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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?

We are enthralled with a baby’s firsts–first smile, first words, first steps.

I think it’s also fascinating to watch a teenager’s first steps toward adulthood. With three kids born in four years, we had sieges of development from potty training to driver’s licenses. It may have been hair-raising at times to sit in the passenger seat while a teenager practices handling a car, but it’s part of parenthood in rural areas. After a sixteen-year-old passes the state exam, comes buying a used auto. That also takes a part-time job to pay-off a car loan.

Our two younger kids enrolled in the work/study program in high school. Instead of a full day in a classroom, one was hired part-time by the owner of a car dealership and the other by a ‘mom and pop’ marina. As part of their education, the employers taught them how small businesses function.

Our son is two years younger that his sister but they compete. I enjoyed listening to their conversations. One would say, “At work, we do this.” The other replied, “Well, at work, we do that.” It surprised me how much responsibility their bosses gave them. I was still fighting the urge to hold their hands to cross the street. The two continued those jobs while obtaining two-year degrees at Rock Valley College.

The firsts continued as they entered careers and moved out of our home. Soon they each bought a house. We were fortunate that they settled in our area.

Watching our two grandchildren grow up has been “Deja vu all over again” as Yogi Berra, the famous, Yankee’s baseball catcher of our day, would say. Many times, my husband and I look at each other and nod as the two young ones remind us of their father and their aunt.

Life consists of a succession of firsts. That’s what makes it interesting. This is my first experience as an octogenaarian–it has its rewards and its penalties.

What firsts have captivated you?

Daily, we’re asked to donate to a myriad of worthy causes. Our mail contains solicitations from both area and national charities. We watch TV commercials showing Shriners Hospitals for Children and the youngsters being treated for orthopedic conditions, spinal cord injuries and cleft lips and palates. Wounded Warriors assists veterans. At holiday time, Salvation Army bell ringers with red kettles stand in front of stores collecting for the needy. We are also solicited for money to rescue dogs being abused and to save the elephants in Africa. Some associations offer a gift such as a tee shirt, a blanket or return-address labels to show our support. Others sponsor gatherings of people enjoying a walk, a motorcycle ride or a meal.

Heart disease, cancer and Alzheimer’s hit all families. Others, known as ‘orphan diseases’, strike a small percentage of people. They don’t attract much public attention, research or funding. I’d never heard of scleroderma until my cousin told me she was dying from this autoimmune disease that affects skin, tissues, blood vessels and major organs. Its cause if unknown and there is no cure.

One organization touched me directly. When I was 19, my nagging cough was diagnosed as a serious case of tuberculosis. There was no charge for my five months stay at the Rockford Municipal Sanitarium, which treated patients from several, northern Illinois counties. Until 1957, my only contact with TB had been the Christmas seals Mom purchased every winter. The disease had been the scourge of the world before the development of the antibiotic streptomycin in 1946 made effective treatment and cure a reality.

Some solicitations are local. I worked with a parents’ group raising funds to establish an area sheltered workshop that employs people with disabilities after they age out of school.

How do you decide which charities to support?

In today’s culture, most people swear all of their lives according to the Ph.D.’s who study such things. Cussing isn’t just for the uneducated–it knows no social boundaries.

Expletives are a natural part of speech development. Little kids may not speak all words plainly, but curse words they’ve picked up from adults are loud and clear at the appropriate time.

It hasn’t always been this way. While I was growing up, men were cautioned to watch their language in front of the ladies. Apparently, the women in my family weren’t ladies–they swore when the occasion called for it. I learned their words, but didn’t use them out loud until I was too big to spank.

Movies reflect our times. In 1939, Gone with the Wind audiences were shocked when Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) told Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh), “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” In 2013, Leonardo DiCaprio starred as Jordan Belfort in The Wolf of Wall Street. The f-word was used 569 times in the film.

Not all swear words are equal–they range from a mild euphemism to the extremely offensive. Taboo expressions include insults, profanity, blasphemy, vulgarity, sexual innuendoes, disgusting objects, animal references, ancestral allusions and offensive slang.

We swear to signify a number of emotions such as frustration, anger or surprise. Sometimes we’re alone but often it’s done to achieve a specific reaction from others. We choose our words according to our company, our relationship with the people and the social setting. Our vocabulary is quite different if we’re in our boss’s office or with friends in a bar having a drink after work.

People may underestimate the benefits of swearing. Four-letter words can be used as a substitute for physical violence such as throwing a balky cell phone against the wall or punching someone in the nose. A few off-color words may enhance pain tolerance.

Do you swear?

Seventy years ago, Kenny became my boyfriend when he was sixteen and I was fourteen. This excerpt from my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” shows a teen-age whim can shape your life.

“My folks and I attended the annual summer festival sponsored by the Town & Country organization in Davis, Illinois, the village where our post office was located. The main street was blocked off to make room for the free entertainment, bingo, food stands and travelling carnival. After the program, my parents moved to a wooden bench at the bingo tent. They enjoyed the game, but I hated it. Luckily, I bumped into my boyfriend, Ronnie. We were involved in a summer romance. Ronnie and I joined hands and strolled round and round the small midway accompanied by various sounds from the stands. I loved going on the carnival rides, but they made Ronnie sick. He’d apologized for his shortcoming. I tried to be understanding, but, frankly, I was bored.

