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Friday would be my parents’ 85th anniversary. On a Thursday afternoon in the middle of the Great Depression, Alex and Edith said their vows at the Trinity Lutheran Church parsonage in Durand. His sister, Marion, and her cousin, “Spud,” stood up with them in front of Rev.Swenson, a typical preacher with white hair and goatee. The following Saturday night, his shirttail relations, the Larison family, played for their wedding dance at the Avon Town Hall located just across the Wisconsin state line. Her sister, Frannie, made a wedding cake and his family provided the rest of the celebratory lunch. Relatives and friends from as far away as Rockford and Monroe came and brought gifts. I asked Mom why they were married in February when the weather is so unpredictable. She said they wanted to be ready to move to the farm they’d rented when landlords changed tenants March first.

For a long time, I thought the professional photograph of the three of us taken when I was six weeks old was their wedding picture. Her black dress with a white collar and his blue suit were the same clothes they’d worn two years earlier. I couldn’t imagine them without me.

Mom and Dad taught me about equality in marriage at work and at play. They farmed side by side beginning and ending each day milking cows. On shopping trips to Rockford, our last stop was always Hot Smacks on West State Street for ice cream. My parents each ordered a banana split, a boat-shaped dish with scoops of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry nestled between the two halves of a banana. Chocolate sauce, marshmallow cream and pineapple topping were dribbled on the balls of ice cream. Whipped cream, nuts and a cherry topped off the concoction. I ate a small, butterscotch sundae.

As a teenager, I heard that some girls demurely said, “I’ll just have a coke,” when a dating couple stopped at a drive-in. Ken never got by that cheap. He’d say, “I’m going to have a cheeseburger, fries and a coke. What do you want?”

My reply was always, “Sounds good. I’ll have the same.”

When we were first married. I thought I’d be Mom’s opposite, a rural June Cleaver. But I wasn’t satisfied being a housewife and mother while my husband was the breadwinner. As soon as our three children were enrolled in school, I looked for a part-time job. I ended up with two–Durand Township Clerk and freelance journalist.

Do you believe women and men are equal in a marriage?

The world today reminds me of the magic slate that was a fascinating Christmas gift from Santa years ago. The tablet had a black base covered by a gray plastic sheet with a second clear plastic sheet over top. I could write or draw a picture with a wooden stylus, lift the two layers and it disappeared.

Like that magic slate, an unseen hand is making my past disappear. While I was growing up, we lived in five different farm houses–only two remain standing. The Dobson and Putnam country grade schools that I attended have been hauled away making the farm fields where they stood on Moate Road and at the corner of Best and Laube Roads a little larger. I rode a yellow bus from our farm northwest of Durand into town to attend junior high and high school. That combined building has been knocked down. The area is now a paved, parking lot for the education complex on the other side of South Street.

Last fall, the big, old elm next door was sawed down. The tree was leaning and the owner didn’t want it to fall on her neighbor’s roof. Kim, who lives across the street, will keep warm burning the wood piece by piece in his stove.

I thought of Sherrill, the mother of the family who formerly lived in that threatened house. She and I spent many summer afternoons sitting in the shade while our six kids played around us. My three cops howled like sirens and pedaled their bicycle squad cars chasing her three who were robbers. When the group wanted to play Wiffle Ball, our neighbor, Cliffie, allowed them to use his vacant lot at the end of the block. Sherrill has passed away and so have her Junior and my Linda.

What do you miss that has disappeared like lifting a magic slate?

Tomorrow my cousin Flo will be 95 years old. She lives alone in the farm home she and her husband, Joe, shared for sixty years and drives her small, blue Chevy to run her errands.

Flo is my closest relative. Mom’s parents died before she was married, but her oldest sister and her husband, Aunt Frannie and Uncle Hookie, loved me like a grandchild. Their daughters, Florence and Doris, who died in 1998, were 12 and 14 years older than I was. The girls treated me as a contemporary, but also indulged my childish whims. When I was eight, Sis, the family nickname that sticks in my mind, and her folks came to visit on a January evening. While our parents visited, I asked my cousin to play Fox and Goose. The two of us bundled up, turned on the yard light and went outside to a quiet, moonlight night. We drug our feet through the snow to make a large, spoke pattern to play the game. After the fox caught the goose, we changed places and continued until our noses were red with cold.

