lolita-s-bigtoe.com

Saturday, I’ll be another year older. I’ve survived three serious illnesses and continue to be in pretty good health. Ken will take me out to supper at Josef’s in Rockford to celebrate.

I have so many things to be thankful for starting with my husband. We’ve raised three children and cared for Linda all of her life. Lisa and Kurt lead the lives they have chosen. Our grandchildren, Katelyn and Jacob, are successful adults. Daughter-in-law, Sandy, and grandson-in-law, Sean, joined this family.

As I look back, it seems things have fallen into place according to a grand design. Two events during my sophomore year in high school set the course for the rest of my life. I was taking a typing class in preparation for an office job after graduation. My folks gave me a Royal portable typewriter for Christmas. I never figured out why they purchased a gift that cost over a hundred dollars. It was the first time they bought an item on time and made monthly payments to a store in Beloit.

Three months later, Kenny and I attended the Future Homemakers of America dance in the Durand High School gym. My parents decided I was finally old enough to date him. In 1959, the two of us were married.

Ten years later, I became a freelance reporter for the Rockford Morning Star because I owned a typewriter. I’ve continued to write newspaper and magazine articles at home.

Earlier this year, Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, published my memoir about our seven-year courtship, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

For years, my mantra has been, “Today we’re okay,” I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I am not a worrier. We’ll handle it. In the meantime, I’ll celebrate every chance I get.

In retrospect, has your life seemed to follow a pattern?

Safe is the current buzzword. All day, people wish another, “Be safe.” They’re referring to health and welfare. In other words, wherever you go, avoid the Covid-19 virus. If you venture into one of the nearby cities, lookout for crossfire.

When our kids were teenagers with activities of their own, my husband felt he was doing his job protecting his family when he could lock the front door on our way to bed knowing everyone was upstairs asleep. A few years later, one of our daughter’s friends lost her husband and their two small sons in a nighttime house fire. No place is completely safe.

We hear admonitions about the four components of an active lifestyle: healthy eating, exercise, hydration and sleep. Yet, nothing guarantees a long life.

A year ago, we sympathized with an old friend at the memorial service following the death of her middle-aged daughter. The young grandmother had escaped the pandemic, but she lost her battle with breast cancer. Although the virus has captured the spotlight, the usual diseases including cancer, heart attack and stroke continue to take their toll, too.

Making our own choices is what being a citizen of the United States is all about. Whether a person weighs the pros and cons thoughtfully or decides on a whim, each of us has the personal freedom to make our own choices.

During the summer, Ken and I get a kick out of taking rides in our 1965 Plymouth convertible. With its top down and only lap belts, the car wouldn’t be as protective during a crash as our 2005 Chrysler sedan or 2015 Ram pick-up, but we sacrifice a degree of safety for the enjoyment of the trip.

How do you balance safety and pleasure?

Through the years, just knowing a mentor was available if I needed help has given me the guts to try new things.

After I became the mother of two girls, I wanted to do something besides housework all of the time. I used Mom’s treadle machine to make s sun suit for 18-month-old Linda. During freshman home economic class, I’d hated sewing, but without a teacher looking over my shoulder and telling me to rip out a seam and do it over, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

I saw a widower’s newspaper ad offering his wife’s used, electric sewing machine for sale for $25. I asked my knowledgeable cousin, Flo, to go with me to look at it. I bought it and she continued to be a phone call away if I had a question about using it.

My next door neighbor, Mrs. Gaffney, an experienced seamstress and a 4-H leader, said she would help me if I ever needed it. That day soon came. I was making myself a sleeveless dress with a short jacket. My machine sat in the living room and I left my garment on it so I could work when I had a few free moments. I discovered one of our three kids used my scissors to cut into the side of my dress. I was afraid it was ruined. The four of us trooped next door and I showed my neighbor what had happened. She was able to weave a scrap of the multi-blue, coarse material into the slice. I finished the outfit and wore it many times during the years that followed.

When my typewriter became obsolete, our son, Kurt, helped me buy a computer and enter the world of technology. A couple years ago, I found directions on the internet for beginning a blog. With his help to interpret what I was reading; I began lolita-s-bigtoe.com.

Who are some of your mentors?

We live in a throwaway society. Once in a while, a news report shows a photo of the debris left on the ground when a gathering of the public has ended. It takes a small army to clean up the mess made by careless folks who couldn’t be bothered to use one of the many garbage cans scattered around.

Every day at lunchtime, fast-food restaurants hand out a lot of paper and foam containers to the line of autos in the drive thru line. Some of those items are eventually tossed out a car window. Many people tote a disposable plastic bottle of water in an effort to drink more. Some are dropped along the way.

This isn’t just an urban problem. While I was Durand Township clerk, highway commissioner Kim Steward complained that used tires and bags of refuse would be dumped along rural roads.

