lolita-s-bigtoe.com

In the past, I’ve interviewed numerous area authors for WBOM streaming radio, www.wbomradio.com, originating from high atop the Mendolssohn Performing Arts Center in Rockford, Illinois. One of my sessions won a second-place award from the National Federation of Press Women.

As the author of my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” I traded places and answered questions from WBOM’s Pamela at the Ethnic Museum book fair last Saturday. I don’t know when my interview will be broadcast on the In Print Radio program, which can be found on the computer Sundays at 7:00 a.m. and Mondays at 7:00 a.m.

I talked about my background and my book. I slipped into the writing world though the side door of learn by doing. After our three children were enrolled in school, I answered the Rockford Morning Star’s ad seeking correspondents to report news from the small towns surrounding the county seat. An editor said all I needed was a typewriter and a 35 mm camera–no training or experience in journalism was necessary. I attended civic meetings, chased fire trucks and submitted feature stories about Durand area people and their passions. After thirteen years, the daily abruptly dropped all part-timers. I sent query letters to national publications for women, farmers and police officers. Some of my proposed magazine articles were accepted.

After my ninety-year-old mother passed away, I read her daily jottings about our life on the family dairy farm during the 1950s. I used her diaries as the basis to write a memoir of my seven-year courtship that began with a Ferris wheel ride when Kenny and I were teenagers and continued through his four-year hitch in the U.S. Navy and my five months in a sanitarium recuperating from a serious bout with tuberculosis.

A couple of my writer friends had been published by Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm. I submitted my manuscript and I was thrilled when they offered me a contract. The book is available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback. Signed copies can be purchase from me.

I continue to write by posting on Wednesdays to my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com. It’s aimed at older women but is also read by a few men.

We are all children and most of as become parents. Have you ever traded places with any others?

Crawling into bed at the end of my day, our dark bedroom reminds me of a sensory deprivation tank without the water. There is nothing to see, hear or smell. Instead of slumbering like my husband lying beside me, my mind switches to pondering–considering quietly, soberly and deliberately the events of my day. When I was raising children, it was often my first peace and quiet.

I’ve never been one to give an immediate answer to a serious question. I often use the phrase, “Let me sleep on that.” I’d rather take time to consider the various ramifications of a decision. When our growing children asked, “Mom, can we..,” and wanted a quick reply, I usually said no. Later, after giving their request some thought, I could change to yes and everyone was happy. With kids, yes can’t be changed to no unless there’s a dire emergency. I continued the practice with our grandchildren until our granddaughter said, “Grandma, don’t say no, say, ‘I’ll think about it’.”

To me, pondering is a big part of writing. Every morning, I sit at my computer. I have learned to quickly jot something down to make a starting point. My first thoughts on a subject are filled with clichés and inactive verbs, the bane of scribblers. That is where the rewriting begins. When I leave my office to fix lunch, my composition is pushed to the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Sometimes I have a constructive thought while I’m doing dishes, folding clothes or taking a walk.

I quit writing while caring for our daughter, Linda, after she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. I probably could have found some time to sit at my computer but, my mind wasn’t free to ruminate.

Do you ponder?

Our countryside is dotted with hollow silos, remnants of the family dairy farm that has been eliminated by progress. The structures are typically thirty feet tall and ten feet in diameter–made of cast-in-place concrete, or precast, concrete staves held together with steel bands and topped with a metal dome. Some are solitary; others stand beside empty barns amid abandoned hog pens and chicken coops. I see the silos as monuments to the men, women, boys and girls who worked together milking cows, a 24/7 chore, and played together.

When the silos were in use, neighbors worked together during the late summer to fill them with chopped, green cornstalks. The silage provided winter feed for the bovines.

Every household included a dog. While I was growing up, my ‘little brother’ was Tony, a white, English bulldog, who accompanied us doing chores during the day and slept on a throw rug in the kitchen at night. He loved to ride along with Dad or Mom on the orange, Allis Chalmers tractor. When he heard the engine growl to life, he scurried to jump aboard the wooden platform that stretched between the rear fenders.

Farming was considered healthy living. The people ate hearty meals and the scraps were fed to their canines. Families rarely went to a doctor and pets never saw a veterinarian.

After high school graduation, I worked in an office assisting Winnebago County farmers to take advantage of the federal government programs such as enriching their cropland by applying needed limestone and phosphate or planting corn in contour rows around a hillside to prevent top soil eroding during a rain storm. One of the middle-aged men told me, “I have two sons so I need two farms.”

At that time, Illinois law required the owner’s name and address to be painted on the doors of his pick-up truck to prevent rustling of farm animals. Men added “& Son” soon after a boy was born into the family. The occupation is still passed from generation to generation.

Do you notice the silos standing along rural roads?

Ken and I spent most of last Saturday in an area city that we don’t often visit. Knowing it would be close to supper time when we finished our business, I had made a reservation at a favorite restaurant. We finished our commitment before the eatery’s scheduled opening time. While waiting in their parking lot, we listened to classic country music on the truck radio. Ken thought about the frog legs he would soon be enjoying. They’re a delicacy few places serve.

