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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?

Ken’s buying a new suit for Katelyn and Sean’s wedding September 26. Men’s styles don’t noticeably change but his old one no longer fit. Guys have it easy–go into a store, be measured to determine size, pick the color you want and try it on.

I was glad to hear the fellows in our granddaughter’s wedding party are repeating the fashion of our day and wearing suits. I was surprised that they’re renting their outfits instead of buying them from Men’s Wearhouse.

The owner of that clothing chain recently filed for bankruptcy protection as the pandemic has hit the apparel industry hard. The unemployed, working from home and the pause in proms caused a lack in the need for corporate clothing.

Dressing-up has been diminishing during the past several years. I was appalled at the outfits many parents wore at our grandchildren’s high school graduations. Some adults looked like they were attending a backyard bar-b-q instead of a formal ceremony.

When Ken and I go out to supper to celebrate our anniversary, he dons a suit and I put on a good dress. We are usually the only ones in the restaurant wearing what once was called “Sunday best.” The last time I sat in church, only one of the men wore a suit and tie.

I never will understand the current fashion of wearing ripped jeans. During my recent shopping trip to the city, the young mother ahead of me at the Target checkout counter had more skin than cloth showing in the front of her denim pant legs. In my parents’ generation, working farmers wore holes in their trousers. Patching overalls was an art practiced by their wives.

One of the troubles of today’s society is lack of respect. Do you think this is connected to our casual dress?

Friday is my birthday. Usually, Ken and I would go out for supper, but not this year with COVID-19. Our family gathering at a restaurant with cake at home afterward won’t happen either. Even without the normal celebrations, I consider myself lucky to have another birthday. Every morning, I thank God and utter my mantra, “Today we’re okay.” I’m still not convinced I’m an octogenarian,

I’ve adjusted to being the oldest person in the room when meeting with a group of scribblers. That’s one of the great things about writing–as long as my mind and my fingers work, I can continue.

I’m encouraged by three prominent women who are in their eighties and active in their professions: Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, 87; English actress Judi Dench, 85; and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, 80. I think some of the so-called jokes about aging perpetuate the stereotype of inept, older people.

Ken recently remarked about an old woman talking to him in Galena. Our adult grandson, Jacob, asked, “What’s old to you, Grandpa?”

My definition has changed over the years. As a teenager, my parents pushing forty seemed old. When I received my first AARP discount at fifty, seventy was over the hill. Now, I look at a person’s actions. Some people seem to be practicing to be elderly. They’re the ones whose favorite saying is, “At our age, we shouldn’t be doing that.”

I’m reminded of “Satchell” Paige, a major league baseball pitcher, noted for his longevity in the game during the 1940s. He said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” In my mind, I’m 45 and that doesn’t change. I don’t know why I picked that age–it makes me younger than our children.

To echo “Satchell” Paige, how old do you think you are?”

This is a story about two women named Frances.

My mother’s oldest sister, Aunt Frannie, and husband, Uncle Hookie, loved me like a grandchild in place of Mom’s parents who had died. The short woman with graying, brown hair and the tall, bald-headed man seemed old to me.

Aunt Frannie, who struggled with arthritis, always wore a housedress protected by an apron. She sewed her own clothes, made garments for her two daughters and, occasionally, stitched up something for me. She also sewed for outsiders to augment the income from their small farm. She had a saying for every situation. My favorite was, “If you burn your ass, you sit on the blister.”

Tomorrow, August 27, was her birthday. I wish I’d realized sooner that she turned twenty-one in 1920, the year the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution gave women the right to vote. I would have liked to ask her about it.

My aunt’s namesake, our middle child, Lisa Frances, turned twenty-one in the eighties and became one of the first female Illinois State Troopers. When Lisa retired eight years ago, she was a master sergeant. She’s single, owns her home and works out at a fitness center. She rarely wears a dress–pants are more her style. She has ridden a motorcycle since she was a teenager. I think of our daughter as young, but she’s the same age Aunt Frannie was when she passed away four months after Ken and I were married.

Two women who share the name Frances illustrate how times changed. Once in a while, I believe it’s a good idea to stop and look at how far females have come.

What do you think a woman’s status in the world is today?

My longtime friend, Gloria, and I were catching up by phone. My husband and I had spent six days with our children and grandchildren at Disney World in Florida. I said, “At the resort, Kurt and Sandy had adjoining rooms with Katelyn and Jacob. Ken and I shared a room with Lisa. I thought it worked out well.”

Gloria responded, “Good. Nobody had to be in a room alone. When I traveled for United, I hated being in a hotel room alone.”

My thought that I didn’t voice–at writers’ conferences, I paid a higher fee to be alone in my hotel room at the end of busy days of lectures, workshops and people.

That’s the difference between the two of us. Gloria, like the majority of the population, is an extrovert, the personality trait typically characterized by outgoingness, high energy and talkativeness.

I identify with the introverts described by Susan Cain in her book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. She writes, “At least one-third of the people we know are introverts. They are the ones who prefer listening to speaking, who innovate and create but dislike self-promotion, who favor working on their own over working in teams.”

Gloria and I probably wouldn’t have become close friends, but we were thrown together in high school when we dated a pair of guys who’d been best buddies since first grade. As time passed, we married those fellows and the camaraderie continued. Through the years, we’ve each learned to shrug our shoulders and say to ourselves, “That’s just the way she is.”

Are you an extrovert or an introvert?