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Like Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ novella, “A Christmas Carol,” ghosts from Christmas Past visit me while I’m working preparing food ahead for our holiday meal. I think about the loved ones who live only in my memories.

During the years I believed in Santa Claus, I had to take Mom’s place helping Dad do the Christmas Eve chores. Although I couldn’t milk a cow by hand like she did, I could do small tasks such as dumping some milk into a dish for the cats that lived in the barn. While we worked, Dad heard Santa’s sleigh bells. When I returned to the house through the back door, Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing supper for Aunt Frannie, Uncle Hookie, and their grown daughters, Doris and Sis, who would join us to eat and open presents. I checked the decorated tree standing in the living room and was excited to see my wrapped gifts left by the ‘Jolly Old Elf’, who had entered by the front door.

For our first Christmas together, Ken and I bought an expensive, 35 mm camera as our joint gift. I was pregnant with our first baby who would arrive in February. Daddy wanted to be ready to take outstanding pictures of our family. Spending the day at his parents’ house with his extended family, which included his sister’s six, young children tired me out. I wondered how I would handle motherhood.

After several years of my family’s going to my parents for Christmas Eve supper, I took over preparing the meal. It seemed easier than packing up our three little ones and our gifts to return home after an evening at Grandpa and Grandma’s.

For a brief moment in my thoughts, we’re young parents crawling out of bed when we hear Linda, Lisa and Kurt giggling while coming down the stairs early Christmas morning to see what Santa left. It seems like we just went to sleep after assembling their toys.

Our off-spring became adults and I see three people in uniform while I juggle police schedules to plan a Christmas meal. We added a daughter-in-law and two grandkids. Then, those two grew up and enlarged our group again.

This year, our family will come together December 26. The time is compatible with a police schedule and the other sides of the family. It’s the people who make the holiday memorable, not the date on the calendar.

Who are your ghosts of Christmas Past?

The other day in the grocery store, the woman at the checkout counter sprayed a paper towel and used it to dampen her fingers so she could separate the plastic bags she needed to use for my items. It reminded me of how useful our spit is. At home, I lick my fingers to separate things such as pages in a book. To thread a needle, I stick the thread into my mouth first–it goes through the eye easier when it’s wet.

I was a preschooler when I first saw spit used as a grooming aid. I sat on the edge of my cousin Doris’s bed watching her get ready for a date. She didn’t have a glass of water in her upstairs bedroom to moisten her Maybelline cake mascara so she could apply it to her lashes–she spit on it. When I had kids of my own, I’d stick my fingers into my mouth before I wiped a smudge from my child’s check or controlled a few wild hairs.

Drool also is used to symbolize how worthless something or someone is. We say, “It doesn’t mean spit.” Expectorating on someone is the height of contempt. Police officers and Viet Nam vets are familiar with that humiliation.

Watching “Gunsmoke” on TV, I thought the worst job in the Old West would be cleaning the brass spitton used by the cowboys who chewed tobacco in the Long Branch Saloon. I was familiar with the habit. When Dad’s family came to visit while I was growing up, Grandpa, who used the smokeless tobacco, asked me to get an empty, tin can for him to spit into. After he left, his container could be thrown away.

Most of the time, we ignore our saliva. It’s always there unless something scary like public speaking leaves us with a dry mouth. Some pills leave people with xerostomia–another medication counteracts this problem.

How do you view spit?

Today is Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day. Eighty-one years ago, December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Hawaii thrusting the United States into World War II. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s War Address broadcast on the radio termed it “a date which will live in infamy.” Men from every family enlisted or were drafted into the armed forces–16 million served.

The women and children left behind sacrificed. Similar to World War I, the females on the home front took the places of the males who went to fight. “Rosie, the Riveters” worked in the factories, which had converted to making war materials instead of assembling cars.

Sugar and meat were among the products rationed. To cope with the shortages, mothers found cookie recipes that used local honey instead of imported sugar. They bought small, wooden boxes filled with dried cod fish, creamed the seafood and served it over mashed potatoes for dinner.

