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Every day when we get up, there is work to do whether we get paid in dollars or satisfaction. The Grit, a weekly newspaper in the rural United States during much of the twentieth century, ran a series featuring various people talking about their jobs. I was surprised how many found enjoyment and appreciation in jobs others would hate.

But not everybody likes what they do. While I was serving on the local election board, we had a lot of free time for conversation. One of the other four women, a childless, retired, grade school teacher, said she had hated every minute of the many years she spent in her profession. She explained, her husband died young and opportunities for women to work were limited at that time–it was the best way she could support herself. I hope she was able to hide her feelings from her pupils.

Her remark stuck in my memory and made me think about how we choose our jobs. Many times, ways of life run in families such as our members of law enforcement. Farm boys take over from their fathers. The daughters of nurses often become nurses.

Talents usually dictate how people pursue a career. A love of numbers influences some to become accountants. Mechanics and electricians are able to see how things work. People who can draw become artists.

Some of us stumble into occupations by luck. When Ken and I were wed, women were expected to become full-time housewives and mothers. That only worked for me until our three children started school. Then, while reading help wanted ads looking for an office job like I’d had when I was single, I found a career as a freelance journalist working from home. I enjoyed sticking my nose in where it wasn’t always wanted to report on civic meetings, chasing fire trucks and writing features about people and their passions. I joined writers’ groups and attended workshops to learn more about the craft. I’m glad it doesn’t have a retirement age.

How did you choose your job?

The week before Easter, I was disappointed–I went to Fannie May to get a few of their usual candy eggs and they no longer had what had been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The original goodies were bigger than the eggs that came from Mom’s hen house; pink was filled with fruits and nuts, green was chocolate cream and yellow was vanilla cream. When I was planning on cooking dinner for our family on the holiday, I bought eight of each color for our dessert and so some could go home with everyone. For several years, we’ve all gone out to brunch on Easter Sunday so I don’t know when the company made the shift.

First off, there were no pink ones, my favorite. The eggs were in separate boxes labeled 2 oz. each. Before, they had sat in large baskets on the counter and an employee packaged my purchase. When I arrived home, I opened one of the boxes. The egg sat on an elevated cardboard so it looked larger than it actually was. It was nearly flat in an oval shape.

I’ve never run a business so I don’t know anything about the decisions demanded of an owner, whether a mom & pop or a conglomerate. I do know customers need to be satisfied and this buyer isn’t happy.

I know I have to accept that we’re living in changing times. A lot of the renovations I appreciate. A recent power outage reminded me how much we rely on electricity. I was thankful my husband set up a generator to continue operating the furnace, basement sump pump and a few more necessities.

Only a few things remain the same. I enjoy buying a box of oatmeal. I have no problem finding it on the grocer’s shelf–it’s the same round box with the picture of a Quaker on the side. When I fix it for breakfast, it tastes the same as always.

Are you ever disappointed that something you enjoyed is no longer available?

It was late-afternoon and I sat in the living room reading a novel for book club. I was still mulling over what to fix for supper. Nothing that crossed my mind appealed to me. Maybe I’d just heat up one of the Schwan prepared meals that were stashed in the freezer.

I heard an additional voice talking to Ken in the family room and went to greet our son. Kurt asked his dad if he would go with him to Elgin to retrieve his son’s truck. Our grandson had left it parked in his sister’s driveway while he caught a flight at O’Hare Airport. Jacob was worried about a predicted hail storm damaging his prized possession. My husband agreed. Kurt turned to me and said, “If you want to ride along, I’ll buy supper.” I couldn’t turn down an offer like that. An hour-and-a-half later, the three of us were dining in a busy Elgin restaurant.

Afterward, I chose to ride back to Durand with our son. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to be sure the headlights of the other pick-up were following the streets’ twists and turns before we entered I-90. The intimacy of a vehicle sets the stage for conversation; the time passed quickly.

An hour-and-a-half later, Kurt could make a call to assure Jacob that his beloved truck was safely in its garage stall.

It reminded me of days gone by. I’d be grumping around during the late morning, still wearing my nightclothes and not sure if I felt sick or well. A call from a girlfriend suggesting, “Let’s do lunch,” was all I needed to feel fine. I hurried through a shower and dressed for an outing.

Sadly, one of the draw-backs of living to an old age is that many of my playmates have passed away.

Do you like surprises to break up your routine?

Next Monday marks sixty-four years that Ken and I have been married. One of the perennial questions for those who have been husband and wife for a long time is, “What is your secret?”

If I was to isolate one factor, it would be trust. After our Ferris wheel ride in 1952 when I was fourteen, I had to feel I could trust that sixteen-year-old boy before I gave him my heart. Two years later, when he began a four-year hitch in the navy, we declared our love and promised to wait for each other. Following his return home, we were wed.

I expected to have disagreements during our marriage but we would make it through them. While I was growing up on a family dairy farm, my folks worked together, played together and dragged their only child along. When their tempers flared, I observed the storm that ensued and the rainbow that always followed the venting.