When I was growing up, babysitters hadn’t been invented. On the rare occasions that my parents didn’t take me along when they went someplace, I stayed overnight at Rowley’s. Their rickety, old house was a palace to me. The sisters were my heroines. They taught me things a young lady needed to know such as how to apply make-up and nail polish. Later, they instructed me on handling alcohol in social situations.

As married women, it was a surprise when Flo and I were each expecting our third child at the same time. She worried that she and Joe would be doddering, old folks by the time their baby graduated from high school. Today, Janet has become a grandmother and her daughter, Leann, is the mother of Brody and Wes, Flo’s great-grandsons.

Do you have cousins to reminisce with?

No electricity from Saturday until noon Monday. The ice storm brought down pine tree limbs in our yard that caught electric wires and disturbed the meter attached to the house. We had to wait for ComEd and an electrician to get us back in operation. In the meantime, a generator kept necessary things going such as the furnace, frig, 2 TVs, and a couple lamps. The rest of the community had power. A good thing. Ken disconnected the electric garage door opener and lifted the door manually to drive the car to fill a gasoline can at the service station and feed the generator.

I don’t stop to think how much our household depends on electricity. We still sleep in a waterbed with an electric heater. I bunked on the davenport and Ken extended his time in his recliner. Sunday, I did the crossword puzzle in the newspaper with a dull pencil. My sharpener is electric. Some things Ken plugged in and then unplugged when finished. We buy whole bean coffee–the grinder and the coffee maker depend on electricity.

The generator couldn’t handle our electric stove so no cooking. We couldn’t eat out because Ken wanted to keep an eye on the generator that had never run so long continuously before. Our son made an extra-large batch of chili and shared a hot meal with us.

Our water heater is electric so we had only cold water. Ken heated small amounts of water in the microwave to wash dirty dishes and us. A long time since I’ve taken a sponge bath–showers are so much better.

When I was growing up, we visited relatives who didn’t have electricity. They used an ice box, kerosene lamps and a battery radio.

How do you prepare for a power outage?

I’m in the kitchen cooking Sunday dinner while wearing my church clothes. I dress up a bit for services. When I returned home, I decided I wasn’t changing into my old jeans and sweatshirt. I keep reminding myself not to do my farmer habit of wiping my messy hands on my pants. At five o’clock, I sit down in front of the TV to catch up on the news. I handle my glass of red wine carefully because I’m still wearing my beige trousers. I’ve made it through the day.

When watching family shows on TV, I marvel at the clothes people wear around home, but then they don’t go to the barn to milk the cows like my kin did. My parents married, started farming and greeted their only child in the 1930s during the Great Depression. World War II followed. I grew up with everyday clothes, a few school clothes and one Sunday best. Save was ingrained in my thinking.

Now my closet is packed. When the seasons change, I remove a few old things to make room for new. Clothes that no longer fit or that I just don’t like as well as some others go into a plastic bag to be donated to the Salvation Army Store.

The thrift store gained a complete wardrobe when Linda, our 48-year-old daughter, died from breast cancer. That’s my reminder to wear the garments I like. The day will come when someone will be cleaning out my closet. Another person will enjoy those things that I kept for good.

Do you wear your favorite clothes often or save them so they last longer?

Happy New Year! 2020 brings opportunities, which we all have free will to accept or ignore.

Earlier this winter, I drove to suburban Glenview to attend a morning meeting of the Midwest Writers Association. I’d never heard of the group but through Facebook, the Chicago Writers Association members were invited to attend their program about blogs. Last spring, I’d started lolita-s-bigtoe.com with the idea of improving as I went along. The presentation was worth spending two hours on toll roads.

By taking advantage of opportunities, I’ve slipped into writing through the side door of learn by doing. When Kurt joined Linda and Lisa attending school, I checked the Rockford Morning Star help wanted section for an office job like I’d had before I was married. The area daily’s ad seeking community correspondents to report news from surrounding small towns intrigued me. When I contacted an editor, I learned all I needed to be a part-time stringer was a typewriter and a 35mm camera–no training, no experience. My parents had given me a Royal portable when I was a sophomore in high school learning to type. The camera had been our first Christmas gift to each other.