Qualified teachers were in short supply. Young ladies with little more than a high school education were granted emergency certificates and taught in one-room, country schools like I attended. They led their students to begin each day by standing beside their desks, facing the flag and placing their right hands over their hearts to recite the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

Instead of buying candy with their coins, children purchased savings stamps, which were pasted into a booklet. When it was full, they traded it for a war bond costing $18.75. In ten years, the certificate could be cashed in for $25.

In 1945, the Allies victory ended the conflict. Our nation’s people celebrated in the streets and then everyone headed home. Although my generation were children not soldiers, the war instilled in us a deep love and loyal support of our country. In the words of former Illinois governor, Adlai Stevenson, “Patriotism is not short, frenzied outbursts of emotion, but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime.”

According to the U.S. Dept. of Veterans Affairs, there are just over 167,000 veterans of the Big War remaining. They are in their 90s or older. When the Greatest Generation is gone, will the American people still “remember Pearl Harbor’ so that it never happens again?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard, “You can choose your friends but you’re stuck with your relatives.” But, how do we select our companions? I’ve never entered a crowd with the idea of picking some new pals. My cohorts usually are contacts from school and work, neighbors or friends of friends.

Karen was my first ‘bestie’. I met her when I started first grade at our one-room, country school with an enrollment of about ten boys and girls in the various eight grades. Although she was a year older, we enjoyed doing things together such as riding bicycles and ponies.

From seventh through twelfth, I was bussed into Durand where I had 20 to 30 classmates. I hit-it-off with country lasses who enjoyed playing sports. When I started going out with Ken, we double-dated with his buddies and their girlfriends. Those gals became my confidantes. After graduation, my office co-workers were my intimates.

When I was a nineteen-year-old patient in a TB sanitarium for five months, I met people who were different from me. My daily companions were the four, younger females assigned to the women’s floor: Rosie, a married lady in her early twenties who had black hair, brown eyes and a dark complexion; Sue, a lively, 16-year-old, high school junior, who was my roommate; Florence, a woman of color, who I thought was about my age until she told me she was a 40-year-old widow with three children; and Sako, a newly-wed from Japan. She had married an Illinois farmer after he was stationed in her country during his enlistment in the Air Force. Our affliction brought us together and we found many commonalities.

People marry and move, which often affects friendships. After Ken and I bought our home in Durand, Sherrill, a neighbor who lived in the same block, became my crony. We each had three kids who were similar ages and played together. Her husband worked the p.m. shift in a nearby factory and Ken worked rotating shifts at the sheriff’s department and ‘moonlighted’ as a truck driver. When she and I had free time, we enjoyed playing Scrabble or just visiting.

Sometimes a shared interest brings people together. When I started writing, I joined groups who put words on paper.

How have you chosen your friends?

Besides our family, one of the things I’m thankful for is books. I’ve enjoyed reading since I met Dick and Jane in my first-grade primer. Mysteries became my favorite genre when the travelling library brought the Hardy Boys series to my country grade school but my tastes are eclectic.

Sometimes I gain unexpected knowledge from a novel such as learning about elephants when our book club recently read “Leaving Time” by Jodi Picoult. One of the story’s main characters, Alice Metcalf, a researcher, spends a lot of her time observing the animals and writing down what she sees.

Books transport me from my mundane life to a few hours of living as someone exciting. While I was a teenager recovering from tuberculosis in the sanitarium, I read about “Doc” Holliday, the gunfighter friend of lawman Wyatt Earp. The nonfiction satisfied two of my interests–the dentist resided in the Old West and suffered from consumption.

When I became a mother, I knew little about raising kids. My bible was “The Common Book of Child Care” by Dr. Benjamin Spock.

I’m a do-it-yourselfer. Some people take a class to learn a new skill; I always look for a how-to-book. For example, while our youngsters were growing up, I did a lot of sewing. When our davenport and chair needed reupholstering, I found a booklet in the yard goods store that gave step-by-step instructions to recover the furniture.

