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Nicknames have been a part of our vernacular for a long time. Some are descriptive–others have a reason for being coined, but few know what that was.

One evening during the 1940s, my parents loaded their car with friends and drove an hour to reach the Dutch Mill Ballroom at Delavan Lake, Wisconsin, where they danced to the famous Tiny Hill Orchestra. The popular maestro was billed as “America’s biggest band leader.” Like others who shared his nickname, he weighed more than 300 pounds.

Every summer when I was a kid, we went to the annual Tschabold reunion, which included Grandpa’s siblings and their families. I never figured out how many brothers my grandfather had because not all of them attended. If Dad talked about his uncles, sometimes he said Oscar, Emil or William and other times it was ‘Bean’, ‘Pork’ or ‘Flat’.

Some people dropped the label as they matured. Back when pregnancy seemed to be an epidemic in my generation, a lot of my friends named their boy babies after their fathers and called the child ‘Junior’. Recently at a friend’s retirement party, I had to keep reminding myself the gray-haired man was Ray not ‘Junior’ or the family favorite, ‘Junie’.

Others used the appellation all of their lives. During the seven years Ken and I lived on the farm, ‘Bump’ delivered our mail. Some people never knew his legal name was Floyd. One of our village mayors introduced himself to everyone as ‘Pokey’, his high school moniker. He signed papers with his initials M. M. I never heard anyone call him Marion. Our friend, Harold, became ‘Grandpa Sonny’.

Girls, too, were given nicknames. Families tended to use the same first name over and over. Dad’s clan had ‘Big Margaret’ and ‘Little Margaret’ to distinguish between the generations. On Mom’s side, one of my cousins was named after her dad’s only sibling and we called her ‘Sis’. Her sister’s golfing buddy was a short, chubby woman who everybody called ‘Pudge’.

Some women preferred their appellation. When Uncle Bobbie married Viola, she asked us all to call her ‘Babe’.

Are nicknames still popular?

Learning isn’t confined to the time we spend in school or the years when we are young. In 1969, I was ‘over thirty’ when I became a freelance journalist with neither education or experience. I learned by doing. Through the years, my articles have appeared in area newspapers and national magazines for women, farmers and police officers. I joined the Illinois Woman’s Press Association, an affiliate of the National Federation of Press Women. My work has earned awards from both groups.

In 2009, my husband and I celebrated our Golden Anniversary. It set me thinking about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s, which began with a Ferris wheel ride when Kenny was 16 and I was 14. I had time on my hands and a new computer–I needed a writing project. I began reading the diaries my mother had left behind when she died. Her daily, barebones jottings of who, what, when and where began in 1952 and served as a guide to start my memoir. To learn to write creative nonfiction, a genre that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives, I made the easy one-hour drive north to Madison to attend workshops conducted by the Division of Continuing Studies at the University of Wisconsin. I also joined several area writers’ groups for comradery and critiques of my work in progress. Although I was writing about my memories, I checked details by reading old newspapers at area libraries and my high school annuals. A sign on my refrigerator, “You are not too old and it is not too late,” kept me going during the ten years it took me to finish my book, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel.” Last year, I submitted a proposal to Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, that published my memoir. It’s available from Amazon in Kindle and paperback.

I now am learning to promote my work. I will have a book signing on Saturday, August 7, from 2 to 4 p.m. in the Community Room of the Durand State Bank, 1005 Cameron Drive on the south edge of the village.

What new things are you learning?

Sunday we’ll celebrate the 4th of July with noise–marches played by the parade bands, loud conversations of people enjoying picnics in backyards and the booms of evening fireworks. Pets will hide to avoid the cacophony.

Let’s take a few minutes to ponder the meaning of these familiar words from the Declaration of Independence written in 1776. We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.” When I was in school, teachers assured me that the term Men included Women and I took their word for it.

In our free country, we each have our own definition of happiness. My family and my writing are the major components of mine. When our oldest child, Linda, started first grade in 1966, she was psychologically tested, diagnosed as retarded and referred to special education classes. My plan to return to a part-time office job as soon as Lisa and Kurt also entered school evaporated, but not my desire to be more than “just a housewife.” In looking for a job I could do at home, I became a community correspondent reporting local happenings to the Rockford Morning Star, the area daily newspaper serving the small towns surrounding the city. I soon realized I had found my calling as a journalist. The occupation had never crossed my mind when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When my mother reached the age that she needed my help, Linda was done with school and at home all of the time. I quit writing so I could continue to tend to Linda and provide the aid Mom needed to remain in her own house here in Durand. I was sure nothing I could write would be as important as caring for my family. I found another aspect of happiness.

How do you define happiness?

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?