“I was surprised and thrilled when a bold Kenny Ditzler stepped up to me and asked, ‘Would you care to ride on the Ferris wheel?’

“I ignored Ronnie, gave Kenny a big smile and, ‘Yeah, I would.’

“Kenny was with his boyhood buddy, Wayne, who’d just met a gal from Orangeville, a small town west of Davis. The petite, dark-haired girl agreed to go on the ride with him, so he urged Kenny to ask me.

“The three boys and I attended the small Durand High School located in the village a few miles east of Davis. Kenny was two years ahead of me, but with a total enrollment of about a hundred students, we all knew one another.

“Wayne, the Orangeville girl, Kenny, Ronnie and I meandered to the south end of the main drag where the rides were set up. Finally, I was doing something besides walking around and chatting with friends. I felt like skipping, but that would have been childish.

“As we passed the food stands, the pungent smell of chopped onions for the hamburgers and hot dogs followed by the sugary sweetness of pink cotton candy tickled our noses.

“At the Ferris wheel ticket booth, Wayne and Kenny each laid down two quarters. The other girl and I joined them in line waiting for the current riders to finish their spins.

“The operator, a skinny, scruffy, carnie guy, looked to be in his twenties. His black hair needed trimming and his five o’clock shadow was at least two days old. He wore jeans streaked with grease, shabby, high-top tennis shoes and a clean, white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled in the left sleeve. When he began emptying the seats and refilling them, Wayne and his girl walked up the ramp first. Kenny and I followed and took the next wooden bench painted white with gold trim and padded with brown leather. As we skimmed over the top, Kenny could see that Wayne’s arm was around his girl. He slipped his right arm around my shoulders saying, ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve got to keep up with Wayne.’

“I leaned against him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was our beginning on a humid, Friday night, 18 July 1952.”

Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, has published my story of our seven-year courtship and it is available from Amazon in Kindle and paper back form. To receive a signed copy, email me at DitzlerLTD@aol.com.

How did your serious romance begin?

In past generations, people just got too old to work. Now, retirement has become a part of life’s plan. My husband and our two kids are retired.

I hope to never quit writing. I would walk away from housework today but my husband says he never heard of a housewife retiring. I haven’t thought of myself as a housewife for many years but those tasks remain. He has taken over some chores.

One of the problems of living to an old age is having those retire whom I’ve counted on for their expertise. With computers, their replacements have easy access to my records but that’s not the same as the person-to-person rapport that existed between us.

The extra work brought about by COVID-19 prompted my dentist to retire. I had known him since our daughter, Linda, was referred to him so we had a long relationship. The buyer of his practice sees me for just a few minutes twice a year. Members of his staff do the work I need. We all remain strangers.

The mechanic I trusted to do the service and needed repairs to my car has retired to easier, part-time employment. I hope the replacement hired by the small-town business owner will continue to do the same thorough job.,

Every six weeks, I looked forward to visiting with my hair stylist while she gave me a cut. She reached the age where standing all day wasn’t what she wanted to continue. A younger person in the salon follows the same pattern–it will take a while to develop the conversation.

I still miss the physician that delivered our three children and helped us raise them. It took a while for my current family doctor and me to get used to each other. I hope he lasts as long as I do. Recently, I had an appointment with a specialist who didn’t know me. I felt he was seeing his stereotype of an octogenarian instead of listening to me.

How do you view you retirement and others?

Monday is the 4th of July. We’ll celebrate the beginning of our country in 1776 and our freedoms.

I am especially concerned with the freedom of the press. At an early age, Mom taught me to keep quiet when the news was on the radio. She knew the times of day that each of the local stations did their broadcasts and she listened to all of them. We subscribed to the area daily paper, Rockford Morning Star, that arrived with our mail. When TV became a fixture in our home, we didn’t go to bed until we’d watched the ten o’clock news.

After I was an adult with kids of my own, I became a freelancer reporting the happenings in the Durand community to the area daily I had read since I was a child. I was surprised when my editor explained the ‘news hole’, the space for news after the advertisements had been laid out for the next day’s edition. I had assumed the size of the paper was determined by the news of the day–instead, it’s the amount of advertising sold. TV broadcasts also rely on sponsors’ dollars.

For thirteen years, I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t always wanted at school board and village board meetings. Their actions affect everyone in the community and I believe in the public’s right to know. Most of our residents subscribed to the newspaper and read my reports.

Journalists exist on all levels. Some risk their lives going where there’s a war such as Ukraine. Others are Washington, D.C., regulars who serve as ‘watch dogs’ on our national government. We may be acquainted with those at the local level.

In this age of the 24-hour news cycle and vast resources, competition for audience and advertiser attention has increased. We are inundated with stories. Although writers are expected to report the facts on both sides of an issue, that isn’t always the case. Some are guided by their personal bias. As consumers of news, we have an obligation to question what we’re seeing and hearing.

Which news sources do you use?