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Tomorrow marks a week before Thanksgiving. It was the day Ken and Jerry, buddies since they were patrol partners with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police, left for deer hunting in northern Wisconsin. It gave them plenty of time for the eight-hour drive and settling in at the cabin before the season opened Saturday morning.

If I asked my husband when they were leaving, he responded, “We always…” For forty years, they followed the same agenda–leaving before sunrise, stopping at the same restaurants along the way, using the same deer stands and getting together with the same friends in the evenings. The following Tuesday they returned home. The only difference was sometimes they each brought back a deer and sometimes not. Either way, they enjoyed the trip.

Routines regulate our lives. Rituals get us up and ready for work in the morning, dressed to go out on the town in the evening or prepared for a day at home puttering around.

I spend mornings following Ernest Hemingway’s first rule for writers, “Apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” My family knows my ‘do not disturb’ sign is up from 1:00 to 2:00 p.m. That has been my siesta time for more than half a century. I can’t walk out the door until I’ve followed my mother’s admonition, “Go to the bathroom and get a drink.”

A couple months ago, I was preparing to attend our granddaughter’s wedding. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn panty hose and a dress. I had to stop and think just how to put on the garb. I also reminded myself to “act like a lady” while wearing it.

What do you always do?

Today is Veterans Day, no apostrophe because it is not a day that belongs to veterans, it is a day for honoring all veterans.

I live with a man who enlisted in the navy in 1954 during the Cold War, a state of political and military tension between the United States and Russia. The threat of nuclear weapons wafted over the globe like a mushroom cloud. After ten months of intensive schooling, Ken spent three years as an ordnanceman handling ammunition and bombs carried by the planes aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Bennington. The Big Benn was part of the Seventh Fleet that furnished on-the-spot protection to the United States foreign policy across the far eastern seas whenever and wherever required. The men trained every day but Sunday to be ready to do whatever might become necessary.

Ken and I were in love. Each summer during his four-year hitch, he came home on a thirty-day furlough. The rest of the time, we exchanged letters. I wrote to him every evening. He responded intermittently. During his leave in August 1957, I joined his family to view the slides he’d taken while aboard ship. My boyfriend’s pictures and commentary helped me understand his dangerous work. I was more patient when a lot of time elapsed between his letters.

Two years ago last May, Ken joined Vets Roll, the annual, four-day, bus trip from Beloit, Wisconsin, to Washington, D.C., for 200 veterans and “Rosie-the Riveters” to see the memorials. Fundraisers, donations and volunteers allow the non-profit organization to provide closure, gratitude and respect to America’s senior-most veterans.

My husband usually wears a cap that proclaims he’s a U.S. Navy veteran. He’s appreciative when someone thanks him for his service.

Have you voiced your gratitude to a veteran for his or her contribution to your freedom?

A recent lunch at Toby’s restaurant in Madison, Wisconsin, with my old chum, Susan, took about two hours. We aren’t slow eaters. It just takes a long time to consume bowls of potato soup topped off with dessert and coffee plus a large side dish of conversation. It’s a treat to chat with a contemporary who understands how we got where we are.

During my forty-five-minute drive to our confab, I thought about meeting Susan when we were teenagers. She attended Bethlehem Church in Brodhead and I belonged to Trinity in Durand, two Lutheran churches located about fifteen miles apart. The congregations shared a new pastor who formed a joint Luther League, a youth organization that met once a month on Sunday nights.

When we were young mothers lunching together, Susan was accompanied by her two, small sons and I brought my pair of toddler daughters. We each added a third child to our families–hers a girl and mine, a boy. Our adult kids are scattered and we’re grandmothers.

There have been breaks in our contact. Susan has lived in several states, divorced and returned to this area. She served as editor for various publications, retired but is looking at possibilities to resume writing.

My husband and I remained in our hometown. I’ve freelanced newspaper and magazine articles, joined professional writers’ groups in nearby cities and attended national conferences and workshops. Wednesdays, I post to my blog aimed at older women. My coming of age memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” will be issued in December by Adelaide Books, a New York independent publisher.

Our encounter wasn’t “remember when” time. A few memories crept into our discussion, but mostly we talked about what’s happening and what we expect in the future.

Do you engage in girltalk with a friend?

With Halloween coming up Saturday, I have a story for you. Four years after we moved into our home in Durand, we decided to add a family room and a two-car garage. Ernie, the carpenter who remodeled the house before he sold it to us, would attach the addition to the rear of the existing story-and-a half structure. Marsden came with his tractor and backhoe to do the digging necessary for the concrete footings to be poured before construction could begin. The first thing he did was remove the cement stoop beside the backdoor to our kitchen. In the process, he turned the slab over. We were flabbergasted to see that it was a tombstone for Sarah Sackett who lived from 1819 to 1880. Had she been buried in our back yard? Would we be disturbing a ghost? He didn’t uncover a coffin or any bones.

