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This past week, I’ve enjoyed a cup of coffee with others twice, the first since Governor JB Pritzker issued his Executive Order to stay at home during the pandemic. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to just sit and visit while drinking coffee.

Last Tuesday morning, I met Loraine downtown at the Center Street Creamery. It was the first time I’d had a cappuccino since before COVID-19 changed our way of life. She was a former Durand area resident who liked to return to the village from time to time. She never knew me but had read my memoir and wrote me a letter suggesting our get-together. I love to meet anyone who has enjoyed my book. She was about our kids age, but we seemed to have a lot in common.

Yesterday, Ken and I enjoyed coffee, delicious Bundt cupcakes and conversation with Mary Ann and Tom, another retired cop like my husband. There’s a special joy in visiting with couples in our age bracket. We’ve all been there, done that, and are dealing with similar problems and rewards today. It was a beautiful day for a convertible ride to Rockford unless we had to spend a long time sitting at a stoplight. We also brought along a copy of my memoir for them.

Many of my friends are married to retired cops. When we were young, our husbands assumed we women had a lot in common because most of us began marriage as housewives and mothers. With our husbands rotating schedules around a 24/7 job, it was hard to socialize with our non-law-enforcement friends from the old days. Our social life was often limited to other officers working the same shift and their wives.

Are you seeing others for coffee?

My dad was a dairy farmer, my mother worked outside alongside him and so did I. During the nineteen-forties and fifties, there were child-sized jobs on a family enterprise. For example, before evening milking, he dipped ground feed from a five-gallon bucket and placed it in a pile in front of each cow’s stanchion. I followed and topped each mound with a small scoop of dry molasses taken from my sand pail. When more feed needed to be ground at the Davis Mill, I held gunny sacks open while Dad used a scoop shovel to fill them with oats stored in the granary bin.

Dad and I also did fun things. My parents bought a pony for me when I was 4 1/2. To take rides together, Dad would mount his horse, Mickey, and hold onto a lead rope attached to Millie’s bridle do she couldn’t run away with me.

As I was growing up, Illinois law required the owner’s name and address be painted on the pick-up truck’s doors to prevent rustling of farm animals. For years, I secretly hoped that when Dad could afford a pick-up, he’d include “& Daughter” with his name like other men included “& Son.” I was twenty years old before Dad could purchase a good used, 12-year-old truck for $250. I painted his name and address on the blue doors. I was still Daddy’s girl, but no longer needed it proclaimed on the side of the vehicle.

Dad’s death from a heart attack when he was only 63 was a big shock. I relish the time I spent with him. I’m also thankful for the time our three children spent with their grandfather.

What are your memories of your father?

Older women were raised not to boast, except maybe about our grandchildren. We have a tough time accepting compliments. Instead of a simple, “Thank you,” the admirer hears a litany of reasons why the compliment is undeserved. For example, when someone says, “That’s a pretty dress. Is it new?”

The ‘old chestnut’ answer was. “This old thing?”

The other day, I met Pat while I was walking in Saelens Memorial Park. We often strolled at the same time and when we did, we sat down on a bench and visited. During our conversation, she commented, “While we were young, we weren’t too smart.”

I disagreed and responded, “I’ve always been smart.” I considered it something that I was given–not something I had anything to do with.

When I repeated our conversation to my husband, he said, “How could you say that?”

I answered, “I was just being truthful.”

Our conversation reminded me of Walter Brennan, the character actor who starred as the grandfather in “The Guns of Will Sonnet,” an 1890’s Western that ran on TV from 1967-1969. His, “no brag, just fact” became a catch phrase and stuck in my mind.

When I joined a writers’ group that critiqued one another’s work in progress, I learned to also say, “Thank you,” when someone gave constructive criticism about a piece I’d written. Thinking things over later, I usually took the advice to heart.

Since the publishing of my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Wheel,” I’ve had more opportunities to receive compliments. I continue to think “no brag, just fact,” but out loud I simply say, “Thank you.”

What is your usual response to a compliment?

I don’t feel complimented when someone I haven’t seen for a while says, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

I prefer what I heard when my parents and I attended the annual Tschabold family reunion, “My, how you’ve grown.”

No matter what age we are, every day changes us a little bit. Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher born in 544 BSc said, “No man ever stepped in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” I’m sure that applies to women, too.

When a female goes from preschooler to student to adult worker, she changes. If she passes from single to married, to motherhood, to mother-in-law and grandmother, the new roles give her different perspectives. Even various stages of the same classification cause change–there’s a big difference between mothers of toddlers and mothers. The same when she buries her parents and she becomes an orphan instead of a daughter. Her core remains the same but each of those events causes her to grow.