Ken and I are thankful for our loving parents who raised us with similar ethics instilled in our characters. We did the same with our own three children. Today, we are proud of our family.

Since Ken retired after serving in law enforcement for 37 years, we spend a lot of time at home together. We also enjoy getting away to pursue our own interests knowing we’ll always return refreshed. For forty years, November meant his annual deer hunting trip to northern Wisconsin with his former, patrol partner, Jerry. That has ended but every April, he and our son continue to make a week-long fishing trip to Kentucky Lake. He also has buddies to spend a day fishing with him at nearby Lake Koshkonong in Wisconsin. I meet with other writers sometimes for a few hours and once in a while, for a few days.

Monday evening, we’ll dress up and go to a restaurant for supper to celebrate. We will share memories and count our many blessings, especially continuing to be together.

What is your primary requirement for a relationship?

I’ve loved to cook since I was a little girl learning from my mother. I don’t like washing the dirty dishes it creates but that goes with it.

I use directions for nearly everything I make and carefully measure ingredients so a dish tastes the same each time I stir it up. I don’t remember recipes, just where to find them. Many of our meals come from one of my two favorite, well-worn cook books–Betty Crocker’s or Better Homes and Gardens.

Most gatherings I’ve attended through the years included eating whether a full meal or just coffee and dessert. It’s always a compliment to the hostess to have guests ask for a recipe. I keep these in a card file and a notebook. When I see the friend’s or relative’s name, I recall the good times we spent together.

I hope my cooking makes memories for my family, especially the German Chocolate Cake I prepare for my grandson’s birthday plus the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. The menu for the holiday meals never varies from the fresh turkey Grandpa cooks on the Weber grill plus dressing, cranberry relish, mashed potatoes and gravy. I think in this day and age, it may be the only time some members of our family eat mashed potatoes and gravy, a staple of my daily dinners when I was a farmer’s wife feeding three little kids.

Thanksgiving dessert is two pies–pumpkin and country apple. For Christmas dessert, I make bratzelies, a thin, wafer-like cookie made on a special iron similar to a waffle iron, which my folks and Dad’s Swiss family always made at holiday time. I add the rosettes that my mother-in-law made by dipping a hot iron into batter then a pot of melted lard to remind our children and grandchildren of our parents who always made the goodies as part of our celebrations when we were young.

Most of my meals consist of things we’ve eaten for years, but to break the routine, I still collect recipes. We don’t do much socializing so the new recipe is often from a Face Book friend.

Do you like to cook?

“Names are the sweetest and most important sound in any language,” to quote Dale Carnegie, whose 1936 self-help book, “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” is one of the best-sellers of all time.

Mom, my oracle of wisdom, told me that people who have the same name are often alike. Years ago, we belonged to a couple’s card club with three of the six young, men called Ken. One way those fellows were similar was when one of us wives raised our voice and said, “Ken,” to get a husband’s attention, we were always answered by the two that weren’t our spouse.

I’ve noticed I often can guess a person’s age by their first name–popularity of names changes every few years. When our granddaughter was in grade school, four other girls in her class shared her moniker but each was spelled differently.

Names also may have variations as a baby grows up. When little Billy, Donnie and Bobbie misbehaved, their mothers chastised William, Donald and Robert. The adult men are known as Bill, Don and Bob.

For a long time, I had a bias against any female named Marie. While I attended a country grade school, one of the ‘big girls’ was named Marie and she picked on me. When I started junior high in the village, a senior named Marie, who rode the same bus, often teased me. After I was married, it took a long time for me to develop a friendship with the wife of one of my husband’s buddies, a lovely woman named Marie.

Even machines have a prejudice against some names. When our son tried to register my new computer, the company refused to acknowledge my name. I assumed it was because of Vladimir Nabokov’s 1955 best-selling novel, “Lolita,” the story of a twelve-year-old nymphet. There are no similarities between that fictional girl and me; I even pronounce my name differently using a long I sound instead of a long E. Still, I had to dig up a high school nickname to be accepted.

What are your thoughts when you hear a person’s name for the first time?

At last, it’s spring according to the calendar. The signs have been showing up for some time. Road crews removed the snow fences from rural fields. Plans to get together with friends quit including the caveat, if weather permits. TV ads hawking over-the-counter allergy remedies replace those for cold and flu medicines. Robins hop around brown lawns. Dandelions pop up in sheltered places. Sprouting rhubarb creates visions of tasty pies.

It also creates a few problems. Pot holes appear in all of the roads aggravating motorists. Farmers beginning field work often temporarily tie up traffic when moving their equipment from place to place.

The warmer temperatures bring out young mothers pushing baby strollers along village sidewalks. At the grocery store, some of the men shopping are wearing shorts and revealing their winter-white legs.

Yard sales around the neighborhood show the results of people cleaning out storage areas and adjusting to growing children. Residents roll out grills, picnic tables and patio furniture for outdoor gatherings. We can enjoy longer daylight, especially since the time change.

Practices begin for the many forms of ball played by all ages: Little Leagues for youngsters, softball teams for teens and adults plus slow pitch for the aging athletes.