Areas use various methods to clean up the junk. Some of those picking up clutter in our nation may be offenders who have been sentenced to community service as alternative punishment intended to benefit the community that’s been harmed by their crimes.

In my home state of Illinois, more than 10,000 volunteers partner with the Department of Transportation through the Adopt-A-Highway program to clean a two-mile section of highway at least four times per year.

In California, our most populist state, Governor Gavin Newsom plans to spend $1.1 billion over the next three years to clean trash and graffiti from highways, roads and other public spaces in an effort to beautify the state. Newson estimates the program will create up to 11,000 jobs. Priority for employment will be given to at risk youth and people who were formerly homeless or formerly incarcerated. This is not a pot of gold that Newsom has found at the end of the rainbow, but citizens’ hard-earned tax dollars. Can you imagine what that amount of money could provide if it wasn’t being spent to clean up the state?

How can we keep our communities neat without spending a pile of tax-payer dollars?

For the past month, I’ve been slotting things to do into two categories–before my book signing Saturday afternoon and after. I will greet people from 2 to 4 p.m. at the Durand State Bank Community Room, 1005 Cameron Drive at the south edge of the village. I’ll read an excerpt and then invite everyone to enjoy punch, cookies and conversation while I sign books that have been previously purchased and have some for sale, $22 cash or personal check.

Having Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, publish my memoir is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me. Two of my writer friends were happy with the company’s work so it topped my list of publishers to send a proposal. When the editor asked to see my complete manuscript, I was elated. This was followed by the offer of a contract, which was a dream come true. When I received the cover and edited copy to approve, I thought they were beautiful. Earlier this year, my book became available in Kindle and paperback from Amazon. One morning in May, I was surprised when the blue cover of “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel” was looking back at me from my computer while I was going through the AOL — News, Politics, Sports, Mail & Latest Headlines. Amazon provided the ad for at least five days. My granddaughter, Katelyn, saw my book listed on the Good Reads app on her phone. COVID has caused a few glitches but, all in all, I have been pleased. I’ve reconnected with friends I haven’t heard from in years and met new people who have read my memoir.

Sometimes the anticipation outshines the actual occasion. What has been your experience in anticipating an event and its happening?

My husband and I recently spent nine days on a bus tour with fifty other senior citizens. When we stopped for the night, each couple was assigned one motel room. Several of the pairs had different last names. I didn’t know if some of the women didn’t change their names when they wed or if they were just living together like those that told us, “We’re not married.”

This is the same generation who was stymied several years ago when their college-age child planned to bring a ‘significant other’ along when coming home for a holiday. Morals were changing. The parents, part of a generation that expected brides to be virgins, suspected the couple slept together when away from home but wrote “Dear Abby” to ask, “Do we assign them one or two bedrooms?”

When we’re young, it’s easy to say, “I’d never do that,” or “I’ll always do this.” As we age, we find times change and so do people. The man who proposed to me in September 1958 wore a suit and drove his Lincoln to collet money from people who were behind in repaying small loans from a finance company. By the time we married the following April, he was wearing coveralls and driving a tractor as the hired man on his brother-in-law’s farm. Seven years later, he got down off the tractor. He put on a uniform, badge and gun belt to climb into a Winnebago County squad car and begin a 37-year career in law enforcement.

I played a newspaper woman in our high school junior class play. At that time, females were slotted to the society pages writing about women’s clubs, engagements and weddings. Only men covered the hard news. I had no idea that fifteen years later I would become a freelance journalist chasing firetrucks, reporting on civic meetings and writing feature articles about people in our community doing interesting things.

Ken and I raised three children and enjoyed watching two grandchildren grow from babies to adults. Each generation does things differently. We try to ‘go with the flow’ although we may not always agree.

What changes have you made in your thinking through the years?

As fall looms, we see organizations that have been on hiatus during the summer resume meetings. Most of us belong to at least one club or group. The duties of various officers are usually spelled out but not those of members.

We may have gone beyond the era of women’s clubs, but many of their ideas are still valid. I have adapted the following from the General Federation of Women’s Clubs list of the responsibilities of a member:

Attend meetings regularly. A list of the organizations you belong to may be impressive on a resume, but only of you’re an active member.

Be on time and prepared for each meeting. A lack of preparation is one of the main reasons for an unproductive meeting.

Think for yourself. Make an effort to be a thinker instead of a perennial “yes” member.

Communicate. Stand up and make your voice heard. The voice of one individual may save the group from making an unwise decision. Blend gentleness with firmness when taking a stand.

Promote a spirit of teamwork. Don’t let your organization be crippled by a membership that splinters into uncooperative or hostile cliques.

Expect frustration and difficulty when dealing with people.

Be a peacemaker–when misunderstandings, disputes and clashes arise, help to clear the air by trying to reach a peaceful accord.

Encourage others. Don’t be a ‘wet blanket’, a person that dampens enthusiasm.

Be willing to fulfill responsibilities as well as exercise rights.

