lolita-s-bigtoe.com

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?

I’m thankful for the little things that brighten my life. Every day, Ken kisses me good morning and good night. I feel loved.

Our family likes dinner rolls from Great Harvest Bread Co. on the east side of Rockford. Our daughter, Lisa, picks them up for our holiday meals. When we take a trip, our son, Kurt, checks our house allowing us to travel worry-free. I can rely on our kids.

Last Spring, while Ken and Kurt were in Kentucky for a week’s fishing, I had just finished lunch and was settled in my rocking chair to read a book. I looked up at the sound of footsteps. Our daughter-in-law, Sandy, was crossing the kitchen. Members of our family have buttons in their vehicles to open our garage door and enter our house through the back door. She had tried to phone me and got no answer. She stopped by to check that I was okay. I felt cared for.

During the summer, I was walking home from the post office on a sunny day. Our grandadults, Katelyn and Jacob, rode by me on their bicycles and hollered, “Hi Grandma! Want to race?”

“No. I don’t want to embarrass you by beating you.” I felt joy.

Ken and I thank God that we were given the strict, loving mothers and fathers we had. At times when we were growing up, we complained, “But everyone else can.” As adults, we have realized they were doing what was best for us. By the time we became parents, we raised our children the same way.

What little things are you thankful for?

A recent national news program showed climbers lining up on Mount Everest like shoppers waiting in front of Walmart on Black Friday. My thought was some people climb mountains for a thrill–others raise children for a lifelong challenge.

That first day I leaned over the toilet bowl with morning sickness, each of our three kids carved out a part of my life. Like all mothers-to-be of my era, I studied Dr. Spock’s book, Baby and Child Care, but nothing prepared me for parenthood.

With three babies in four years, we had sieges of development such as toilet training. When Linda, Lisa and Kurt were toddlers, they liked to play in the pots and pans cupboard in the kitchen while I was making a farmer’s meal. I wondered if I would ever walk across the linoleum normally instead of shuffling my feet so I didn’t trip oever a child or a skillet. At least I knew where they were and what they were doing.

Grade school days brought skinned knees, bruises and stitches as the fledglings tested their wings. A new authority was often quoted, “My teacher said…” High school meant moments of elation, broken hearts and a driver’s license.

When a child turns eighteen, the government says he or she is a grown-up and grants independence. I could no longer heal injuries with a BAND-AID and a kiss. My advice was often unwanted. First jobs were begun.

As our adults matured, parental counsel was again sought. Young people are more adept at modern technology, but many of life’s problems remain the same from generation to generation and experience counts. I may not know the answer, but I have a sympathetic ear.

Today, Lisa and Kurt are middle-aged and Linda has died, but they are still part of my thoughts the same as when they were under my feet. Our family has grown to include daughter-in-law, Sandy, and grandadults, Katelyn and Jacob.

What do you find challenging in your life?

How did okay become the punctuation mark to a sentence?

When I was raising kids, I was a dictator. When I said, “Time for bed,” it was a statement. At that time a popular TV program was Father Knows Best. In our house, it was Mom who knew best. Most of the time, Dad was working a shift as a cop, moonlighting driving a semi or sleeping. The little time he could spend with the kids, he didn’t want to be a disciplinarian.

After our children were grown, I noticed young parents telling their sons and daughters to do something and ending their directions with okay, which sounded like a question. Of course, when the adults said something such as, “It’s time for bed, okay?” they didn’t want to hear, “No,” but they often did.

I guess those little ones who were raised with sentences ending with okay have grown up. Much as we think we won’t, we tend to do as we were taught. Wherever I go, people end their directions with, “Okay?” The nurse in the doctor’s office at the clinic led me to the examining room and said, “Please climb up on the table, okay?”

My husband and I entered a restaurant. The hostess greeted us and said, “Follow me, okay?”

After we were seated, the server passed our table and said, “I’ll be right with you, okay?”

I was tempted to respond, “No, I want to order right now,” but I didn’t. I just murmured, “Okay.”

Not only spoken sentences end with the word. A recent post on Facebook read, “Dear church folk, your expectations of the pastor should match your commitment as a member. Okay.”

Do you end your statements with okay?

Lately, I’ve seen a lot of complaints on Facebook about the lack of humans at cash registers in Walmart stores. Customers are expected to use self-checkers. I, too, don’t like to see people lose their jobs. I get as annoyed as the next older person trying to figure out machine payment systems. Twice recently, Ken and I have stopped a young, passer-by in a strange city’s parking lot to help us follow the instructions to leave our car for a few hours. Alas, these changes are considered progress.

May I point out a few other jobs that have been eliminated through the years? In the forties, my cousin was a local telephone operator. She sat before a switchboard and connected a caller from one party line to a person on another party line and rang the required longs and shorts. The automatic dialing system replaced her job. What would people do today without their cell phones?

When my husband was a teenager in the fifties, he worked part-time at an oil station. Customers pulled up to the pumps and sat in their cars while he filled their tanks and washed the windshields. He asked, “Check the oil and tires?” He provided that service if the driver said, “Yes.” When I need gas on a cold, windy day, I cuss today’s self-service.

There was a time, I prepared for a drive to an Illinois Woman’s Press Association meeting in Chicago by filling an old pill bottle with dimes. They were the easiest way to pay the attendant forty cents at each toll booth along I-90. Today, I enjoy using my E-Z Pass and not having to slow down.

Have you or someone close to you lost a job because of automation?

For me, part of traveling is buying souvenirs. I was disappointed during our recent New England tour. We visited a lot of gift shops, but unique items that represented the locale were hard to find. Apparently, t-shirts, coffee cups and shot glasses with the area name sold the best. The only things I brought home were a cute, little jug of maple syrup from a visit to a Vermont farm that produced it and a replica of the Old North Church in Boston.

I haven’t done a lot of traveling, but I treasure the reminders of trips I’ve taken. I love the rearing, wooden horse I purchased from the carver when Ken and I visited my cousin and her husband, Doris and Bob, at their timeshare condo in Mazatlan, Mexico, during January of ’89. I bought it from the artist who was standing along the street, holding his creation in his hands and rubbing it with brown Shinola shoe polish.

A jade butterfly that can be pinned to a garment as a brooch or attached to a chain and worn as a necklace reminds me of our tour of Alaska in 2009. I didn’t know the gemstone could be found anywhere but China.

In 2016, when we were on a bus tour to Savannah, Georgia, a man on the street was charging five dollars to form a name using electric fence wire. I’m always delighted to find anything that features my name. The “Lolita” that sits on our living room coffee table reminds me of that trip plus my childhood on the farm where we used electric fences for temporary cow pastures. I thought it was fun to touch the wire with a long, dry weed and feel the pulse of the battery supplied current to be sure it was working.

What souvenirs do you enjoy?