lolita-s-bigtoe.com

Besides our family, one of the things I’m thankful for is books. I’ve enjoyed reading since I met Dick and Jane in my first-grade primer. Mysteries became my favorite genre when the travelling library brought the Hardy Boys series to my country grade school but my tastes are eclectic.

Sometimes I gain unexpected knowledge from a novel such as learning about elephants when our book club recently read “Leaving Time” by Jodi Picoult. One of the story’s main characters, Alice Metcalf, a researcher, spends a lot of her time observing the animals and writing down what she sees.

Books transport me from my mundane life to a few hours of living as someone exciting. While I was a teenager recovering from tuberculosis in the sanitarium, I read about “Doc” Holliday, the gunfighter friend of lawman Wyatt Earp. The nonfiction satisfied two of my interests–the dentist resided in the Old West and suffered from consumption.

When I became a mother, I knew little about raising kids. My bible was “The Common Book of Child Care” by Dr. Benjamin Spock.

I’m a do-it-yourselfer. Some people take a class to learn a new skill; I always look for a how-to-book. For example, while our youngsters were growing up, I did a lot of sewing. When our davenport and chair needed reupholstering, I found a booklet in the yard goods store that gave step-by-step instructions to recover the furniture.

Buying an annual Rockford Library card enables me to borrow books about whatever subject catches my interest. It costs the same as the average taxpayer residing in the district pays whether that person uses the library or not.

When I decided to write a book, my memoir about our seven-year courtship in the 1950s, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” I read several examples by other authors.

Are you a reader?

Do you recall the Brady Bunch, Beaver Cleaver and the “Home Alone” boy, Macaulay Culkin? Most of today’s TV programs and movies don’t include children. The characters are adults and the story is about their problems.

On Monday nights, I watch the TV sitcom, “The Neighborhood.” The plots center around a white Midwestern family who moves into a Black neighborhood in California. The stories feature longtime residents Calvin and Tina plus their two grown sons, Malcolm and Marty, and their relationship with newcomers, Dave and Gemma, who have a young boy, Grover. He’s an elementary student at the school where his mother is principal and makes brief appearances on the show.

The only exception I’ve noticed is “Young Sheldon” with Iain Armitage in the title role. In 2017, he was nine when he was cast as the child genius in the prequel to “The Big Bang Theory.” The socially inept lad interacts with his family that includes his twin sister, an older brother, their parents and a maternal grandmother who live in Texas during the 1980s and early 90s.

Through the years, there have been many child stars. Elizabeth Taylor became the nation’s sweetheart as a twelve-year-old girl who loved a horse in the 1944 movie “National Velvet.” She continued in many movies as she matured including “The Father of the Bride” in 1950 and the historical epic, “Cleopatra,” in 1963. The public was fascinated by her real-life loves including singer, Eddie Fisher, and actor, Richard Burton.

In 1949, Ricky Nelson was eight when he joined his parents, Ozzie and Harriet, plus older brother, David, in their radio series. The family made the transition to a television sitcom in 1952. Five years later, Rick began a long career as a musician, songwriter and actor, which was cut short when he died in a plane crash on New Year’s Eve 1985.

Six-year-old Ronnie Howard began his entertainment career as Opie Taylor, son of Mayberry’s sheriff, Andy Griffith, on TV from 1960 to 1968. He followed that by playing Richie Cunningham, a 1950s teenager attending a Milwaukee, Wisconsin, high school in the sitcom, “Happy Days,” shown on TV from 1974 to 1980. As an adult, Ron has become a successful movie director, producer and screenwriter.

Do you have a favorite child star?

Friday is Veterans Day, a time to recognize all veterans who have honorably served our country. The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the ending of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. We have our veterans to thank that everyone living in this country has the opportunity to show patriotism and to protest.

My generation remembers the friends and members of our families who fought in World War II. We stand with our hands over our hearts for the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and when Old Glory passes by during a parade just like we were taught when we were students who began each school day with the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

Residents take for granted that our country will continue to be kept safe by our military, but, according to officials, young people’s familiarity with the services keeps dropping. In 2021, an Army study found 75% of Americans ages 16-28 knew little to nothing about the Army.

Every branch of the volunteer U.S. armed services is struggling to meet its recruiting quotas for fiscal year 2022. Army Secretary Christine Wormuth told NBC News, “The Army, like other services, is facing the most challenging recruiting market in the last 20 years.”

A record low percentage of young adults are eligible to serve and an even tinier fraction are willing to consider it. Army Chief of Staff Gen. James McConville testified before Congress that only 23% of the Americans ages 17-24 are qualified. The pool continues to shrink with more young men and women disqualified for obesity, drug use or criminal records. An internal Defense Department survey found only 9% of those young people eligible to serve in the military had any inclination to do so.

Some of those who have served wear a tee shirt or a cap proudly proclaiming they are veterans. 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?