Give credit where credit is due. Don’t be a “credit grabber”–one who is always first in line when it comes to taking a bow, but nowhere to be seen in the midst of working. Don’t hesitate to praise a fellow member for a job well done.

Have a sense of humor. Don’t take yourself too seriously or others not seriously enough.

Do you have anything to add or subtract from this list?

Nicknames have been a part of our vernacular for a long time. Some are descriptive–others have a reason for being coined, but few know what that was.

One evening during the 1940s, my parents loaded their car with friends and drove an hour to reach the Dutch Mill Ballroom at Delavan Lake, Wisconsin, where they danced to the famous Tiny Hill Orchestra. The popular maestro was billed as “America’s biggest band leader.” Like others who shared his nickname, he weighed more than 300 pounds.

Every summer when I was a kid, we went to the annual Tschabold reunion, which included Grandpa’s siblings and their families. I never figured out how many brothers my grandfather had because not all of them attended. If Dad talked about his uncles, sometimes he said Oscar, Emil or William and other times it was ‘Bean’, ‘Pork’ or ‘Flat’.

Some people dropped the label as they matured. Back when pregnancy seemed to be an epidemic in my generation, a lot of my friends named their boy babies after their fathers and called the child ‘Junior’. Recently at a friend’s retirement party, I had to keep reminding myself the gray-haired man was Ray not ‘Junior’ or the family favorite, ‘Junie’.

Others used the appellation all of their lives. During the seven years Ken and I lived on the farm, ‘Bump’ delivered our mail. Some people never knew his legal name was Floyd. One of our village mayors introduced himself to everyone as ‘Pokey’, his high school moniker. He signed papers with his initials M. M. I never heard anyone call him Marion. Our friend, Harold, became ‘Grandpa Sonny’.

Girls, too, were given nicknames. Families tended to use the same first name over and over. Dad’s clan had ‘Big Margaret’ and ‘Little Margaret’ to distinguish between the generations. On Mom’s side, one of my cousins was named after her dad’s only sibling and we called her ‘Sis’. Her sister’s golfing buddy was a short, chubby woman who everybody called ‘Pudge’.

Some women preferred their appellation. When Uncle Bobbie married Viola, she asked us all to call her ‘Babe’.

Are nicknames still popular?

Learning isn’t confined to the time we spend in school or the years when we are young. In 1969, I was ‘over thirty’ when I became a freelance journalist with neither education or experience. I learned by doing. Through the years, my articles have appeared in area newspapers and national magazines for women, farmers and police officers. I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, an affiliate of the National Federation of Press Women. My work has earned awards from both groups.

In 2009, my husband and I celebrated our Golden Anniversary. It set me thinking about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s, which began with a Ferris wheel ride when Kenny was 16 and I was 14. I had time on my hands and a new computer–I needed a writing project. I began reading the diaries my mother had left behind when she died. Her daily, barebones jottings of who, what, when and where began in 1952 and served as a guide to start my memoir. To learn to write creative nonfiction, a genre that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives, I made the easy one-hour drive north to Madison to attend workshops conducted by the Division of Continuing Studies at the University of Wisconsin. I also joined several area writers’ groups for comradery and critiques of my work in progress. Although I was writing about my memories, I checked details by reading old newspapers at area libraries and my high school annuals. A sign on my refrigerator, “You are not too old and it is not too late,” kept me going during the ten years it took me to finish my book, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” Last year, I submitted a proposal to Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, that published my memoir. It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

I now am learning to promote my work. I will have a book signing on Saturday, August 7, from 2 to 4 p.m. in the Community Room of the Durand State Bank, 1005 Cameron Drive on the south edge of the village.

What new things are you learning?

Sunday we’ll celebrate the 4th of July with noise–marches played by the parade bands, loud conversations of people enjoying picnics in backyards and the booms of evening fireworks. Pets will hide to avoid the cacophony.

Let’s take a few minutes to ponder the meaning of these familiar words from the Declaration of Independence written in 1776. We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” When I was in school, teachers assured me that the term Men included Women and I took their word for it.

In our free country, we each have our own definition of happiness. My family and my writing are the major components of mine. When our oldest child, Linda, started first grade in 1966, she was psychologically tested, diagnosed as retarded and referred to special education classes. My plan to return to a part-time office job as soon as Lisa and Kurt also entered school evaporated, but not my desire to be more than “just a housewife.” In looking for a job I could do at home, I became a community correspondent reporting local happenings to the Rockford Morning Star, the area daily newspaper serving the small towns surrounding the city. I soon realized I had found my calling as a journalist. The occupation had never crossed my mind when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When my mother reached the age that she needed my help, Linda was done with school and at home all of the time. I quit writing so I could continue to tend to Linda and provide the aid Mom needed to remain in her own house here in Durand. I was sure nothing I could write would be as important as caring for my family. I found another aspect of happiness.

How do you define happiness?