I miss the signs that I was accustomed to seeing but have gone by the wayside. Few housewives engage in vigorous, spring cleaning, which included washing windows inside and out. Grade-schoolers no longer use chalk to draw a hopscotch design and play the game on concrete walks. Younger children aren’t enjoying a backyard swing set. No more basketball hoops on garage roofs with teenagers in the driveways trying to duplicate one another’s shots in a game of HORSE. Failure gave the player one letter in the word–the loser was the first to complete the word.

What means spring to you?

I’ve joined a new group of writers, Authors Supporting Authors. We meet in Rockford on the last Tuesday of the month from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. in the Community Room at the Goodwill store, 3068 McFarland Road. New members are welcome.

To get acquainted at our first meeting, we each gave a brief bio. Age wasn’t mentioned, but, as I looked around, it was obvious I was the oldest person in the room. Many of the others resembled my children.

Most of these people pen stories but I am a nonfiction writer. Except for my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com, which I’ve posted on Wednesdays for the last four years, much of my experience is outdated. In 1969, all this stay-at-home mom needed to begin a career as a freelance journalist was a typewriter and a 35 mm camera. I learned by doing and joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, which is affiliated with the National Federation of Press Women. Through the years, I’ve received many awards from both organizations for articles published by area newspapers, national magazines and a literary journal. My memoir and one of my radio interviews for In Print also garnered recognition.

After my husband and I celebrated our Golden Anniversary in 2009, I began a memoir about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s. To make my book read like a novel, I attended workshops to learn to write creative nonfiction. Twice a month on Wednesday evenings, I drove forty-five minutes to meet with the Janesville (Wisconsin) Area Writers. I read aloud ten-minute excerpts from my tale and received constructive criticism from the other dozen members. It took a decade of research, writing and rewriting before I submitted my proposal to Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm. I was elated when they offered me a contract to publish “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel” in paperback and Kindle. I’ve received some royalties but now I’m hoping to learn more about boosting area sale. I’ll be looking for opportunities to contribute to the group.

How do you relate to the younger generations?

Often, I’ve looked at my daily routine and thought boring. Now, I’m happily saying, “Welcome back.”

While I was caring for Linda, our developmentally different daughter, I instituted a writing schedule. At 9 a.m., we walked a total of six blocks to get our mail from the post office box. Then, she was content for the rest of the morning and I could sit at my computer. At that time, the fire whistle blew at noon alerting villagers that it was lunch time. I quickly found a stopping place because Linda was ready to eat. After her death 15 years ago, I have continued that routine.

My disruption began Valentine’s Day when the computer died. Our son ordered a new one on line and I prepared to wait about three weeks for the replacement.

At first, I cleaned by file cabinet. Two Thursday evenings, Ken had a recycle bin full of used paper that he carried to the curb. That was the end of my industry. I tried doing some pencil and paper jotting during that down time so I wouldn’t lose my thoughts, but it didn’t work very well.

About a week later, the ice storm brought down a tree limb in our front yard, which caught the line attaching our house to the electric power. So much wasn’t working from the heated water bed to the pencil sharpener. We have a generator so we had necessities such as heat, frig, freezer and sump pump needed to keep our basement water free. There was also a place to charge our phones and our hearing aids. The coffee maker and toaster could be plugged in for breakfast. Cold lunches and supper from Cimino’s kept us fed. Forty-eight hours passed before the lights came back on.

I’m not good without my usual rut. I got tired of reading and doing crosswords or sudokus. I even found a deck of cards and played some solitaire, which I haven’t done in years.

How do you cope when your days are disrupted?

Nest Tuesday is Valentine’s Day, a time to celebrate love. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over, the stores blossomed with red hears and they began pushing gifts for that special someone including jewelry, boxes of chocolates and cards. Florists have a special price for roses.

Young love is the subject of songs, poems and stories. I remember the first time eighteen-year-old Kenny told me, “I love you, honey.” It was our last Saturday night date before he would begin a four-year-hitch in the navy. It took several seconds for this sunned, sixteen-year-old to respond, “I love you, too, and I’ll wait for you.” All the next day, I felt like the crooners on the radio were serenading me, especially Nat “King” Cole singing “Too Young.”

But falling in love is thrilling no matter how old you are. When my cousin, Doris, who was in her forties, asked me to be matron of honor for her marriage, she was as giddy as a young girl making plans. I was still in my twenties but, as the mother of three small children, I felt like we had switched ages. Before she met Bob, she had resigned herself to being an old maid like her aunt, who worked as a secretary. She’d even bought her own tombstone so her sister’s family wouldn’t have the expense.

Love also isn’t limited ‘one to a customer’. My friend, Joyce, who was a widow, played euchre at a senior center where she met Sid, a fellow who had lost his wife. They married so they could spend the remainder of their lives together.

There are also couples like Ken and me who are living the saying, “The most romantic love story isn’t Romeo and Juliet who died together…but Grandma and Grandpa who grew old together.”

How have you experienced love?