Buying an annual Rockford Library card enables me to borrow books about whatever subject catches my interest. It costs the same as the average taxpayer residing in the district pays whether that person uses the library or not.

When I decided to write a book, my memoir about our seven-year courtship in the 1950s, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” I read several examples by other authors.

Are you a reader?

Do you recall the Brady Bunch, Beaver Cleaver and the “Home Alone” boy, Macaulay Culkin? Most of today’s TV programs and movies don’t include children. The characters are adults and the story is about their problems.

On Monday nights, I watch the TV sitcom, “The Neighborhood.” The plots center around a white Midwestern family who moves into a Black neighborhood in California. The stories feature longtime residents Calvin and Tina plus their two grown sons, Malcolm and Marty, and their relationship with newcomers, Dave and Gemma, who have a young boy, Grover. He’s an elementary student at the school where his mother is principal and makes brief appearances on the show.

The only exception I’ve noticed is “Young Sheldon” with Iain Armitage in the title role. In 2017, he was nine when he was cast as the child genius in the prequel to “The Big Bang Theory.” The socially inept lad interacts with his family that includes his twin sister, an older brother, their parents and a maternal grandmother who live in Texas during the 1980s and early 90s.

Through the years, there have been many child stars. Elizabeth Taylor became the nation’s sweetheart as a twelve-year-old girl who loved a horse in the 1944 movie “National Velvet.” She continued in many movies as she matured including “The Father of the Bride” in 1950 and the historical epic, “Cleopatra,” in 1963. The public was fascinated by her real-life loves including singer, Eddie Fisher, and actor, Richard Burton.

In 1949, Ricky Nelson was eight when he joined his parents, Ozzie and Harriet, plus older brother, David, in their radio series. The family made the transition to a television sitcom in 1952. Five years later, Rick began a long career as a musician, songwriter and actor, which was cut short when he died in a plane crash on New Year’s Eve 1985.

Six-year-old Ronnie Howard began his entertainment career as Opie Taylor, son of Mayberry’s sheriff, Andy Griffith, on TV from 1960 to 1968. He followed that by playing Richie Cunningham, a 1950s teenager attending a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, high school in the sitcom, “Happy Days,” shown on TV from 1974 to 1980. As an adult, Ron has become a successful movie director, producer and screenwriter.

Do you have a favorite child star?

Friday is Veterans Day, a time to recognize all veterans who have honorably served our country. The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the ending of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. We have our veterans to thank that everyone living in this country has the opportunity to show patriotism and to protest.

My generation remembers the friends and members of our families who fought in World War II. We stand with our hands over our hearts for the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and when Old Glory passes by during a parade just like we were taught when we were students who began each school day with the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

Residents take for granted that our country will continue to be kept safe by our military, but, according to officials, young people’s familiarity with the services keeps dropping. In 2021, an Army study found 75% of Americans ages 16-28 knew little to nothing about the Army.

Every branch of the volunteer U.S. armed services is struggling to meet its recruiting quotas for fiscal year 2022. Army Secretary Christine Wormuth told NBC News, “The Army, like other services, is facing the most challenging recruiting market in the last 20 years.”

A record low percentage of young adults are eligible to serve and an even tinier fraction are willing to consider it. Army Chief of Staff Gen. James McConville testified before Congress that only 23% of the Americans ages 17-24 are qualified. The pool continues to shrink with more young men and women disqualified for obesity, drug use or criminal records. An internal Defense Department survey found only 9% of those young people eligible to serve in the military had any inclination to do so.

Some of those who have served wear a tee shirt or a cap proudly proclaiming they are veterans. Sometimes the only recognition these men and women receive is a thank you from an appreciative citizen. Have you voiced your gratitude to a veteran for his or her contribution to your freedom?