Using the newspaper as a guide for submitting articles, I wrote features about local people doing interesting things, chased firetrucks and attended civic meetings. I enjoyed sticking my nose in where it wasn’t alway wanted and seeing my byline. I’d found my calling. To do a better job, I joined writers’ organizations and attended workshops. Presenters told how to freelance for magazines. I took notes although I was satisfied with the newspaper work I was doing. After thirteen years, the Star dropped all part-timers. I was devastated. After I dried my tears, I could see two options–quit writing or find other markets. I sent query letters to national publications for women, farmers and police officers. Some of them accepted my articles. Setbacks can become opportunities.

What opportunities have you taken advantage of?

Merry Christmas!

To spend the holidays at home in 1954, Ken flew from Norman, Oklahoma, where he was training to go aboard an aircraft carrier. Last July, he’d begun a four-year hitch in the navy.

I was a senior in high school. To signify we were going steady, I wore my boyfriend’s class ring wrapped with adhesive tape.

Christmas Eve afternoon, we exchanged presents. I gave him a Ronson cigarette lighter. Like most adults, he’d started smoking a year ago when he graduated and immediately became a working man operating a machine at Barber Colman, a Rockford factory.

Ken gave me a black, short-sleeved, cashmere cardigan. My first thought when I opened the box and saw the sweater was it’s beautiful. Then I wondered, was it too intimate a gift for me to accept when we weren’t engaged? One glance at the pride in his face convinced me I couldn’t refuse it. Besides, I’d never worn an expensive, cashmere sweater. I said a heartfelt, “Thank you.” I silently hoped I wouldn’t be allergic to the fiber made from goat’s hair like I was wool sheared from sheep.

The following week, I bought a beige, calf-length, straight skirt to wear with my new garment. New Year’s Eve, I dressed in my fancy outfit for our date to celebrate. At seven p.m., Ken walked into the living room and greeted my parents who were sitting in easy chairs. After eyeing me, he said, “It looks like the sweater fits fine.” I blushed and wondered what my parents thought of his remark.

Our friends, Wayne and Gloria, joined us to see the movie, “White Christmas,” at the Coronado in Rockford followed by dancing in the new year at the grange hall in Durand. We finished the night with cheeseburgers at the Hilltop, a mile south of town. At four a.m. New Year’s Day, Ken walked me along the sidewalk from the Nash to the house steps. His final goodbye kiss would have to last for months until I saw him again.

In my bedroom, I removed my sweater to get ready for bed. I smiled in the mirror–no rash. I wasn’t allergic to the expensive cashmere. My gift proved I was made for finer things.

Have you ever received a gift that made you feel rich although you weren’t?

It’s ten o’clock Christmas Eve. Carols play softly on the radio. Five candles flicker in the Advent Wreath sitting on a small table in the front hallway. The tree lights add a multi-colored glow to the pine-scented, living room. Santa has left toys for our three children–Linda, 6, Lisa, 5, and Kurt,3–who are sound asleep upstairs.

I’m relaxing in Ken’s lounge chair. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day to sit down alone and put my feet up. I’ve changed into a lace-trimmed, long, turquoise nightgown and peignoir. My cop husband will soon be home from working the three to eleven shift with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. I’m looking forward to a romantic interlude. We will exchange gifts while he drinks a beer and I sip a glass of wine.

A large box wrapped in red and green, wreath-printed paper waits under the tree for Ken. It contains a burgundy-colored, wool sport coat that I’ve made. His brother, Tom, who’s the same size, served as my clothes dummy for fittings so I could keep the garment a secret.

I see no package for me under the tree, but I have large expectations. A few days ago, my husband made a big deal of going shopping.

Earlier in the evening, my parents and my cousin, Doris, with her husband, Bob, joined the kids and me for supper and presents. I took over hosting my family’s traditional Christmas Eve observance after we had children. It’s easier to just put them to bed than to gather gifts and bundle up little ones to drive home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Last week, when I stopped at my parents’ rural home to get eggs to do my holiday baking, I broke the news that Ken would be working instead of spending the evening with us.