While I was growing up, girls who didn’t marry in their twenties were considered old maids. They worked as executives secretaries, school teachers, nurses or moved in with a sibling and were known as the family’s maiden aunt. Today’s women have a lot more choices.

It isn’t just our personal lives that change us. What’s happening around us also influences us. Those who survive the COVID-19 pandemic will be different from what they were before our world changed.

It doesn’t have to be a traumatic moment to change a person. When I was 14 years old, I said yes when 16-year-old Kenny asked me to ride the Ferris Wheel at a carnival and it set the course of the rest of my life.

What have been some of your exceptional moments of growth?

Next Monday is Memorial Day, a time set aside to honor those who have been killed while serving in the United States military forces. 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.”

A little background: 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. Some of the usual parades and services honoring those who were killed fighting a war may be cancelled because of COVID-19 restrictions.

In Durand, the Stars and stripes will line Center Street. The Legion members will visit each of the area’s cemeteries and place a small American flag on the grave of each veteran. To support veterans, the Durand Legion and Auxiliary sold poppies in Durand and Davis last Friday and Saturday. The Auxiliary will hold their annual Memorial Day Ceremony at the Hall on Saturday, May 29, at 7 p.m.

On Sunday, May 30, at 2 p.m. (weather permitting) Medina Nursing Center will organize a Memorial Day Parade for the residents. People may decorate their vehicle, make signs, dress up their kids and pets in patriotic red, white and blue and walk, ride or drive. The lineup will be along Ruby Street and the parade will loop through the parking lot.

Memorial weekend is also considered the unofficial beginning of summer. Many things vie for our attention. Stores advertise bargains. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planed.

I urge you to 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?

On a beautiful summer day, our three preschoolers and I stopped by my parents’ farm to get eggs and show Mom our eight-week-old puppy. After greetings, the kids took their new friend outside to play while Mom and I visited. When I was ready to go home, I went outside and called, “Get Clancy and get in the car.” I didn’t see the pup and asked, “Where’s Clancy?”

Silence. Finally, Lisa, 4, piped up, “Doggie’s down the hole.”

My parents’ house was modern but the white outhouse still stood in the backyard. As we approached the little building, I could faintly hear the small dog whimpering. I opened the door and looked down the hole. The brown and white pup cowered against a cement wall. Obviously, as short as his legs were, he couldn’t have gotten in there by himself. For some unknown reason. the kids put him there. I immediately did what any child does in a crisis–I ran to tell my mother and ask, “What do we do now?

Mom answered, “Well, they’re your kids and your dog. I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

I returned to the outhouse. The little animal looked fairly clean because the only time the facility was used was if nature called while my folks were working outside. It looked like I could reach to pull the pup out if I could coax him to the peak of the mound of dried excrement. I went back into the house, snatched a slice of bread and returned to the outhouse. I knelt beside the hole and dangled the bread to coax Clancy away from the wall. It took about five minutes of cajoling before he started crawling toward my hand. When he was within my reach, I dropped the morsel, grabbed the scruff of his neck, lifted him out of the pit and put him down on the grass. He was so happy to be free that he ran circles around the kids’ feet. When he calmed down a bit, I gave him his first bath before putting him in the station wagon to go home.

I continued to be our family’s problem solver for years. Now, our kids are middle-aged, our grandchildren are adults and my husband is retired. When a member of my family has a dilemma, I have learned to be a good listener. I’m tempted to offer my solution, but I follow my mother’s example of standing back while everyone handles his or her own affairs.

Who solves problems in your family?

Today is the middle of National Police Week May 9 – 15. It was established by Congressional resolution in 1962 to “pay special attention to those law enforcement officers who have lost their lives in the line of duty for the safety and protection of others.” Each year our nation loses 140 – 160 cops in the line of duty.

I am the proud matriarch of a police family. In 1966, my husband, Ken, began a twenty-five year career with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first female Illinois State Troopers. Our son, Kurt, joined his father as a deputy. To schedule family celebrations for holidays and special occasions, I worked around three shifts and sleep times. It wasn’t the date on the calendar that was important, but the people gathered around our table.

Friends often asked, “Aren’t you worried all of the time?”

My stock reply, “No. If worry would keep them safe, I’d do it, but it won’t. I pray they won’t get shot and that they won’t have to shoot someone.”

I’ve taken part in the rituals that accompany the death of a police officer in the line of duty. On March 15, 1974, Winnebago County Deputy Michael Mayborne, 28, was shot and killed by Ted Bacino, a fleeing bank robber. As a detective’s wife, I empathized with Mike’s family and supported my husband as he grieved for his bomb squad partner.

