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Knowledge is acquired through education or observation. The good judgment of wisdom is only obtained through experience. Older women have lots of experience. Those things that went extremely right and the ones that went terribly wrong stick in our memories. Sometimes a wrong decision turns into a good thing later.

When I graduated from high school, I knew I wanted to be a hairstylist. Before I could take the state board exam and obtain a license, I had to have a thousand hours of instruction. I immediately began the six month course at the Rockford School of Beauty Culture in case winter roads caused me to miss some days.

It took only a month for me to admit Mom was right and I was wrong. I should have tried office work using the skills I’d learned in high school. I hated doing hair. I was ready to quit, but Mom said no–tuition had been paid.

The following January, I finished the training, passed the test and obtained my liense. I was immediately offered an office job. I enjoyed assisting farmers to take advantage of federal goverment programs.

A year later, my persistent cough was diagnosed as tuberculosis. I spent five months in the Rockford Municipal Sanitarium recovering from the disease. After the first ten weeks of treatment, including twice-a-week shots of streptomycin in the butt, I felt much better. The director agreed I was well enough to be the resident hair stylist for the other eight female patients. Suddenly, I was glad I was a registered cosmetologist and had mailed in the dollar annual fee to renew my license. Mom brought the permanent kit I’d purchased while I was a student and picked up the needed supplies at the beauty school. A haircut or a permanent made my clients feel better and it gave me something productive to do.

What experiences have you had that seemed useless at the time, but proved to be beneficial later?

May is Bike Month sponsored by the League of American Bicyclists. When our three were growing up in the ’70s, posters went up this time of year to remind motorists to be cautious during summer vacation. Those bicycles that filled the rack at the Durand Grade School would be on the streets and kids weren’t always looking for cars.

Do preteens still use bikes? Most riders who pass our house are adults getting their exercise, some on 3-wheelers. Once in a while, I see a family including a little shaver astride a miniature bicycle with training wheels.

Linda, Lisa and Kurt had to each be at least eight years old for their feet to reach the pedals while sitting on the seat of their big bikes and strong enough to pick it up when they tipped over while learning to ride. After the balancing act was mastered, they ran errands, visited a friend’s house or rode for fun. Their 2-wheelers became squad cars to play cops and robbers with the neighbor kids. When their tires were low, the air hose was free at Spelman’s gas station downtown.

I sent our kids outside to burn off their noisy energy, keep cool and give me a little peace and quiet, but now, I see no children playing outdoors. Sons and daughters using electronic devices in air-conditioned houses are quiet and don’t bother the parents. Since the 1970s, the obesity rate among children has tripled according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Can we as grandparents urge kids to play outside in the fresh air and sunshine?

Monday will be Memorial Day. Don’t wish me a happy Memorial Day. To me, that is the biggest oxymoron in the American language. 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 Monday Holiday Act designating the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, a federal holiday.

In the Durand area, the Legion members place a small American flag on the grave of every veteran. People decorate family cemetery plots with flowers. The Stars and Stripes line Center Street in the village, but the usual service honoring those who died will not be held because of the Coronavirus. Neither will VFW Buddy Poppies be sold. The artificial flowers, assembled by disabled and needy veterans in VA hospitals, remind us of the World War I poem by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrea. The Canadian physician described the Belgium cemetery, “In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row.”

On Memorial weekend, many things vie for our attention. Stores advertise bargains. Campers, grills and patio furniture will be dusted off for the unofficial beginning of summer. This year, people practicing social distancing will forego parties.

I hope everyone will 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?

Are you sheltering-in-place? If you’re working from home, you’re getting a preview of retirement–more meals to provide and more togetherness with your mate or, if you live alone, more hours by yourself. Not primping to meet the public or commuting gives you time to think about what you want to do in the future.

In the sixties, I did as expected and quit my office job to be a housewife and mother. When our three children were all enrolled in school, I acquired two part-time jobs–the Durand Township clerk and a community correspondent reporting our local news to the Rockford Morning Star daily newspaper. Most of the work could be done on my own at home.

I taught our daughters and our son to do all of the necessary homemaking things. I told them, “Unless you’re a rich adult and can afford to hire someone to do the work, you’ll be doing it.”

They asked, “Why doesn’t Dad have to?”

I explained that their father grew up in the era when outside chores were designated “man’s work” and inside tasks were deemed “woman’s work.” I wasn’t about to change that stubborn man.

Ken retired in 2003 after serving in law enforcement for 37 years. I’d cooked and cleaned for 44 years and suggested my retiring, but his retort was, “I never heard of a housewife retiring.”