What a disappointment when we were seated at our table. They had drastically reduced their menu since COVID-19 and various new, government regulations. Instead of several pages in a folder, we were given a typed sheet that didn’t include his favorite. When I had looked for a phone number on their website, they didn’t include their menu so we were surprised. The establishment was soon crowded. Apparently, their regulars had adjusted to their changes or maybe they had added some new customers.

A few weeks ago, my husband had gone fishing. I decided to treat myself and drove to a place that specialized in ladies’ lunches. When I pulled into their deserted parking lot, I saw a hand-lettered sign leaning against their front door, “Closed temporarily because we don’t have enough help.” I returned home and opened a can of soup.

A girlfriend and I have also run into problems trying to schedule a lunch together. Some of the places where we have met before, no longer serve at mid-day, but are only open in the evening for dinner. Others have closed permanently.

I don’t blame the restaurants who are trying to survive during the pandemic. It’s our obligation to find their website and check their current status. We need to accept unexpected changes.

Have you noticed differences in your favorite restaurants?

Mom taught me the benefit of taking a break in what I was doing when I was eight years old. I had received my first adult, three-hundred-piece, picture puzzle as a Christmas gift. After I had spent most of the morning trying to put together the three red and blue hued parrots, I began to cry in frustration. I couldn’t find any more pieces that fit. Mom said, “Go do something else for a while.”

I drew a picture of a house and colored it. When I returned to the card table, the correct pieces practically jumped out at me.

When I worked in an office, we had a 15-minute, coffee break in the morning and again in the afternoon. I think it was a combination of walking across the street to the shop, drinking coffee, conversation with my three co-workers and leaving the paperwork for a while that made me feel refreshed when I returned to my desk.

Entertainment also takes breaks. At dances, the musicians take an intermission. Plays are performed in three acts. Concerts give performers an interlude. That down-time also gives attendees an opportunity to buy refreshments and souvenirs.

As a writer who works at home, I’m a firm believer in the saying, “Apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” But taking a break from time to time helps, too. It doesn’t have to be food or drink–it can be a household chore. I’ve found doing laundry is a good accompaniment. It only takes a few minutes to throw clothes into the automatic washer or move a load to the dryer. Even folding a batch doesn’t take long–the break time is limited. Then, it’s back to the computer. Often a word or idea that I couldn’t think of is right there waiting for me.

Do you incorporate breaks with your work?

Labor Day reminded me that many of the kid jobs that boosted self-esteem have disappeared. When my husband was a teenager, he and his friends, who also lived in town, were hired by area farmers to help bale hay during the summers. Today, large machines have automated the chore.

Growing up on a family dairy farm like I did, there were child-sized jobs such as feeding a calf from a pail of milk. Acreage has expanded and the work requires grown-ups.

Fifty years ago, in our village, a school boy or girl placed the daily newspaper on our front porch each morning before 7:00 a.m. Every other Friday, during the late afternoon or early evening, the young person knocked on our door to collect for our subscription. Now an adult flips the rolled-up paper from a car window and it lands on or near our front sidewalk. We pay online with a credit card.

During the same era, according to a “Not So Long Ago” column in our weekly, The Volunteer, “Dennis Snook has been named one of the top ten patrol boys in Winnebago County. The eighth grader is captain of the safety patrol. He received a certificate of recognition from the Office of the Superintendent of Public Instruction and the Chicago Motor Club.” The elementary ‘big boys’ who donned white, woven, San Browne belts, guided the younger pupils walking across streets before and after school. Today, we have a woman in an orange vest holding up a sign to stop traffic while she shepherds students of all ages through the intersection.

When our son grew big enough to push our power mower, he cut the grass surrounding the homes of two elderly ladies who were our neighbors. He always complained about the Boston Bull Terrier who left deposits in the owner’s yard. Now, people hire landscaping businesses to do their mowing.

During the summer, our young daughter walked to the local nursing home where she volunteered as a ‘candy striper’ (referring to the red and while apron she wore). She did mundane tasks such as bringing fresh water to the residents and brightening their day with her smiling face and conversation. Some of our retired friends volunteer at health institutions to aid the staff.

While you were growing up, did you have a kid job that taught you the work ethic of honoring your task, taking pride in hard work and delivering the best results possible?

Sunday will be my 85th birthday. I’m amazed at the changes that have taken place during my lifetime.

Growing up an only child on a family dairy farm, I was dragged along when my mother labored outdoors alongside my father. Field work had to be sandwiched between morning and evening milking. As fall approaches, I’m reminded of corn picking.

Early in the spring, Dad planted the crop using a two-row implement pulled by our team of horses. Button wire was stretched from one end of the 20-acre field to the other, attached to the planter for each round and made the seed kernels drop two-to-a-hill in a checkerboard pattern. At the beginning of the growing season, he mounted the cultivator on his Allis Chalmers tractor and drove lengthwise and crosswise between the rows to remove the weeds.

