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Tomorrow is Veterans Day, a time to honor all veterans who have honorably served our country. The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the end of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.

The last time our GIs were welcomed home with national celebrations was 1945 when the Allies won World War II. At that time, every family had members in the service. The men, women and children on the home front had also participated in the war effort and were glad to return to normal.

The United States has continued to be involved in wars, but the people at home haven’t endured the deprivations and shortages of the forties. At times, if you asked citizens on the street, they might not be aware that our members of the armed services were fighting.

There was the Cold War, a state of political and military tension between the United States and Russia. In 1950, that situation erupted in the Korean Conflict. When President Dwight Eisenhower signed an armistice in 1953, the Cold War and the draft continued. The threat of nuclear weapons wafted over the globe like a mushroom cloud.

During the Vietnam War in the ’60s, President Lyndon Baines Johnson maintained our country could have both “guns and butter.” Protests against that combat exploded, especially on college campuses. Many of those who served were spit upon and called rude names.

Through the years, there have been other skirmishes in various places. Our soldiers were recently brought home from Afghanistan after twenty years of fighting there.

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?

On a recent Saturday, Ken and I ate lunch at Lucy’s #7 Burger Bar in Beloit, Wisconsin. We got there a little after noon and were told we’d have a 45-minute wait for a table. When we were seated, the woman next to us said they were from Chicago. No wonder the place was crowded.

Hamburger joints have always been a part of my life. When I was a youngster, we would go shopping in Rockford, Illinois, on a rainy day. When we finished late in the afternoon, my parents stopped at Sam’s on Auburn St. and bought burgers to go. We ate them on the way to the farm so Dad and Mom were ready to start evening chores as soon as we arrived.

While I was in Junior High, I joined kids across the country taking accordion lessons. Each of us hoped to become the next Dick Contino, a famous 18-year-old musician who made the instrument popular. Every Saturday morning, Dad and Mom drove me to Voight Music Center in Beloit. Afterward, we crossed the street to eat lunch at Walt’s, a hole-in-the-wall, hamburger joint.

In high school, I dated Kenny. On Saturday nights, he took me to movies in Rockford and followed it with hamburgers at the Hollywood drive-in.

When I was 19, I had to spend five months in the Rockford Municipal Sanitarium to recover from TB. At the institution, our supper was a small meal served at 4:30 p.m. By the time visiting hours rolled around at seven, I was hungry again. My parents brought hamburgers from Sam’s.

While our three kids were growing up, I took them for swimming lessons at the Rockford YW once a week after school. McDonald’s was popular and we always stopped at the Golden Arches for supper.

There’s something about meat cooked on a commercial grill that makes it taste better than a hamburger prepared at home.

Do you frequent a burger joint?

Next Sunday will be Halloween. There was a time and place when witches were thought to be real–not just costumes for children to wear ‘trick or treating’.

In 1692, the English settlers of Salem, Massachusetts, conducted a witch hunt, declared twenty women to be evil and executed them. That was just a part of the history I studied in school.

My thinking changed in 1990 when I interviewed Harold King to write an article about genealogy for an Elgin magazine. My first-cousin-once-removed had spent more than fifty years climbing his family tree. While pursuing his ancestors’ records, he’d discovered that one of the Salem women executed as a witch, Susanna North Martin, was also his grandmother with a bunch of ‘greats’ added.

Harold also mentioned the annual King-Knight family reunion held in Albany, Wisconsin, each summer. Mom’s mother had been a King and I remembered attending that gathering when I was a youngster. It was easy to locate the group in a forest preserve–just look for little, redheaded kids running around.

Realizing Susanna North Martin was also my forbearer, I looked her up on the internet and discovered she was a redhead. The Salem witch hunt was the second time she had been accused of witchcraft. In 1669, her husband, Gorge Martin, fought a protracted legal defense against her accuser.

By 1692, Susanna’s circumstances had drastically changed. The mother of five boys and three girls was a 71-year-old, impoverished widow who had a history of flouting authority and was widely disliked. She was arrested May 1 for practicing witchcraft and pleaded not guilty. A preliminary examination by presiding magistrates followed. Her vigorous answers and lack of respect she showed the officials was noted. She kept her sharp tongue to the end of the hearing.

The magistrates pronounced Susanna guilty of witchcraft and sentenced her to hang.

What would have gone through the woman’s mind as she awaited execution although she’d committed no crime? On July 19, 1692, Susanna was hanged with four others who had been tried at the same time. All five were placed in a shallow, unmarked grave.

It took more than three hundred years for Susanna North Martin to be declared innocent. October 31, 2001, Acting Massachusetts’s Governor Jane Swift signed a bill exonerating Susanna and four other convicted witches. A memorial service for the five women was held in Salem June 9, 2002.

I’ve never had much interest in genealogy, but Susanna came alive for me. I know of no redheads in our branch of the family, but the females have inherited her sharp tongue.

Have you come to know any of your ancestors?

With Halloween coming up, I see a lot of witches riding brooms. A broomstick taught me to handle my own problems.