It’s been a long time since I thought of myself as “just a housewife,” but I continue to do the tasks necessary to make our house a home. If I’m gone or sick, my husband takes care of the daily duties. Otherwise, he does what he wants to do when he wants to do it.

After serving 46 years as clerk, I declined to run in the 2017 election for township officials. I will never retire from writing as long as my mind and fingers work.

Are you retired, looking forward to retirement or hoping to never retire?

It took a few years to realize how fortunate I’d been to be a bored, only child hearing Mom tell stories over and over about her life before becoming my mother. I learned to understand her because I knew about her past.

Edith, the youngest of four children, was only seven years old when her mother died at home followed by the funeral held there. Elder sisters, Frances and Laura, soon married and moved to their own houses. Her dad raised her and her brother, Laurence, who was two years older and had epilepsy. Their farm could be a dangerous place for him because at that time there was no medication to control his seizures.

In the nineteen twenties and thirties, country people lived a primitive lifestyle. Her dad carried water by the pail full from the hand pump in the yard into the house. During cold weather, stoves in their home burned wood to provide heat. The fires went out overnight.

After eight years of walking to a nearby country school, she rode her horse five miles to town to attend Durand High School. To wash her face on winter mornings, she broke the ice in the pail, poured water into a pan and heated it on the stove. After dressing and bundling up, she went out to the barn to saddle Molly. Halfway to town she stopped at her sister Fran’s house to warm up and eat breakfast. When she arrived in Durand, she left her horse at the livery stable uptown and walked to the high school on the southwest edge of the village. Her senior year, she drove the new ’29 Dodge her dad had bought, unless the dirt roads were too muddy.

Edith met Alex, my father, when the car had a flat tire along the road and he came by riding his horse. She could have changed it herself, but I’m sure she enjoyed standing back and watching this cute, young guy who was new to the neighborhood do the work.

In the month of December when she was 21, her father went to the hospital for surgery. He died there right before Christmas. The following February, Edith and Alex were married and started farming. I was born 2 1/2 years later. Mom never let it show that the holidays continued to evoke sad memories for her.

Although Mom said, “I didn’t have anyone to teach me to be a mother or a grandmother,” she was the ideal mother for me and grandmother to our children.

Are you telling the younger generation your stories?

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 country grade school days. This week, I would have used my spare time to make May baskets from 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 four edges to make a square basket. Before pasting the corners of the folded sides, I used a rebus to tell the recipient My heart pants for you. I wrote 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 the middle of each long side.

On May 1, Mom made a batch of fudge. I’d bring the baskets home from school, pick flowers and add pieces of fudge. I would place the filled containers in the wire basket on the front of my bike and ride to neighbors’ houses. I would 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 this week because of the Coronavirus shutdown, I wonder if modern parents know about May baskets as an art project or can show their kids how to make one. The homemade fudge could be replaced with something bought individually wrapped. 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?

A year ago, I began lolita-s-bigtoe.com. after thinking about it for at least that long. My blog is aimed at older women because I am one and it’s the largest growing demographic in the world. I selected the name, Lolita’s Big Toe, because we are continually testing the stream of change like swimmers before they dive into a pond. When we walk, our big toes move us forward and provide balance. I hope my words do the same.

I like doing new things after giving them the proper consideration and learning as much as I can. Last November, I attended a very helpful Midwest Writers Association workshop in Glenview, a Chicago suburb. I have instructions printed from the internet and a how-to book of blog directions laying on my desk for quick reference. Still, I can have problems using the computer. I’m fortunate to have my own personal “techie,” our son, Kurt.

I’ve had fun broaching whatever subject crossed my mind. I figure if I’m curious about something, it probably interests others.

Ever since I learned to talk, my favorite word has been why. As a journalist, I learned to do research. In the beginning, it meant a trip to the Rockford Public Library or at least a phone call. The internet makes it a lot easier and quicker to find the facts I need.

Posting on Wednesdays has worked well for me. Recently, I missed three weeks while I was recovering from an upset stomach. I have pieces written ahead and I think there’s a way to have them on the website with a date designated for publishing, but I haven’t tried it. My writing continues to be learn by doing.

What new things have you tried during the past year?

A short explanation. I have missed posting for 3 weeks. I’ve been slowly getting back to normal from a stomach upset March 15. It seems to take me longer to get OK than it used to.

Friday we’ll quietly celebrate our 61st anniversary. We were married April 17, 1959. How two teenagers had the sense to stick together after riding a Ferris wheel, I’m not sure, but I’m thankful we did. We raised three children and are the proud grandparents of two more.