I think it’s bass-ackward that I have to call and cancel to avoid having a new item and charge added to our bill from a large company. Before I dial the number listed for customer service, I gather all of the information I can think of that might be needed–our account number, my husband’s social security number because our account is in his name, our street address and our former landline phone number that’s usually still in their file. I write them all down including my cell phone number to be sure I recite them correctly if asked. Then, just like I’m going on a trip, I go to the bathroom and get a drink. I have no idea how long this session may take. I carefully input their number and a machine promptly answers. The menu follows: select 1 for this, select 2 for that, etc. My problem doesn’t seem to fit any of their categories such as my balance or when I made my last payment–I know those answers. I listen to the menu a second time and select what seems to be the closest. I’m assured my call is important to them and it will be answered by the next available person. The wait begins and some music.

When a person answers, I politely say I don’t want the new feature. Then, I have to listen to a spiel about how great the addition would be. I reiterate my no, thank you. I try to be courteous because I know the person I’m dealing with is only following orders and has no control over the situation.

I wonder if the ‘powers that be’ make these calls as annoying as possible to discourage people from using what I think should be labelled their customer frustration number.

Do you have any tips for making these calls easier?

I didn’t expect the day to come when I didn’t know all of my neighbors but it has. Old friends have moved away or died. I’m not outdoors much like Ken who does the yard work and talks with new people taking care of outside chores.

Each weekday morning and afternoon, there’s a traffic jam of parents driving their students to classes and home again. Few boys and girls walk by or ride bikes. The village has changed and so have I.

When we moved into Durand in 1966, I knew nearly everyone who lived in the little town that has never had more than 1500 residents. Our three children walked to school and played outside with the other kids who lived in the area. Our two daughters joined Girl Scouts and our son became a Cub Scout. I volunteered with those organizations, was a room mother and an active member of our church. I warned our offspring, “Your dad is a county deputy and your mom’s a newspaper reporter; everyone knows the Ditzler kids, sees what you’re doing, and can’t wait to tell your mother.” It wasn’t an idle threat. People picked up their phone book, found our number and gave me a ring whenever they saw our kids doing something they shouldn’t. The tattling was usually accompanied by the phrase, “I knew you’d want to know.”

After our children graduated, I continued watching school sporting and musical events that included our two grandchildren. When they both went off to college, I quit attending those local activities. I’m not a jointer so I don’t meet strangers in adult organizations. I am a member of the group on Facebook, “What’s Going On In Durand,” but most of the others are unfamiliar names.

Are you acquainted with your neighbors?

Today would be the birthday of my husband’s best friend, Wayne. The two boys met when they began first grade and continued to be buddies until Wayne died in the spring of 1999 when they were sixty-three.

Through the years, I’ve heard lots of “me and Wayne” stories. (Ken is a stickler for good grammar, but he never has broken that habit.) The growing lads found lots to do, especially during the summers. They rode their bicycles for miles and miles. I can’t imagine the two town boys thought it was fun to pedal through cow pies in the country.

In a restaurant, Ken likes to order frog legs. He told me the tale of the first time he ate the delicacy. While enjoying their favorite summer playground, the banks of South Otter Creek, the young fellows caught some of the amphibians. They built a fire, roasted the haunches and ate them.

Wayne brought us together. When we were teenagers, he met a girl at the Davis Days summer festival and she agreed to go on the Ferris wheel with him. He urged his companion to ask me. During our ride, Kenny could see Wayne had his arm around his girl. He circled my shoulders saying, “I hope you don’t mind–I’ve got to keep up with Wayne.”

After Wayne married Gloria and Ken married me, our families continued the camaraderie. When Wayne’s job took them from the Rockford area to the Chicago suburbs where Lori, Rick and Teri grew up, I-90 made it possible to continue visiting back and forth.

We attended a surprise birthday party for Wayne’s 50th birthday. The next morning, I asked Ken where he wanted to go for our family supper to celebrate his milestone birthday, which was 19 days away.

He mumbled, “I’d really like a surprise party like Wayne had.”

I responded, “I asked you weeks ago if you wanted a party and you said no. It’s too late to invite people.” But it wasn’t. After he left for work, I started making phone calls to plan a celebration. The group surprised Ken even though he’d asked for the party.

Today I’m thankful for Wayne’s friendship and the memories both Ken and I have of a good man.

Do you have a longtime friend?