessed battles in their homeland. Our nation has been attacked twice since, but the retaliation has been carried out on foreign soil. Japanese airplanes bombed the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor on Oahu Island, Hawaii, December 7, 1941, bringing the United States into World War II. Most of that combat took place in Europe, East Asia, Africa and islands in the Pacific Ocean.

On September 11, 2001, four U.S. passenger jets were highjacked by the militant Islamic extremist group al-Qaeda terrorists and coordinated suicide attacks were carried out. The first two planes hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City and the third smashed into the Pentagon in Arlington County, Virginia. The fourth airliner was intended for a federal building in Washington, D.C., but passengers caused it to crash in a field in Pennsylvania. The international conflict in Afghanistan followed.

Unofficially, Memorial weekend is also considered the beginning of summer. Many things will vie for our attention; stores will advertise bargains for shoppers, grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planned. Women who follow the conventional fashion rule will dig out white shoes that have been abandoned in the back of closets since Labor Day.

How will you observe Memorial Day?

The easiest leap to make is to jump to a conclusion. What we hear or see isn’t always what it seems at first.

After our third child entered school, I became the parttime, church secretary to brush-up my clerical skills. One morning while I was working in the office, several older ladies were quilting in the adjoining room. When I stopped typing to think about how I wanted to word an announcement in the bulletin, I could overhear their conversation. One of the women said, “Poor Debbie. Although David is the father of her expected baby, he doesn’t want to marry her.”

Apparently, the rumors I’d heard about the quilting circle being a gossip session were true. I immediately tried to figure out who they were talking about. Our congregation was small and I knew everyone so it shouldn’t be too hard.

Then, another voice said, “Oh, Volly, you missed the show yesterday. David got down on one knee and proposed.”

I was embarrassed. They weren’t talking about someone in the congregation–they were discussing a soap opera they all watched. I quickly returned to my work.

A similar thing happened one beautiful, spring morning. I had gotten the mail from our post office box and was walking a little extra by going past the west side businesses in town. I saw my older cousin, Bob, come out of the tavern and have a little trouble getting down off the curb. It was just noon so I wondered what was going on that he’d had too much to drink so early in the day. I stopped to greet him. He said, “I’ve spent the morning helping clean the church cemetery and my knees are the worse for wear. I just stopped for a beer to cool off before going home to lunch.”

I responded, “Good for you. I know it’s hard to find volunteers each spring.” I didn’t mention my bad thoughts.

Have you ever quickly jumped to the wrong conclusion?

From the time we’re pregnant with a baby, we gradually realize motherhood lasts forever. We never discard those attributes that keep popping out whether our child is a toddler, a young adult or middle-aged.

I hand our three-year-old granddaughter a glass of orange juice. Our daughter-in-law, Sandy, reminds her, “Tell Grandma thank you, Katelyn.”

The tot repeats, “Thank you, Grandma.”

A few days later, I’m visiting my eighty-year-old mother. My cousin has left some pictures and newspaper clippings at her house for me to pick up. She hands them to me and says, “Be sure and tell Doris thank you.” As soon as I arrive back home, I make the necessary phone call.

Mom also gave me an envelope containing some money for our state trooper daughter, Lisa, to use for a treat during her upcoming vacation. When I pass the cash along, I add, “Don’t forget to thank your grandmother.” A few days later, Grandma received a picture postcard with a thank you note written on the back from Lisa.

Probably at three, our granddaughter had already learned to thank people for favors. I’m sure it was ingrained in my daughter and me to say thank you for gifts, but, still, the mothers felt a reminder was necessary.

Much of our learning is absorbed from daily living with our mothers–not what they formally teach us. I was shocked the first time I heard my mother’s words come out of my mouth when I was mad at my new husband. While I was growing up, I was a Daddy’s girl, and felt sorry for him when he was the subject of my mother’s wrath. At that time, I didn’t realize how frustrating being married to a man could be.

No matter how old we are, our mothers influence us. I still hear Mom’s voice in my head whenever I am preparing to leave the house, “Go to the bathroom and get a drink.”

What lessons have you learned from your mother?

Every day when we get up, there is work to do whether we get paid in dollars or satisfaction. The Grit, a weekly newspaper in the rural United States during much of the twentieth century, ran a series featuring various people talking about their jobs. I was surprised how many found enjoyment and appreciation in jobs others would hate.

But not everybody likes what they do. While I was serving on the local election board, we had a lot of free time for conversation. One of the other four women, a childless, retired, grade school teacher, said she had hated every minute of the many years she spent in her profession. She explained, her husband died young and opportunities for women to work were limited at that time–it was the best way she could support herself. I hope she was able to hide her feelings from her pupils.

Her remark stuck in my memory and made me think about how we choose our jobs. Many times, ways of life run in families such as our members of law enforcement. Farm boys take over from their fathers. The daughters of nurses often become nurses.

Talents usually dictate how people pursue a career. A love of numbers influences some to become accountants. Mechanics and electricians are able to see how things work. People who can draw become artists.