“How can you have Christmas Eve without Ken?” Dad asked.

“It’s something we have to get used to,” I responded. Last October, my husband climbed down from a tractor on Irish Acres where he was his brother-in-law’s hired man and slid into a squad car. We moved from the farmhouse that went with his job into our own home in the village of Durand. We’re still adjusting to the change in lifestyle.

The back door closes softly. Ken’s home. I jump out of the chair to greet him with a kiss.

“What a night!” he exclaims. “We got a call for a welfare check and found a man who had probably been dead for a couple days. It must have been eighty degrees in that house. The stink was terrible. Then the coroner’s people spread some sweet-smelling stuff and that was worse.”

He doesn’t need to describe the smells–the odors cling to him like fermented after shave. He strides into the bedroom to remove his gun belt and uniform so he can take a much-needed shower.

My romantic ambiance is shot by reality.

Have you had plans for a holiday celebration go awry?

Grown-ups should talk less and eat faster, my opinion during our traditional Christmas Eve supper in 1945. I was eight, too old to believe in Santa Claus, but I was anxious to get to the gifts piled under the decorated tree. I was sure my name was on most of them.

Aunt Frannie, Uncle Hookie and their daughters, Doris and Sis, had joined us to eat Mom’s usual company meal–ham, mashed potatoes with gravy, fruit salad and baked beans. Mom’s parents had died before she married, but her eldest sister and husband loved me like a grandchild. My cousins, who were in their early twenties, were my heroines. Finally, all plates were clean. Mom and Aunt Frannie quickly cleared the table putting the leftover food in the refrigerator and stacking the dirty dishes in the sink. Dessert, homemade vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, would be served later.

The men carried a couple kitchen chairs into the living room and everyone found a seat. I began distributing the presents. I tried to duck between the heating stove and the wall to get to Dad, but my path was blocked. I was flabbergasted. My attention had been riveted on the tree and I didn’t notice the bicycle sitting there.

The two-wheeler had belonged to Doris, which made it extra special to me. Several years ago, her first bike had been stolen from their front porch. Her father replaced it with this one bought second-hand from a neighbor. During World War II, which ended last September, factories produced armaments instead of bicycles.

The girl’s style bike was in perfect shape–no dents or scratches in the blue and white paint with red pinstriping. It had fat, white-sidewall tires and a luggage carrier over the back fender. The horn button beeped and the light on the front fender glowed. Doris pointed to the head badge fastened under the handlebars, a silver, winged H, symbolizing Montgomery Ward’s Hawthorne brand. She said, “That means it’s a great coaster.”

I could hardly wait for the snow on the ground to melt so I could learn to ride my better than new bicycle.

Have you ever received a second-hand gift that you treasured?

Christmas cards are being pushed aside by modern technology. People used to send hundreds to those near and far. The number of names on the list attested to a family’s popularity. Busy people ordered cards with their names imprinted to eliminate so much pen and ink signing.

Outside of cities, addresses required only the town and state. Rural mail carriers and village postmasters knew their people. With the addition of road names and fire numbers in the country and home delivery in small municipalities instead of post office boxes, the destination had to be more precise and include a zip code or the envelope ended up in the dead letter office.

Cards began arriving in the mail in early December. We looked at the envelope and played a guessing game. Before mail was processed at central locations, the postmark was a clue to its origin. Handwriting of close friends and relatives was easily recognized. Some of the missives were annual reports from people we might not hear from otherwise. Photos, which showed how much children had changed in a year, were often included. If we received a card from someone we’d neglected, an envelope was quickly addressed and mailed. If it was close to Christmas, we hoped the recipient would assume it had been delayed by the postal service.

Duplicated Christmas letters became popular. The accomplishments of each family member were described in glorious detail. Many read like the people lived in Garrison Keillor’s fictional town, Lake Wobegon, where all the children are above average.

Do you still send Christmas cards by snail mail or rely on social media to keep in contact with people?