When we moved to the Anderson farm northwest of Durand, I was a fourth grader who increased the enrollment to nine at Putnam. I rode my bicycle to the school located on the corner about a quarter-mile east of our house. The second day, I came home out-of-breath, scared and crying. At the farm that sat on the north side of the blacktop, two dogs, one a large, collie type and the other a small, short-haired one, barked, growled and chased me. I pedaled hard to climb the small hill to our driveway and leave the animals behind. I’d always liked dogs but apparently, those two didn’t like me. My parents commiserated with me.

Dad and Mom didn’t begin driving me to school to keep me safe nor did they confront our middle-aged neighbors. Instead, my folks gave me a tool to solve my problem. Mom found an old broom. Dad sawed off about two feet from the top of the handle. The broomstick made an excellent club I could easily grip. I was nine years old and adept at riding my bike. I could steer with my left hand and wield the weapon with my right.

The next day, I stashed the stick in the basket attached to the handlebars of my bike. In the morning, there was no sign of the dogs. On my way home, when I used their side of the road, the dogs came out to terrorize me. I swung the stick and they backed off. The next afternoon, the two came after me again. A couple thumps with the club sent them yelping back to their house. I carried the broomstick for a few more days but the dogs had lost their fascination with me. That was the beginning of my confidence to solve my own problems.

How did you learn self-sufficiency?

“Nice day.”

“Think it’ll rain?”

“Cold enough for you?”

All standard phrases we hear over and over. I’m not much for small talk. Whenever I’m in a situation where I need to make conversation, I look for a more meaningful topic. One day, I was sitting in the chair having my hair cut. A photo of the man’s wife and children adorned the dresser. I asked, “Why did you become a hair stylist?”

His reply began, “Well, I flunked out of college.” I immediately wished I’d stuck with the weather. He continued, “The counselor told me I would do well in a profession involving people. I’d done Mom’s hair a few times while she was recovering from surgery. I’d enjoyed it so I went to beauty school.”

We were in a distant town, attending the wedding of one of my husband’s colleagues. During a conversation with a woman I didn’t know, she asked one of the usual get acquainted questions, “Where are you from?” When I said Durand, she responded, “Oh, do you know my brother?”

When she mentioned his name, I knew my husband had arrested the man. I said, “The name is familiar, but I don’t know him.”

I’m not the only one who got a shock from a routine question. My friend, Carol, is a nurse in the hospital emergency room in a nearby city. She met a patient with a familiar last name and asked the woman, “A couple with the same name belongs to our church. Are you related?”

The woman vehemently replied, “She stole my husband.” Another time the weather would have been a better topic.

Do you stick to small talk with people you don’t know well or take a chance with more meaningful conversation?

Early one morning, Ken accompanied a fishing buddy running the pole lines that had been set overnight along the bank of the Sugar River. Three catfish had been caught. My husband not only enjoyed his friend’s company, it brought to mind the youngster he’d been doing the same thing with his dad.

Memory is a marvelous thing. It allows us to spend a few minutes with someone who is no longer a part of our life. For us who are older, it can make us a child, a teenager or a young adult for a bit.

When I saw a PBS rerun of Lawrence Welk’s music program, I recalled a teenage me doing a polka with my friend, Trude, at the Wigwam, a rustic country dancehall situated just north of the Wisconsin line.

I came across a deck of cards laying on a closet shelf and recalled the seven women who made up my bridge club when our children were growing up. Snow or rain was rarely severe enough to cancel a monthly meeting at a member’s house. We were all bogged down with family responsibilities and looked forward to that night out with the girls.

Not all memories are pleasant, but that’s life. “Happily, ever after” happens only in fairy tales. A glimpse of Jack Klugman in an old film reminded me of taking our brain-damaged, teenage daughter, Linda, to a a neurologist in the hope of finding some answers for her problems. Instead, the doctor remarked, “If anything happens to that little girl, an autopsy would certainly be interesting.”

When I returned home, Ken asked, “What did you find out?”

By then, I had built up a head of steam and responded, “He referred me to Quincy!” At that time, Klugman was portraying Quincy, M.E., on TV. That was the end of our ‘seeking professional help.’

What are your favorite memories?

A woman greeted me and followed it with, “You don’t remember me, do you?” That phrase saved my ego. I hated to admit I didn’t know someone who called me by name, but my blank look gave me away. Her question provided enough of her speech to jog my memory and I replied, “Of course I do,” and said her name.

From watching old movies on TV, I’d noticed I may not recognize a young actor I’ve only known as middle-aged, but I can’t miss the voice.

As the years roll by, people change on the surface. The lean, high school basketball star develops a paunch and loses his hair. The cheerleader with the cute figure turns matronly and dyes her tresses a different color. But we recollect one another in several different ways.

I saw a gray-haired man in the grocery store several times and he seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He didn’t acknowledge me so, apparently, I didn’t ring any bells with him. Finally, I asked the woman who stood behind the checkout counter, “Do you know the name of that fellow who just left?”

“You must remember him–that’s Phil.”

When I heard his name, I knew what had alerted me–his stance. It’d been a long time since he and I attended junior high school and learned to dance together, but he still stood the same way.