I think it’s bass-ackward that I have to call and cancel to avoid having a new item and charge added to our bill from a large company. Before I dial the number listed for customer service, I gather all of the information I can think of that might be needed–our account number, my husband’s social security number because our account is in his name, our street address and our former landline phone number that’s usually still in their file. I write them all down including my cell phone number to be sure I recite them correctly if asked. Then, just like I’m going on a trip, I go to the bathroom and get a drink. I have no idea how long this session may take. I carefully input their number and a machine promptly answers. The menu follows: select 1 for this, select 2 for that, etc. My problem doesn’t seem to fit any of their categories such as my balance or when I made my last payment–I know those answers. I listen to the menu a second time and select what seems to be the closest. I’m assured my call is important to them and it will be answered by the next available person. The wait begins and some music.

When a person answers, I politely say I don’t want the new feature. Then, I have to listen to a spiel about how great the addition would be. I reiterate my no, thank you. I try to be courteous because I know the person I’m dealing with is only following orders and has no control over the situation.

I wonder if the ‘powers that be’ make these calls as annoying as possible to discourage people from using what I think should be labelled their customer frustration number.

Do you have any tips for making these calls easier?

I didn’t expect the day to come when I didn’t know all of my neighbors but it has. Old friends have moved away or died. I’m not outdoors much like Ken who does the yard work and talks with new people taking care of outside chores.

Each weekday morning and afternoon, there’s a traffic jam of parents driving their students to classes and home again. Few boys and girls walk by or ride bikes. The village has changed and so have I.

When we moved into Durand in 1966, I knew nearly everyone who lived in the little town that has never had more than 1500 residents. Our three children walked to school and played outside with the other kids who lived in the area. Our two daughters joined Girl Scouts and our son became a Cub Scout. I volunteered with those organizations, was a room mother and an active member of our church. I warned our offspring, “Your dad is a county deputy and your mom’s a newspaper reporter; everyone knows the Ditzler kids, sees what you’re doing, and can’t wait to tell your mother.” It wasn’t an idle threat. People picked up their phone book, found our number and gave me a ring whenever they saw our kids doing something they shouldn’t. The tattling was usually accompanied by the phrase, “I knew you’d want to know.”

After our children graduated, I continued watching school sporting and musical events that included our two grandchildren. When they both went off to college, I quit attending those local activities. I’m not a jointer so I don’t meet strangers in adult organizations. I am a member of the group on Facebook, “What’s Going On In Durand,” but most of the others are unfamiliar names.

Are you acquainted with your neighbors?

Today would be the birthday of my husband’s best friend, Wayne. The two boys met when they began first grade and continued to be buddies until Wayne died in the spring of 1999 when they were sixty-three.

Through the years, I’ve heard lots of “me and Wayne” stories. (Ken is a stickler for good grammar, but he never has broken that habit.) The growing lads found lots to do, especially during the summers. They rode their bicycles for miles and miles. I can’t imagine the two town boys thought it was fun to pedal through cow pies in the country.

In a restaurant, Ken likes to order frog legs. He told me the tale of the first time he ate the delicacy. While enjoying their favorite summer playground, the banks of South Otter Creek, the young fellows caught some of the amphibians. They built a fire, roasted the haunches and ate them.

Wayne brought us together. When we were teenagers, he met a girl at the Davis Days summer festival and she agreed to go on the Ferris wheel with him. He urged his companion to ask me. During our ride, Kenny could see Wayne had his arm around his girl. He circled my shoulders saying, “I hope you don’t mind–I’ve got to keep up with Wayne.”

After Wayne married Gloria and Ken married me, our families continued the camaraderie. When Wayne’s job took them from the Rockford area to the Chicago suburbs where Lori, Rick and Teri grew up, I-90 made it possible to continue visiting back and forth.

We attended a surprise birthday party for Wayne’s 50th birthday. The next morning, I asked Ken where he wanted to go for our family supper to celebrate his milestone birthday, which was 19 days away.

He mumbled, “I’d really like a surprise party like Wayne had.”

I responded, “I asked you weeks ago if you wanted a party and you said no. It’s too late to invite people.” But it wasn’t. After he left for work, I started making phone calls to plan a celebration. The group surprised Ken even though he’d asked for the party.

Today I’m thankful for Wayne’s friendship and the memories both Ken and I have of a good man.

Do you have a longtime friend?

In the past, I’ve interviewed numerous area authors for WBOM streaming radio, www.wbomradio.com, originating from high atop the Mendolssohn Performing Arts Center in Rockford, Illinois. One of my sessions won a second-place award from the National Federation of Press Women.

As the author of my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” I traded places and answered questions from WBOM’s Pamela at the Ethnic Museum book fair last Saturday. I don’t know when my interview will be broadcast on the In Print Radio program, which can be found on the computer Sundays at 7:00 a.m. and Mondays at 7:00 a.m.

I talked about my background and my book. I slipped into the writing world though the side door of learn by doing. After our three children were enrolled in school, I answered the Rockford Morning Star’s ad seeking correspondents to report news from the small towns surrounding the county seat. An editor said all I needed was a typewriter and a 35 mm camera–no training or experience in journalism was necessary. I attended civic meetings, chased fire trucks and submitted feature stories about Durand area people and their passions. After thirteen years, the daily abruptly dropped all part-timers. I sent query letters to national publications for women, farmers and police officers. Some of my proposed magazine articles were accepted.

