lolita-s-bigtoe.com

Scars, marks on our bodies that never go away, mean we survived. I have a large cicatrix on my back to remind me that Monday makes 42 years I’ve lived with one lung–the same amount of time I existed with two. Histoplasmosis, caused by a fungus often found in bird droppings, made my left lung collapse and be surgically removed. The only difference I’ve ever noticed was during a vacation in Las Vegas, I couldn’t run to catch a bus. Ken could and asked the driver to wait for me.

Every time I put on make-up, I use a little extra eyebrow pencil to cover the small pit chicken pox left above my right eye. The communicable, childhood disease was my Christmas present from my cousins who were coming down with the malady when we all gathered at Grandpa and Grandma’s house for a family Thanksgiving dinner. I cried when I had to miss our one-room, country school’s family holiday party. I’d prepared for my first box social by covering a shoe box with red crepe paper and decorated it with snowmen cut from wrapping paper. Dad and Mom tried to make me feel better by theorizing that the old man who chewed tobacco and let the juice run down his chin would probably have been the buyer and I would have had to share my lunch with him.

I also acquired a scar on the shin of my left leg while attending the same grade school but that one was more fun. During the winter, we brought our sleds to school to spend recesses sliding down the hill on the gravel road in front of Putnam. I had belly-flopped and bent my knees. One of the boys didn’t steer very well and the metal corner on the front of his sled hit my leg. I suffered a laceration through my pants because we got up pretty good speed.

What memories do your scars summon?

The English language consists of more than 400,000 words. Comedian George Carlin had a routine, “The Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.” It amazes me that two words that mean the same thing are viewed differently–one can be used in polite conversation and the other is considered nasty. It’s fine to say, “I stepped in some excrement,” but not, “I’ve got s*** on my shoe.”

Words come and go. Each year, new words that have become widely used are added to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Some expressions you’ll hear in our house aren’t used much anywhere else: nuts, phooey, neat, holy cow and Fred Flintstone’s yabba yabba do.

The first writers’ group I joined included several poets. They talked about agonizing over one word for hours. I thought they were being pretentious.

I was a freelancer attending evening, civic board meetings and phoning in my report to the Rockford Morning Star before the area daily’s ten o’clock deadline. I was often jotting down my article while continuing to listen to the ongoing session. I didn’t have time to think about the words I was using, I depended on the editor for any revisions my piece might need.

As I began writing feature articles for national magazines about people and their passions, I had more time to spend on my stories. I often grabbed the dictionary to look up a familiar word to be sure it meant what I thought it did. Terms that mean almost the same thing could have different connotations. There’s a big difference between saying a woman wore an evening gown and she wore a nightgown.

We all need to think about what we’re saying or writing. Angry words spoken in haste can never be taken back no matter how many times we apologize. Degrading epithets linger in memories.

Do you think about the words you’re using?

Next Monday is Memorial Day, a time set aside to honor those who have been killed while serving with the United States military forces. We refer to them as ‘our boys in service’ and most of soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen slain in battle were kids. They were still living with their parents and contemplating, “What will I be when I grow up?” Some hastily married their sweethearts and fathered children they never saw.

A little history. In 1868, three years after the Civil War ended, people began laying flowers on the graves of soldiers killed in the bloodiest four years in American history. May 30 was referred to as Decoration Day or Memorial Day. In 1970, Congress passed the Uniform Holiday Act designating the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, a federal holiday. This year, the two dates coincide.

In Durand, the Stars and Stripes fly along Center Street. The Legion members have visited the area’s cemeteries and placed a small American flag on the grave of every veteran. Last Friday and Saturday, artificial poppies were sold as a fund raiser. The flower has been a symbol of lives lost since the World War I poem by John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.” Saturday, May 28, at 7 p.m., the Auxiliary’s annual Memorial Day Ceremony will be conducted at the Hall.

Memorial weekend is also considered the unofficial beginning of summer, but don’t wish me a ‘happy Memorial Day’. I think that’s the biggest oxymoron in the American vocabulary–it’s like saying, “Have fun at the funeral.”

Many things vie for our attention. Stores will advertise bargains for shoppers. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planned. I hope you take a few minutes to ponder the meaning of Memorial Day and offer a prayer of thanksgiving for our freedom preserved with peoples’ lives.

How will you observe Memorial Day?

When I was growing up, we played a form of softball called work-up. Everyone at my one-room, country school joined in but with only ten or twelve students, there weren’t enough to form teams.

The size of our diamond was governed by the dimensions of the school yard and laid out by guess. Bases were a rock, a piece of clothing or anything else that was handy. We made our own rules to suit the group. First and second graders were rolled grounders and allowed six strikes instead of three. If one of the big boys hit the ball over the back fence, he was out.

Each day was a new game starting during morning recess and continuing through noon hour and afternoon recess. To begin, we yelled for the position we wanted to play. Two were batters, one was pitcher and three were basemen. The rest were outfielders. Each time a hitter was out, we all moved up one slot–the rotation was right field, left field, around the bases beginning with third, pitcher and batter.