We checked the property abstract, a document that summarized the record of owners for our corner lot from the beginning of the village in 1856. Several Sacketts were listed as title holders during the late 1800s and early 1900s.

My next errand was checking the Laona Township Cemetery north of town where my mother’s parents are buried. It didn’t take long to find the gray, granite monument that was nearly as tall as I am with Sackett in large letters across the top. Three names were etched on the side: Isaac Sackett 1789 – 1881; Mary Sackett 1806 – 1889; and Sarah Johnson 1819 – 1880. Her name differed but the dates were the same. Apparently, sometime after Sarah died, her cheaper, small, concrete marker was replaced with the joint, more expensive one. Being prudent people, the family didn’t throw away the chunk of cement. They turned it over and used it as a step to enter their house.

Have you ever frugally repurposed something in an odd way?

We all do household chores. When I taught our three kids to cook, do laundry and clean, I told them, “Unless you’re rich enough to hire servants, it’ll be up to you.”

I enjoy cooking, washing clothes is just something that must be done, but cleaning is my nemesis. Given a choice as a farm girl, I shoveled cow manure in the barn with Dad instead of vacuuming in the house with Mom. After marrying, I’ve tried to adopt my mother-in-law’s philosophy, “I don’t like to do it, but I like the way it looks when it’s done.”

When I was a young housewife, this was the time of year for fall cleaning. Curtains, windows and painted walls were washed. Wax was removed from linoleum and a new coat applied. I rented a rug shampooer to clean the carpets. In the spring, I did it all again.

Another ‘carrot’ to do those jobs that I’d rather thrust aside was entertaining card club. Most of our married life, we belonged to a group. Once a month on a Saturday night, six couples gathered at one of the members’ homes–some played 500 and others euchre. Food and drinks were served. Top scores for the evening earned prizes with a booby awarded for the lowest, but no one played for blood. It was a fun night. Sadly, everyone got too old to continue. I miss those card players and the incentive to do needed housework.

Dust bunnies and cobwebs are easier to ignore than a glaring husband signaling time to eat or an empty underwear drawer pushing me to do laundry. Even when I’m not doing the work, I procrastinate. The carpets in the living room and family room were recently Duracleaned and look great. It should have been done sooner, but I kept putting off calling the man because I didn’t have a deadline pushing me.

What are your incentives to do necessary tasks?

I’m an only child by chance, not choice. Mom noted in her Bible a baby boy born prematurely October 20, 1943, and a baby boy born dead October 17, 1944.

I remember the first time I saw my father cry. I was a six-year-old staying with Aunt Frannie while Mom went to the hospital to bring me a sister or a brother to play with. When Dad came to take me home, he sat down beside me on their davenport. Tears slid down his cheeks as he put his arm around me and said, “The baby died.” I wept with him.

At that time, parents were expected to quickly bury their nameless child without a church service or a mourning period to acknowledge their bereavement. I don’t remember hearing any conversations about their grief. My parents, their extended family and friends weren’t in the habit of sharing their feelings.

The doctor advised my parents to have another baby and they did. A year later, a second grave marker was added to our family plot in the Laona Township Cemetery. The physician then discovered the problem was Mom had a negative Rh factor in her blood and Dad had a positive Rh factor in his blood. That rarely caused trouble in a first pregnancy, but subsequent babies could suffer illness, brain damage or death.

I didn’t fully comprehend my parents’ heartbreak until I had a baby. Twice, Mom recovered from a birth in a hospital maternity ward without a little one in the hursery. Dad was a farmer who never had a son follow in his footsteps.

According to the website of March of Dimes, a nonprofit that works to improve the health of mothers and babies, about one percent of all pregnancies or 24,000 babies are stillborn in the United States each year. Today, couples are encouraged to name their babies and grieve their death. Support groups are available.

Have you or someone you know suffered the loss of an anticipated baby?

A short time ago, I’d never heard of Hupy and Abraham. Now the name of the personal injury law firm headquartered in Milwaukee rolls off my tongue. As a rule, I use the commercial breaks in a TV program to go to the bathroom, get a drink or do household tasks, but their ads caught my attention. Their spokesperson, William Shatner, was one of my favorites in the old show, “Boston Legal.”

Things heard over and over become ingrained in our brains whether the information is factual or not. The cigarette commercials that bombarded us in the 50s and 60s are a good example. As young people, we absorbed “LS/MFT (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco)” and “I’d walk a mile for a Camel.” We were convinced smoking was the “in thing” done by all of the sophisticated people. Beginning in 1971, Congress banned the ads from TV because cigarettes cause lung cancer. My husband, the son of smoking parents, was one of those who suffered through nicotine withdrawal to quit smoking and be healthier. My strict folks didn’t smoke and wouldn’t allow me to either.

Think of the hours you spent with your baby repeating, “Mama,” and the joy when the tot said it for the first time. Later, when you were feeling harassed, did you ever wish the child had never learned the word?

I don’t follow pro sports but, through osmosis, I absorb information from my husband and our daughter, who are big fans. I’ve also learned “seeing is believing” isn’t always true. When game officials’ decisions are questioned, showing players’ moves from different camera angles can change rulings.