My folks husked the ripened grain by hand. Dad, who covered two rows at a time while Mom did one, had a metal claws gadget that he strapped over his left glove. She used an aluminum peg to open the husks. My parents carefully tossed the cleaned ears so they didn’t hit me sitting in the wagon pulled by Dick and Brownie.

To liven up my day, Dad would lift me to sit astride Old Dick. My short legs stretched sideways as well as down over my fat steed. I held onto the harness and pretended I was riding the range with my favorite movie cowboys, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. Sometimes, when the afternoon sun was warm, I would fall asleep and had to be moved so I didn’t fall off.

Today, farmers stick to one crop. I drive by spreads including thousands of acres dense with corn rows harvested by huge machines.

What changes during your lifetime have impressed you?

Several years ago, my freelance articles published by national magazines qualified me to attend a new, three-day, summer conference for professional writers being held in Chicago. I looked forward to the opportunity although it was a little scary for this country gal to hobnob with big city folks.

After the first intense day of writing workshops and five-minute, one-on-one meetings with magazine editors, a few of us stopped in the hotel bar after dinner. Although, the women would have had a few gray hairs if it wasn’t for Miss Clairol, they began reminiscing about college escapades. I had nothing to add to the conversation–I’d never attended college. I’m sure they didn’t intend to intimidate me, but they did. I didn’t sleep well that night. By morning, I’d decided I didn’t belong. After breakfast, I found the leader of the conference and made an excuse that my husband needed me at home to care for our developmentally different daughter.

During the following year, I continued to submit magazine articles and did some soul searching. While flipping through one of those catalogs that came in the mail once in a while, I saw a Popeye tee shirt proclaiming, “I ‘yam what I ‘yam.” I never liked the old sea dog’s cartoons while I was growing up but, not to make Olive Oyl jealous, suddenly, he was my hero. His catchphrase spoke to me.

From talking with others, I realized nobody writes the same as somebody else. We all have different experiences, which shape our approach to articles.

The next summer, I received an invitation to the second conference for professional writers and attended with “I ‘yam what I ‘yam” firmly in mind. I made some useful, professional contacts with editors and some new writer friends.

How have you strengthen your self-confidence?

Papers and publications that I want to be sure don’t get lost go on our coffee table in the living room or my desk in the family room. The stacks can get a little high.

The coffee table always includes the TV remote, my guide to our cable channels, a coaster waiting for a beverage to be enjoyed and framed pictures of our two grandchildren. It is usually littered with the local, weekly newspaper, current magazines plus books I’m reading and those waiting to be read. Some of the novels on the list for our book club are so uninteresting to me that I keep another one going at the same time so I can switch when my attention wanes. An invitation to a social event goes there. too. They always arrive well in advance and may need to be consulted several times before we attend.

My desk contains the usual office supplies plus book-ends holding the two-volume set of The World Book Dictionary. I also keep notes and news items for possible use with my blog. Somewhere in the mélange is information regarding writers’ groups I belong to and anything connected with my published memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.”

I don’t get as much done in a day as I used to. Instead of a big cleaning once a week, I cut the piles one thing at a time–it doesn’t leave a gap. I am reminded of my favorite Bill Murray move, What About Bob? The comedian was the obsessive-compulsive, neurotic patient intruding on the vacation of his successful psychotherapist played by Richard Dreyfuss. Murray’s line, “baby steps,” was the way to change anything. That has stuck in my mind. I console myself that I’m taking “baby steps” to a neat house.

Do you have a project that you need to approach with “baby steps?”

One of the topics that crops up from time to time at writers’ workshops is a session on dreams. According to presenters, we should analyze our night-time adventures because they are telling us something.

Linda, our developmentally different daughter, had let a bunch of exotic animals out of their cages. I was trying to decide how to get them back where they belonged without anyone knowing who let them loose. This morning when I looked at the calendar, I knew the message the dream was sending me–it had been fourteen years since she died of breast cancer.

The answer was easier when I was alerted to a possible problem. Ken and I were vacationing in a cabin. In the evening, I decided to go to the grocery store. I got lost in the dark and then the car quit. I walked to a nearby farm. The lady-of-the-house greeted me and invited me inside. The young woman, who was obviously pregnant, told me she was from Australia. She had met the farmer when he visited her homeland. I checked my pockets for my cell phone to call my husband but I had left it behind. I asked to borrow hers and she handed it to me. Then, I realized her instrument was useless because I didn’t know anyone’s number except my own–I relied on my list of contacts. I woke up without knowing how I was rescued.

Thinking about my dream the next day reminded me that when our phone hung on the wall, I didn’t need to look in the book listings for most of the numbers I dialed. I even still remember some of the 4-digits that I used years ago when an operator asked, “Number, please?” As a precaution, I have memorized my husband’s cell phone number.

Have you had a dream that was a message?