The pitcher didn’t try for strike-outs. He or she lobbed the ball. The batter who missed was also the catcher retrieving the ball and tossing it back. With a hit, the batter ran to as many bases as possible before the ball was returned. There was no stealing. When the second batter got a hit, the one on base had to make it home or be out.

If the batter hit a fly ball and it was snagged, the person catching the ball changed places with the slugger. Catching a fly stung our hands because nobody wore ball gloves. The big boys with callouses from working on the farm had an advantage.

During the summer, family reunions were a picnic held at a forest preserve with a playground and a ball diamond. At least one person brought a bat and a softball. After the potluck dinner, a work-up ball game was a great way to renew acquaintances between distant cousins that only saw one another once a year. Sometimes a few of the young adults played, too.

What games did you play while growing up?

One of my first words was, “Why?’ It’s still my favorite. My nonfiction urges people to think about the answer to that question.

While I was growing up, I never thought about becoming a writer. In high school, I took office courses and worked in one while I was single. After our three children were in school, I expected to return to that sort of job. Instead, I was intrigued by a newspaper ad and became a freelancer reporting on the Durand community for the Rockford Morning Star. Most area residents subscribed to the daily and read my articles about village board and school board actions, which affect everyone in the community.

I joined area writers’ groups and attended workshops to improve the craft I was learning by doing.

Thirteen years later, the newspaper dropped their part-time freelancers. I queried national magazines for women, farmers and police. Some accepted my articles about people and their passions whether it was seeking ancestors, participating in an antique tractor pull or enforcing the law.

I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, which is affiliated with the National Federation of Press Women. Their numerous awards for my published articles assured me I was doing the right thing.

At the beginning of 2008, our 48-year-old, developmentally different daughter, Linda, was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. I quit writing to care for her. After she died in August, I was at loose ends.

As Ken and I made plans for our 50th anniversary celebration the following April, I decided to write a memoir about our seven-year courtship in the 1950s. A lot had been penned about the ’40s with World War II and the wild ’60s but little about the decade in between. As a guideline, I had Mom’s diaries that she’d left behind when she died. Every day, she jotted down what they were doing on the family dairy farm. That gave me the who, what, when and where of the times. I checked our high school annuals and old newspapers for specific events. My memories fleshed out the happenings. Attending workshops on creative nonfiction taught me to write my story like a novel. I joined the Janesville Area Writers and read aloud excerpts from my work-in-progress at their monthly meetings. The other members gave thoughtful critiques. It took ten years of writing and rewriting to finish the manuscript. I was elated when Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, offered me a contract to publish “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

Writing a blog was my next step. I started lolita-s-bigtoe.com aimed at the growing contingent of older women but I do have some male readers, too. On Wednesdays, I share what’s on my mind hoping to stir others’ thoughts.

Why did you pursue your career?

I was fortunate to have my mother with me until she turned ninety. I miss the many women she was during those years.

When I was a first grader at Rockton Grade School, a playground swing, constructed with a thick, board seat hung from a pair of chains, hit me in the head giving me a brain concussion. I remember the thirty-year-old woman who spent the night with me at the Beloit Hospital. To check my eyesight, I can still see her standing at the foot of my bed and asking, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Mom and I didn’t always see eye to eye. For seventh grade, I started riding the yellow bus to the new Durand Junior High School. During breaks in the day, I joined a group of girls practicing for cheerleading tryouts. In years past, I’d admired the dresses Aunt Frannie made for some of the high school cheerleaders. I dreamed that would be me someday. To participate in the tryouts, I brought home a permission slip to be signed by a parent. Mom said I couldn’t because she would be busy with evening milking when I would need to be taken to town to attend boys’ basketball games. I was mad at her for days.

When Dad and Mom became grandparents, they were usually available to babysit when my husband and I went out. Our three children spent the night at their house. Friends envied our being able to sleep in the next morning after being up late the night before.

My mother was my relief when Linda, our developmentally different daughter, pushed me to my wits’ end. Mom suggested I take a day off once a week. I looked forward to time by myself shopping in Rockford and enjoying a leisurely lunch in a nice restaurant.

I knew my mother didn’t want to be the dependent, old woman she turned into during her eighties. Helping her remain in her home was my chance to return some of the love and care she had shown me.

How do you see your mother?

Each time I drive by the Harrison Cemetery on Highway 75, I wonder why my friend, Sandy, died in her forties while I’m enjoying my eighties. I’ve watched our children and our grandchildren grow up and become successful adults while she missed out on so much. I know I’m not responsible for my friend’s life. In fact, I’m not sure I’m even in charge of my own.

We are each created differently and don’t know what lies ahead. As I look around at the folks I’ve known for years, I’m amazed at how everyone has changed and the ways we’ve each remained the same.