When we became engaged in September of 1958, my 21st birthday, I heard over and over, “Congratulations. Kenny’s a good man.”

After Ken gave me the diamond, I asked Mom, “How come you let me go out with Ken when you wouldn’t let me go out with the other boys that asked me.”

Her succinct reply, “You finally got out of the bargain basement shopping for boyfriends.”

I have to admit, the “bad boys” held a certain fascination for me before Kenny stole my heart.

Not that there haven’t been times I would get pissed off at the man I live with and wanted to walk out, but where would I go? I had three kids, no job and a mother who told me when I married, “Remember, you can’t come home again.” I had to cool off and straighten things out.

I’m sure there have been times Ken has felt the same way, but he’s a repair man, born during the Great Depression and remembering World War II. His dad taught him, you fix things that aren’t working–not throw them away and get new.

Recently, I’ve had fun watching my granddaughter, Katelyn, prepare for her wedding. The similarities and differences sixty years make are fascinating. I’m happy to see there are still good men–she’s marrying one in the fall.

How did you find true love?

A collage is a unique artistic composition of odd things and pieces brought together. I believe that describes a human being. When babies are born, people start picking their features apart–Mommy’s red hair, Daddy’s blue eyes, Uncle Tom’s nose. The list goes on. As children grow, they adopt habits, mannerisms and philosophies of those they admire.

I still use a pencil and paper to jot down notes when I’m composing blog posts on my computer. In between thoughts, I stick the pencil behind my right ear so it’s easy to find. This habit goes back to my mother teaching me to write when I was five. I had a little-girl crush on Clint, who along with his older brother and father operated the local grocery store. He was a young, single guy who fussed over me and gave me a penny Tootsie Roll when we shopped. He always had a pencil stuck above his ear ready to record my parents’ purchases in his order book.

One of my favorite teachers was Miss Tunison. The tall, blonde with a penchant for red, was beginning her career in our seventh-grade classroom. I dropped the Zaner-Bloser alphabet I’d practiced since third grade and adopted her handwriting style with disjointed letters within words and I’s dotted with circles.

I learned from my older cousin, Doris, that a woman isn’t locked into one persona. During the week, she wore jeans and a cap to sweat alongside her dad and the rest of the neighborhood men threshing oats. After her Saturday night bath, she put on cologne, make-up, a dress and spike heels to dance with some of the same guys at the Grange Hall.

When I’m dressing for the day, I see Mom’s face in the mirror and slide socks over Dad’s toes. In between, I’ve added pieces gleaned from family members, friends, acquaintances and celebrities. I’m a unique, evolving person. To quote e.e. cummings, “The hardest job in the world is to be yourself, while the world tries to make you into somebody else.”

What pieces compose the collage you call self?

Entertainers make big bucks amusing us.

If you’ve ever seen Judge Judy on TV, you’ve heard her say, “They don’t keep me here ’cause I’m gorgeous, they keep me here ’cause I’m smart!” Judy Sheindlin must be extremely smart to make $47 million annually, which translates into a little more than $900,000 for each of her 52 workdays. Country singing legend Dolly Parton’s annual salary is said to be $37 million. Aaron Rodgers, Green Bay Packers quarterback, reportedly receives an annual salary of $33,500,000. I don’t hear complaints about the extravagant salaries celebrities receive. Instead, we admire their mansions and lavish lifestyles.

We all fall under the spell of our idols. At a pro baseball game, fans of all ages wear their favorite player’s number. Children made “Tickle Me Elmo” from their beloved Sesame Street a “must have” toy for Christmas. Teenage boys of my era adopted Elvis Presley’s pompadour and sideburns. Seeing a picture of the English actor, Helen Mirren, and noticing her haircut was similar to mine, made me hold my head a little higher.

When a cop stops a taxpayer for speeding, the officer is often reminded, “I pay your salary.” We, the people, also provide a celebrity’s exorbitant compensation. We dig deep in our pockets to buy tickets to attend sporting events, live performances and movies. We also lay out our hard-earned cash for the products providing the venue for television programs. Sponsors wouldn’t pay $5.6 million for a thirty-second commercial during Super Bowl LIV if they didn’t expect to recoup their investment from the purchases made by the audience estimated to be 100 million people.

We often give celebrities more credence than they deserve. Just because they’re adept at throwing a football, singing a song or acting like someone else, we accept as gospel their comments on any aspect of life.

During this political campaign season, the inequality of pay between a company’s executives and its workers is being questioned. How about the compensation of famous stars compared to the nameless crews making their performances possible?