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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?

During the recent holidays, I missed dressing up for events. I’m comfortable in jeans, I’ve worn them all my life, but I enjoy a change.

While I was a girl, playing dress-up in Karen’s attic was a favorite Saturday pastime. My bestie and I put on her mother’s cast-off, good dresses and high-heeled shoes for dates with our imaginary boyfriends. The movies we’d seen supplied our knowledge of the make-believe nightclubs we visited.

While Ken was a member of the sheriff’s police, we joined the other deputies and their wives for a Christmas party dinner and dancing. My husband wore his suit and a tie. Each year, I made myself a new frock. One time, I cut off the long gown Lisa had worn as a bridesmaid; the garment wasn’t frilly like they usually were.

New Year’s Eve, one of our group of friends hosted a get together, but we still wore our best. It was a lot cheaper than going out to a restaurant to celebrate and the food was more plentiful.

As time passed, we aged and fashions changed. Now casual clothes are worn for most occasions.

An exception occurred a couple years ago. Our granddaughter’s wedding called for Ken to acquire a new suit and tie while I purchased a dress and panty hose. We don them again when we go out to eat to celebrate our anniversary. Usually, we’re the only ones in the restaurant who are wearing our ‘Sunday-go-to-meetin’.

Recently, while visiting with a friend who had just attended a wedding in Chicago, she had a fashion tip for me–women no longer bother with panty hose. I’d noticed it was harder to find a new pair. No longer are the white, egg-shaped containers hanging on a rack in the drugstore and the counter in a department store has become much smaller.

Do you miss dressing up or are you more appreciative of the casual look?

Saturday night we’ll celebrate the ending of 2022 and the beginning of 2023. Time seems to be passing faster as I age. Things crossing my mind that I think happened a year or two ago are actually five or ten years in the past.

Every morning while I’m eating breakfast, I hear the clock on the wall ticking away the seconds. It makes me think about how we as older people are spending our time. Raising families and working at jobs are behind us, leaving more leisure to do the things we want to do. For example, our friends, Joyce and Sid, who enjoy socializing, join others playing euchre several afternoons a week at nearby senior centers.

My husband, Ken, who left law enforcement behind after serving for 37 years, is a farmer at heart. Each spring, he plants a large garden in our backyard. He places his surplus fresh vegetables on a picnic table for others to help themselves.

Our daughter, Lisa, a former trooper who spent duty shifts patrolling Illinois highways, volunteers several days a week to drive area veterans to appointments with doctors at the VA Hospital in Madison, Wisconsin.

My favorite painting was done by my cousin, Doris, when she took an art class after retiring from delivering the U.S. mail in rural areas. Her 16 x 20-inch picture is copied from a black and white photo taken on a threshing day at their farm eighty years ago. With a backdrop of the yellow, straw stack, I’m the four-year-old wearing a red dress and sitting on the spring seat in an orange wagon pulled by my uncle’s brown team, Adam and Eve. Dad is climbing into the wagon. Although he’s wearing a blue, work shirt and bib overalls exactly the same as the other farmers, I recognize his back view by the way he cocked his straw hat.

Since my memoir, The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel, was published by Adelaide Books, a New York firm, I have been posting every Wednesday to my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com. I agree with Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her narrative, Eat, Pray, Love, who says, “Writing is not like dancing or modeling; it’s not something, where–if you missed it by age 19–you’re finished. It’s never too late. Your writing will only get better as you get older and wiser.”

Priscilla Long, a poet and writer who is nearing age eighty, has a new book, Dancing with the Muse in Old Age. It’s an anti-ageist manifesto that debunks the myth of peak creativity from ages 39-42 with inspirational anecdotes about writers, artists, scholars and athletes who work long into their 90s…and beyond. I’m looking forward to reading it.

How are you planning to spend your time in this new year?

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?