Ken, Lisa and Kurt are retired from law enforcement. Two years ago, our grandson, Jacob, joined the Rockford Police Department.

Today’s officers are under bombardment. Yet, these men and women protect and serve all of you and your families. They walk out the doors of their homes knowing it may be the last time their families get to hug and kiss them.

How do you view the police?

Mother’s Day is Sunday, May 9th. For the past month, we’ve been inundated with ads extolling jewelry, flowers, candy and other traditional gifts for Mom. Although it’s been eighteen years since my mother died, it still feels odd not to buy a Mother’s Day card and gift.

Mom and I had quite different tastes. For example, when we were shopping together, she would admire a dress displayed in a store window that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

Instead of purchasing flowers or a box of candy that only lasted a few days, I bought practical gifts for her. My thought was she could splurge with the money she saved for something she wouldn’t normally buy.

When my folks moved into their new house in Durand at the beginning of the seventies, the builder had the lawn sodded. It didn’t take long for dandelions to invade the pristine grass. Mom’s complaining about the wild flowers gave me an idea–I would give her a dandelion digger for Mother’s Day. The implement had a long, hardwood handle with a small, metal two-tined fork attached. She could stand upright and remove the pesky weeds from her lawn for many years. She seemed pleased.

On the following Monday afternoon, her neighbor, Mildred, walked over to chat. The two women had been friends since they were young, farm wives living in Laona Township. Both couples had retired from farming and moved to town where their homes were two blocks apart. Mildred bragged about the traditional gifts she had received from her six children. Then she asked, “What did Lolita give you?”

Mom replied, “A dandelion digger.”

Mildred was incredulous when she repeated, “A dandelion digger?”

Mom answered, “She knew I could use one.”

Do you have a memorable gift that you gave your mother?

Dandelions and violets are blooming in our yard. Obviously, anything green is allowed to grow, not just luxurious grass. The flowers remind me of my days attending a country grade school. This week, I would have used my spare time to make May baskets from pieces of colorful construction paper. First, I’d cut a half-inch strip from the wide side of the sheet to use as the handle. Then I’d snip in about an inch from the edges to make a square basket. Before pasting the corners of the folded sides, I drew a rebus on one side. I wrote the word My, drew pictures of a heart and a pair of pants and finished with 4 you. I added the handle by pasting its ends to middle of each long side.

On May 1, I’d bring the baskets home from school, pick flowers from the lawn and add pieces of the fudge Mom had made. I would place the filled containers in the wire basket on the front of my bike and ride to our neighbors’ houses. I’d set a basket on the doorstep, knock, shout “May basket” and quickly pedal away. The object was not to get caught.

With schoolchildren at home more because of the Coronavirus, I wonder if modern parents know about May baskets or can show their kids how to make one. The homemade fudge that I used could be replaced with purchased, individually wrapped morsels. Because the object is to be anonymous, the child could leave the basket on a neighbor’s stoop without making contact.

Did you hang May baskets when you were a grade schooler or are you too young to have participated in the ritual?

Recently, I read in the Rockford Register Star about a study published in the journal “Science” showing a fix to the food climate problem. Co-author of the study, Jason Hill, a biosystems engineering professor at U of Minnesota, was quoted, “The whole world doesn’t have to give up meat for us to meet climate goals. (set in the 2015 Paris climate accord) “We can eat better, healthier foods. We can improve how we grow foods. And we can waste less food.” Many adults need around 2,100 calories a day.

I like to cook but I also enjoy going to a restaurant. My biggest complaint when eating out Is the large portions they bring each individual. The servers are quick to offer a box to take uneaten food home. I usually decline because I’ve found few meals reheated in a microwave the next day taste like they did when served.

In 2009, we celebrated our 50th anniversary by joining other senior citizens on a tour of Alaska, which ended with a cruise. One evening, we were told we would be served a 7-course supper. I didn’t expect to enjoy all 7-courses because I couldn’t eat like I did when I was younger. I was pleased that each course was small enough that I could consume them all. It showed me chefs can create meals that fit an older person’s appetite.

Several years ago, flying to Las Vegas upset my stomach. After landing, I quickly recovered, but, during our stay, I limited my food intake. It was up to me how much I ate of the meal I had ordered. I’d grown up with the admonition, “Clean up your plate or no dessert.” I love desserts so I ate everything whether I liked it or not. Now, I’m mature enough to have dessert without cleaning my plate, but I hate wasting food.

When a contemporary tells me about a new restaurant she’s found, she extolls their large portions as a good thing.

Are you satisfied with the size of the meals restaurants serve?