Some of us stumble into occupations by luck. When Ken and I were wed, women were expected to become full-time housewives and mothers. That only worked for me until our three children started school. Then, while reading help wanted ads looking for an office job like I’d had when I was single, I found a career as a freelance journalist working from home. I enjoyed sticking my nose in where it wasn’t always wanted to report on civic meetings, chasing fire trucks and writing features about people and their passions. I joined writers’ groups and attended workshops to learn more about the craft. I’m glad it doesn’t have a retirement age.

How did you choose your job?

The week before Easter, I was disappointed–I went to Fannie May to get a few of their usual candy eggs and they no longer had what had been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The original goodies were bigger than the eggs that came from Mom’s hen house; pink was filled with fruits and nuts, green was chocolate cream and yellow was vanilla cream. When I was planning on cooking dinner for our family on the holiday, I bought eight of each color for our dessert and so some could go home with everyone. For several years, we’ve all gone out to brunch on Easter Sunday so I don’t know when the company made the shift.

First off, there were no pink ones, my favorite. The eggs were in separate boxes labeled 2 oz. each. Before, they had sat in large baskets on the counter and an employee packaged my purchase. When I arrived home, I opened one of the boxes. The egg sat on an elevated cardboard so it looked larger than it actually was. It was nearly flat in an oval shape.

I’ve never run a business so I don’t know anything about the decisions demanded of an owner, whether a mom & pop or a conglomerate. I do know customers need to be satisfied and this buyer isn’t happy.

I know I have to accept that we’re living in changing times. A lot of the renovations I appreciate. A recent power outage reminded me how much we rely on electricity. I was thankful my husband set up a generator to continue operating the furnace, basement sump pump and a few more necessities.

Only a few things remain the same. I enjoy buying a box of oatmeal. I have no problem finding it on the grocer’s shelf–it’s the same round box with the picture of a Quaker on the side. When I fix it for breakfast, it tastes the same as always.

Are you ever disappointed that something you enjoyed is no longer available?

It was late-afternoon and I sat in the living room reading a novel for book club. I was still mulling over what to fix for supper. Nothing that crossed my mind appealed to me. Maybe I’d just heat up one of the Schwan prepared meals that were stashed in the freezer.

I heard an additional voice talking to Ken in the family room and went to greet our son. Kurt asked his dad if he would go with him to Elgin to retrieve his son’s truck. Our grandson had left it parked in his sister’s driveway while he caught a flight at O’Hare Airport. Jacob was worried about a predicted hail storm damaging his prized possession. My husband agreed. Kurt turned to me and said, “If you want to ride along, I’ll buy supper.” I couldn’t turn down an offer like that. An hour-and-a-half later, the three of us were dining in a busy Elgin restaurant.

Afterward, I chose to ride back to Durand with our son. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to be sure the headlights of the other pick-up were following the streets’ twists and turns before we entered I-90. The intimacy of a vehicle sets the stage for conversation; the time passed quickly.

An hour-and-a-half later, Kurt could make a call to assure Jacob that his beloved truck was safely in its garage stall.

It reminded me of days gone by. I’d be grumping around during the late morning, still wearing my nightclothes and not sure if I felt sick or well. A call from a girlfriend suggesting, “Let’s do lunch,” was all I needed to feel fine. I hurried through a shower and dressed for an outing.

Sadly, one of the draw-backs of living to an old age is that many of my playmates have passed away.

Do you like surprises to break up your routine?

Next Monday marks sixty-four years that Ken and I have been married. One of the perennial questions for those who have been husband and wife for a long time is, “What is your secret?”

If I was to isolate one factor, it would be trust. After our Ferris wheel ride in 1952 when I was fourteen, I had to feel I could trust that sixteen-year-old boy before I gave him my heart. Two years later, when he began a four-year hitch in the navy, we declared our love and promised to wait for each other. Following his return home, we were wed.

I expected to have disagreements during our marriage but we would make it through them. While I was growing up on a family dairy farm, my folks worked together, played together and dragged their only child along. When their tempers flared, I observed the storm that ensued and the rainbow that always followed the venting.

Ken and I are thankful for our loving parents who raised us with similar ethics instilled in our characters. We did the same with our own three children. Today, we are proud of our family.

Since Ken retired after serving in law enforcement for 37 years, we spend a lot of time at home together. We also enjoy getting away to pursue our own interests knowing we’ll always return refreshed. For forty years, November meant his annual deer hunting trip to northern Wisconsin with his former, patrol partner, Jerry. That has ended but every April, he and our son continue to make a week-long fishing trip to Kentucky Lake. He also has buddies to spend a day fishing with him at nearby Lake Koshkonong in Wisconsin. I meet with other writers sometimes for a few hours and once in a while, for a few days.

Monday evening, we’ll dress up and go to a restaurant for supper to celebrate. We will share memories and count our many blessings, especially continuing to be together.

What is your primary requirement for a relationship?

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?