After my ninety-year-old mother passed away, I read her daily jottings about our life on the family dairy farm during the 1950s. I used her diaries as the basis to write a memoir of my seven-year courtship that began with a Ferris wheel ride when Kenny and I were teenagers and continued through his four-year hitch in the U.S. Navy and my five months in a sanitarium recuperating from a serious bout with tuberculosis.

A couple of my writer friends had been published by Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm. I submitted my manuscript and I was thrilled when they offered me a contract. The book is available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback. Signed copies can be purchase from me.

I continue to write by posting on Wednesdays to my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com. It’s aimed at older women but is also read by a few men.

We are all children and most of as become parents. Have you ever traded places with any others?

Crawling into bed at the end of my day, our dark bedroom reminds me of a sensory deprivation tank without the water. There is nothing to see, hear or smell. Instead of slumbering like my husband lying beside me, my mind switches to pondering–considering quietly, soberly and deliberately the events of my day. When I was raising children, it was often my first peace and quiet.

I’ve never been one to give an immediate answer to a serious question. I often use the phrase, “Let me sleep on that.” I’d rather take time to consider the various ramifications of a decision. When our growing children asked, “Mom, can we..,” and wanted a quick reply, I usually said no. Later, after giving their request some thought, I could change to yes and everyone was happy. With kids, yes can’t be changed to no unless there’s a dire emergency. I continued the practice with our grandchildren until our granddaughter said, “Grandma, don’t say no, say, ‘I’ll think about it’.”

To me, pondering is a big part of writing. Every morning, I sit at my computer. I have learned to quickly jot something down to make a starting point. My first thoughts on a subject are filled with clichés and inactive verbs, the bane of scribblers. That is where the rewriting begins. When I leave my office to fix lunch, my composition is pushed to the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Sometimes I have a constructive thought while I’m doing dishes, folding clothes or taking a walk.

I quit writing while caring for our daughter, Linda, after she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. I probably could have found some time to sit at my computer but, my mind wasn’t free to ruminate.

Do you ponder?

Our countryside is dotted with hollow silos, remnants of the family dairy farm that has been eliminated by progress. The structures are typically thirty feet tall and ten feet in diameter–made of cast-in-place concrete, or precast, concrete staves held together with steel bands and topped with a metal dome. Some are solitary; others stand beside empty barns amid abandoned hog pens and chicken coops. I see the silos as monuments to the men, women, boys and girls who worked together milking cows, a 24/7 chore, and played together.

When the silos were in use, neighbors worked together during the late summer to fill them with chopped, green cornstalks. The silage provided winter feed for the bovines.

Every household included a dog. While I was growing up, my ‘little brother’ was Tony, a white, English bulldog, who accompanied us doing chores during the day and slept on a throw rug in the kitchen at night. He loved to ride along with Dad or Mom on the orange, Allis Chalmers tractor. When he heard the engine growl to life, he scurried to jump aboard the wooden platform that stretched between the rear fenders.

Farming was considered healthy living. The people ate hearty meals and the scraps were fed to their canines. Families rarely went to a doctor and pets never saw a veterinarian.

After high school graduation, I worked in an office assisting Winnebago County farmers to take advantage of the federal government programs such as enriching their cropland by applying needed limestone and phosphate or planting corn in contour rows around a hillside to prevent top soil eroding during a rain storm. One of the middle-aged men told me, “I have two sons so I need two farms.”

At that time, Illinois law required the owner’s name and address to be painted on the doors of his pick-up truck to prevent rustling of farm animals. Men added “& Son” soon after a boy was born into the family. The occupation is still passed from generation to generation.

Do you notice the silos standing along rural roads?

Ken and I spent most of last Saturday in an area city that we don’t often visit. Knowing it would be close to supper time when we finished our business, I had made a reservation at a favorite restaurant. We finished our commitment before the eatery’s scheduled opening time. While waiting in their parking lot, we listened to classic country music on the truck radio. Ken thought about the frog legs he would soon be enjoying. They’re a delicacy few places serve.

What a disappointment when we were seated at our table. They had drastically reduced their menu since COVID-19 and various new, government regulations. Instead of several pages in a folder, we were given a typed sheet that didn’t include his favorite. When I had looked for a phone number on their website, they didn’t include their menu so we were surprised. The establishment was soon crowded. Apparently, their regulars had adjusted to their changes or maybe they had added some new customers.

A few weeks ago, my husband had gone fishing. I decided to treat myself and drove to a place that specialized in ladies’ lunches. When I pulled into their deserted parking lot, I saw a hand-lettered sign leaning against their front door, “Closed temporarily because we don’t have enough help.” I returned home and opened a can of soup.

A girlfriend and I have also run into problems trying to schedule a lunch together. Some of the places where we have met before, no longer serve at mid-day, but are only open in the evening for dinner. Others have closed permanently.

I don’t blame the restaurants who are trying to survive during the pandemic. It’s our obligation to find their website and check their current status. We need to accept unexpected changes.

Have you noticed differences in your favorite restaurants?