Are you critical of all you see and hear in social media, on TV, in print, on the radio and talking with friends?

Last Saturday, Ken and I attended our granddaughter Katelyn’s marriage to Sean. A flat tire was the beginning of their relationship and also brought my parents together. People and ceremonies have changed a lot through the years, but love hasn’t.

Eighty-five years ago, Alex was riding his horse when he saw Edith stopped by the side of the road with a flat tire and changed it. The farmer, who had graduated from a country grade school, was new to the neighborhood. The farmer’s daughter, an alumna of Durand High School, was a lifetime resident. In the midst of the Great Depression of the 1930s, they stood in the parlor of the Trinity Lutheran Church parsonage to exchange the traditional vows, “to have and to hold from this day forward for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; to love and to cherish until death us do part.” Alex’s sister, Marion, and Edith’s cousin, “Spud”, were their witnesses. Afterward, the bride and groom waltzed at their wedding dance held in the Avon (Wisconsin) Town Hall. The Larison family, Alex’s shirt-tail relation, provided the music, Edith’s sister made the wedding cake and Alex’s family brought the rest of the lunch served to relatives and friends. Their marriage lasted until Alex died in 1976.

Sean and Katelyn were classmates at Elmhurst College when he changed her flat tire. They were also married during a traumatic time–the pandemic of 2020. There the similarities between the two couples end. Sean grew up in the Chicago suburbs. He works in the Human Resources Department of ALDI Grocery Stores. Katelyn was the fourth generation of her family to graduate from Durand High School. She is a prosecutor for the Winnebago County State’s Attorney’s Office. During their ceremony at Kilbuck Creek, a country retreat near Monroe Center, six couples stood beside the bride and groom. The pair followed the current custom and wrote their own vows. A deejay provided the music for the newlywed’s dance at the catered reception.

That first flat tire made the second one possible.

Has a small incident set the course for your life?

People sat elbow to elbow in the Orfordville Lutheran Church pews on a sunny , autumn Saturday. The folks were patiently waiting for their numbers to be called allowing them to go to the basement and eat the Norwegian dinner including lutefisk and leftsa. The annual, ethnic meal drew an elderly crowd to this southern Wisconsin village. Canes and walkers were popular accessories. Many of those who walked without assistance shuffled slowly down the aisles. Old friends that hadn’t seen each other since last year greeted one another. The camaraderie was a great weapon against depression, an enemy of age. Eating the foods of one’s childhood revived pleasant memories of Mom’s cooking and preparations for holidays.

I thought of the Trinity Lutheran Church suppers of my youth that served about four hundred people from miles around Durand. I’d worked as a waitress ferrying platters of chicken, bowls of homemade noodles and all the trimmings from the kitchen to the ten people at my table. The first seating in the basement dining room at 4:00 p.m. drew the grey-haired and the bald. Only the spry could traverse the rough stairway leading from the nave to the cellar of the building on West Main Street.

In 1990, the federal Americans with Disabilities Act improved the lives of senior citizens. The changes required in public buildings to accommodate the handicapped may have been costly, but the lives enriched are priceless.

The older generation is growing at the rate of about 8,000 a day with baby boomers reaching the traditional retirement age of 65. They are the people who were never going to get old, but it happens. New, light-weight materials have made wheelchairs and scooters easier to maneuver. Many who would have been shut-ins a few years ago enjoy socializing today.

Do you take advantage of handicapped accessible accommodations if you need them instead of remaining homebound?

These are the last, beautiful days for a ride in the convertible. The 2-door, red, ’65 Plymouth with a white, canvass top has been part of our family since Ken spotted it on Rockford’s used car row during the seventies. The previous owner had left information in the glove box and my husband phoned him before we became a two-car family.

The Fury’s snappy and fun to drive with its 4-on-the-floor transmission. One day, I pulled into a service station to fill up. A pair of old gassers sat on a bench in front of the convenience store. I overheard one of them say, “Wow! Look at that old girl. Somebody’s sure taking good care of her.”

I was the mother of teenagers and appreciated the compliment. I stood a little straighter as I stepped out ot use the pump.

The senior citizen spoke up, “Ma’am. what year’s that car?”

“A ’65 Plymouth Fury.” I slumped as I realized it was the automobile the man was admiring, not me.

The following spring, a gray Corvette stopped along the curb in front of our house on a Sunday afternoon. I didn’t know anyone who drove a sports car. A tall, slender man got out and headed toward the garage where Ken was working. I thought the fellow must be seeking directions. When my husband came into the house, he said, “That was the guy who used to own the convertible checking that it had a good home. He’s probably in his forties, single and farms over by Popular Grove.”

The old rag-top aged into a classic and needed fixing up. Ken found a fellow who restored autos at reasonable prices. The two of us walked a lot of junkyards looking for replacement parts.

Do you do something that makes you feel young and carefree for a few hours?