While my generation was growing up, one of the highlights of summer was having a travelling carnival spend a long weekend in our village. Besides the thrill rides, cotton candy and games of chance, there always was a Gypsy fortuneteller. If our parents would have allowed my teenage friends and me to enter her tent and have our futures told, we would have laughed if the woman had accurately predicted the life each of those country girls would lead. We would have agreed her prophecies were impossible. But times change and people change with them.

After I married a farmer, I sewed several, shirt-waist dresses to wear while I cared for our three, small children just like the housewives and mothers portrayed on TV. In the fifties, society sought to put every girl into the same box. Not all women fit–I was one of them. I was overjoyed when my husband left the farm and became a county deputy. It was serendipity that I found my calling as a writer. Looking back, I believe the life I’ve led so far has been right for me.

Has your life been right for you?

I believe competition is a part of everyone’s life no matter what you do. When I was little, I accompanied Mom to help Aunt Frannie cook dinner for the members of the threshing ring. The men sitting around the table debated which wife served the best noon meal during the harvest season.

For siblings, rivalry begins in childhood. Brothers and sisters note who’s receiving more of their mother’s attention. Who eats the last piece of cake? What TV show will they watch?

As an only child at home and the only one in my class while I attended a one-room, country school for six years, I didn’t face competition until I rode the yellow bus to Durand for junior and senior high. The thirty-some seventh graders dwindled to twenty-four graduating seniors. Competition in the classroom culminated in who would be honored as salutatorian and valedictorian.

We also began the dating game. Would the boy I had my eye on ask me to the prom?

Entering the working world, I competed for jobs. Once I was hired, there was rivalry for the various positions in the office.

Young, adult men and women vie with one another for the person they’ll marry. “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” TV shows exploit these contests.

New mothers compare their babies’ accomplishments. Who’s crawling? Who’s walking? Who’s talking?

As a freelance journalist, I strive to be better today than I was yesterday. I compete with other writers to have my articles accepted by a newspaper or magazine editor. For my memoir and my blog, I’m trying to attract readers.

Some of my retired friends are on waiting lists for senior housing. In their free time, they join groups playing cards or bingo for prizes. I think the struggle never ends.

Do you feel like you’re in a competition?

For the first time in 63 years, our anniversary will fall on Easter Sunday. The traditional vows we exchanged when we were married and repeated when we celebrated our Golden Anniversary sum up our relationship as husband and wife: “to have and to hold from this day forward for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish until death us do part.”

Together we’ve matured from teenagers to octogenarians. We share seventy years of memories beginning in high school. There’s our song, “Battle of New Orleans.” It isn’t romantic, but we smile when we hear Johnny Horton describing that clash between the U.S. and the British during the War of 1812. The tune saturated the air waves in 1959 when we honeymooned in the ‘Big Easy’. It also reminds us of our own hostilities through the years.

We were blessed with three children. We’ve mourned Linda, our developmentally different , oldest daughter, who died of breast cancer at age forty-eight. Lisa and Kurt followed in their dad’s duty shoe footsteps and completed careers as cops.

Kurt married Sandy and we have two grandchildren. While Katelyn and Jacob were growing up, I learned why my mother said it was a privilege to babysit the kids. The two have joined the law-and-order family tradition–she is an assistant state’s attorney and he is a police officer. Katelyn has added her husband, Sean, to our family. We celebrate holidays and special occasions together. April 17th, we’ll all enjoy brunch at Merrill & Huston’s Steak Joint in Beloit.

Since Ken retired and I continue writing in my family-room office, we spend a lot of time at home. Occasionally, one of us leaves the house to pursue our own interests–he goes fishing or I go to a writers’ gathering. I still get butterflies in my stomach at the thought of seeing my husband again after a few days’ absence.

Who’s the love of your life?

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I answered a knock on our backdoor. There stood my Uncle Raymond and Uncle Bobbie who said, “Our wives came to see your new babies–we came to see your new car.” Most of the guys I know treat their cars like their babies. Ken went outside to show off our ’62 maroon Chevy Corvair.

For the past three years, we’d been driving the ’56 Lincoln my husband had when we were married. He’d dreamed about that auto while he was still in the navy, “I knew it would be two years old before I could buy one but I didn’t car.” The vehicle had reached the point that it needed repairs. A trip to the shop was very expensive to fix the luxury car. It was time to replace it.

Fifteen years later, with spring in the air, a red convertible sitting on a Rockford lot caught Ken’s eye. Papers in the glove compartment detailed the service record of the ’65 Plymouth. My husband talked with the pervious owner, a man who farmed in the Poplar Grove area. The twelve-year-old auto became our second car.

On a lovely summer day, I heard a knock on our front door. I glanced out the window and saw a Corvette stopped at the curb. We didn’t know anyone who drove a Corvette–the fellow must be lost and need directions. I opened the door to a fortyish man who asked, “Is this where Ken Ditzler lives?”

I replied, “Yes, he’s around in the garage.”

Later, when Ken came in the house, he said, “That was the guy who used to own the convertible. He came by to make sure I was giving it a good home. He was happy with the way I was taking care of it.”

Have you had anyone come to your house to visit a car?