It reminded me of the night my mother and I were attending a relative’s visitation in the city. We were strolling up the sidewalk from one direction and a couple was advancing from the other. As the four of us reached the door of the funeral home, Mom’s cousin, Harold, greeted her with, “I thought that was the Visger walk coming toward me.”

Where we meet a person also plays a part in recognition. We know who we can expect to see at our high school reunion. Our surroundings give no clue to identity if someone says, “Hi,” in an area Walmart.

Does it embarrass you if you don’t remember someone who greets you?

My husband’s co-worker, Gene, introduced his date, Mary, and the couple joined us for supper at an area restaurant. During the evening, I felt that ‘click’ that indicates I may have just met a new friend. A few weeks later, Mary and I began meeting at the local coffee shop each weekday morning. We spent an hour solving the world’s problems and our own.

In 1982, I learned the World’s Fair would open in Knoxville, Tennessee, May 1. It was probably as close as it ever would be and I wanted to attend, but I didn’t know how I’d manage to. All my life, I’d heard about the exhibit. Before my parents were married, they rode a bus to the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair. The trip was the highlight of their courtship.

Shortly after the expo began, Mary, who was a school bus driver, told me she’d be driving the youth group from her church to the fair as soon as school was out and I could ride along. I was elated. Nights, we all spread our sleeping bags on church floors. Later, we showered at the YMCA. Roughing it was worth it when I saw the exhibits from the 22 participating nations.

After that trip, schedules changed–Mary and I could no longer meet for coffee.

In 2017, I ran into Mary at the visitation for a mutual friend. After paying our respects, we rendezvoused outside the funeral home’s front door to chat a bit. We ended our confab with the words, “We need to get together again.” She took my phone number and promised to call after checking her calendar. I still haven’t heard from Mary.

Some say that people come into our lives for a reason and leave when that purpose has been served.

Do you have friends that you haven’t seen for ages but remember fondly?

What’ll I wear? It’s a daily decision. It’s also one of the first questions that pop into our head when we receive an invitation.

Our clothes are a kind of armor that say I’m confident and comfortable with myself. Our attire not only represents who we are, it says what we want to be. Colors also have an effect. There’s a big difference in how the woman wearing a beige suit with a skirt and the one wearing a red pantsuit is perceived.

When I look at pictures of older ladies in bygone eras wearing frumpy dresses and sensible shoes, I know that’s not how I want to look. I don’t believe there is still a style considered age-appropriate. I continue to wear denim, but I avoid the trends that scream young people such as holey jeans.

It’s hard to go against fashion. I have a pair of skinny pants that I didn’t want to buy but that was the only kind I could find in the store where I was spending a gift certificate. I also have a couple pairs of older, high-waisted ones. When I wear them, I feel like the cartoon showing the old man with his belt around his armpits.

Earlier this summer, I decided my white sandals were worn and needed replacing. I’ve always worn white sandals between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Apparently just a few older ladies still like white ones–the rest of the female population prefer darker colors. I visited several stores before I found what I was looking for.

While I was growing up on the farm, my every day clothes were those that no longer looked good enough to wear in public. I also had a few school outfits and one Sunday best. Now that I’m a town woman, I have to force myself to throw away the worn outfits and don the better ones when I dress for the day.

What’s your style of clothes?

i think the biggest change that has occurred during my lifetime has been the transformation of the telephone. When I was a teenager in the 1950s, Uncle Bobbie ‘rubbered’ on our party line to some of the phone calls Kenny made to me. Later, when our neighbor saw me, he teased me about what he’d overheard. Most country people listened in on others’ calls, but usually didn’t admit it. No one said anything private over the phone.

The telephone that hung on the wall in each home and the directories listing everyone’s name, address and number were furnished by the independent company that owned the system and sent a monthly bill for service to customers. Five or six families shared a party line. Each phone had its own ring–ours was a long and a short. Before anyone made a call, it was necessary to ask, “Is the line busy?”

During the 1940s, my cousin, Doris, was one of the operators who worked in shifts sitting at the switchboard in Durand and connected people’s calls. Once in a while, when my parents had business in the village, they dropped me off to spend a little time with her in the telephone office, which was located in a house that stood where the post office is now. The chief operator also lived in that two-story. When a regular operator wasn’t on duty between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., emergencies roused her from her upstairs bed to sit at the switchboard.

Calls to people living in the Durand, Davis and Pecatonica communities were local and unlimited. Those to other areas were long distance and a toll was charged based on the number of minutes the communication lasted. The fee was lower after 7 p.m. than it was in the daytime. If you needed someone’s number, it could be obtained by calling information.

While Ken was in the navy “seeing the world,” he called me a few times from a pay phone in a distant city. He dropped coins in the slots to cover three minutes of conversation before we were connected. We had to speak loudly to be heard long distance.

In the 1970s, when I reported on the evening meetings of local civic boards, I called the Rockford Morning Star collect so the newspaper paid the fee.

I enjoy my smart phone. I miss the telephone books listing people’s numbers and addresses. If I want to call somebody and don’t have their number, I try to think of who in my list of contacts might have the number I’m looking for.

What do you consider the biggest change during your lifetime?