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One of the tasks of growing up is deciding who we want to be. The image we adopt consists of several personas and may change as time passes. I’m a female, a daughter, a wife, a mother, a grandmother and a writer. Traces remain of that young, tomboy who wore overalls and preferred batting a softball with the boys in grade school instead of playing jacks with the girls.

Not everything I do becomes part of my image. I was the Durand Township clerk for 46 years, but I considered that just a convenient, part-time job.

I show various sides of myself in different circumstances and dress appropriately. When I was a young mother with two daughters who were Girl Scouts, I wore a dignified pants suit to help chaperone the troop visiting the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department. My husband was a deputy and I had arranged the trip on a Tuesday after school. A uniformed officer gave us the tour including the jail. He commented to me quietly, “You don’t look the same as the last time I saw you.”

I replied, “Neither do you.” The previous Saturday evening, he had met me as a colleague’s wife at a cop party. At that time, we were adults wearing leisure clothes, drinking beer and relaxing together.

I can no longer be a daughter except in my memories.

When I fix a holiday dinner for my family, I’m a grandmother wearing jeans and a top that’s easily washed in case I slop something.

Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless blouse are the order of the day while I attend a writers’ workshop during the summer. For a week, I’m a woman and a writer.

What identities make up your image?

Yesterday I spent over a half-hour on hold waiting to speak to a person at a large corporation. I beg to differ with their canned message stating, “Your call is important to us.” If they really cared about their customers, they’d hire enough people to keep the wait to a reasonable time, such as five minutes.

The so-called music that was played interspersed with ads had to be the most annoying noise they could find. It reminded me of the summer a neighbor boy was learning to play the coronet. Windows were open so I could easily hear him. He repeated the same few beginning notes to a song. Apparently, he kept making the same mistake and started over again and again.

Whenever I have to make a phone call to clear up a problem with a big business, I prepare like I’m taking a long journey–go to the bathroom, get a drink and bring a snack. It doesn’t seem to matter what company I’m dealing with or the day of the week I make the call.

I don’t have anything pressing to do, but I still don’t like to sit and sit with my phone in my hand. I think back to when I had three little kids under foot. At that time, they’d take advantage of Mom being tied to the wall phone and do things they weren’t supposed to.

Today I had an email survey that asked, “How would you rate your recent call experience with Nicole?” Boxes numbered from 1 to 10 were included. Nicole was a 10. It took less than a minute for her to solve my problem.

There also was a box to type a message about my feelings for the company. I told them about my dislike of spending so much time on hold. I don’t expect a change, but I tried.

Do you get as annoyed as I do with long waits on hold?

Sunday is Valentine’s Day, the season of love. I remember the first time Kenny said, “I love you, Honey.” It was the end of our last Saturday night date before he began a four-year hitch in the navy.

I was flabbergasted. It took me a few seconds to respond, “I love you, too, and I’ll wait for you.”

The next day, love songs playing on the radio seemed meant just for us, especially Nat ‘King’ Cole’s “Too Young.” My boyfriend was eighteen and I was sixteen.

Music reflects feelings and stirs memories. In 1957, Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” described my loneliness with Ken in the navy. I was working in the office of the U.S. Department of Agriculture in Rockford. During our morning and afternoon breaks at the Cumming’s Coffee Shop, I took advantage of 3 plays for a quarter to hear the song on their jukebox over and over. I was probably driving my four co-workers nuts, but I didn’t care.

For our first dance in the Grange Hall after our church wedding, April 17, 1959, the Bel Air Ranch Boys played “I Love You Truly” while their leader, John Pela, crooned into the microphone.

When we celebrated our Golden Anniversary in 2009 with an open house at the Legion Hall, our friend, Roger, strummed Anne Murray’s hit recording “Could I Have This Dance (for the rest of my life)” for our solo dance.

Later, Roger played “our song,” Johnny Horton’s “The Battle of New Orleans.” Those lyrics about the War of 1812 aren’t romantic, but the memories they evoked made Ken and me smile. That recording had saturated the air waves while we were honeymooning in the Big Easy. It also reminded us of our conflicts through the years that seemed important at the time, but now were forgotten.

What are your favorite love songs?

Sunday will be football’s Super Bowl. Businesses will pay out big bucks to have their products aired during the game. Sometimes the ads are more interesting than the sport, especially if your team isn’t playing.

I have a love/hate relationship with ads. Occasionally they’re helpful but most of the time they’re just annoying. In the evenings, when a commercial comes on while I’m watching TV, I do household chores such as move a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer or personal things like going to the bathroom. The commercials for election candidates, the time to change your Medicare coverage and Christmas shopping seem to go on forever. I know they’re necessary to make the programs I enjoy possible.

I usually read around ads in newspapers and magazines. One of the first things I was surprised to learn when I started reporting for a daily was the size of each edition was determined by the amount of advertising sold, not the happenings of the day. They only printed the articles that would fill the news hole, space left after they laid out their paid advertising.

Once in a while, an ad alerts me to something I can use. When our family dentist retired, he didn’t sell his business so I had to find someone else on my own. I saw a TV ad for the Rockford dentist who had cared for Linda, our developmentally different daughter. I had liked him at the time, but after she died in 2008, I’d forgotten him. I called to make an appointment.

A few years ago, a magazine ad for a pair of summer sneakers caught my eye. I couldn’t find the shoes in any of the surrounding cities but I couldn’t forget them either. I ordered them on line, which I don’t like to do with anything that needs to fit. They were fine and I’ve continued to enjoy them during warm weather.

How do you feel about ads?

The family has been called that the end is near. Picture them gathered around Grandma lying in the bed she shared with Grandpa for more than fifty years. Her son and daughter are sitting on opposite sides holding her hands. Grandchildren gather behind the footboard to show their love. She speaks her last words and draws her final breath. That imaginary Saturday Evening Post cover painted by Norman Rockwell is what the American people like to believe happens, but many times people die alone.

I remember the actualities in my own life. Ken and I had been married three years and were the parents of two daughters when our brother-in-law called about seven o’clock on an October evening. He said my husband’s parents had been in an auto accident driving home from their jobs in Rockford. Dad had been killed instantly and Mom was in critical condition at a nearby hospital. Ken and I deposited our girls with my parents and rushed to sit in the hospital waiting room with his brother, sister and brother-in-law. After about two hours, a doctor came to tell us that despite their best efforts, Mom passed away.

Fourteen years later, an evening phone call from my mother brought the news that my father had died of a heart attack. They were on a tour bus trip and had been attending an outdoor pageant when Dad was stricken. A fast ambulance ride brought them to a hospital. She had been sitting alone in the waiting room five-hundred miles from home when a physician told her that they couldn’t save her husband.

Through the years, we’ve known families in the community that have received that ominous notice from the U.S. Army that their son has been killed in a faraway war.

Members of my cop family have been called for victims of murder, suicide and drug overdose.

Have you had an opportunity to tell a loved one a final goodbye?

The Christmas season is past and we’re in the middle of the January clearance sales. Instead of driving to the mall, I’m becoming adept at online shopping. I prefer ordering items that can be easily measured such as a bathroom rug, but I have bought two pairs of shoes because I couldn’t find what I wanted in any area store. So far, I haven’t had to return anything.

I’m reminded of the old time-catalogs from Sears & Roebuck and Montgomery Ward. On one of those cold, snowy days early in the new year, when we felt winter was never going to end, our mail box was brightened with new spring and summer catalogs. The covers featured pretty women decked out in colorful, sleeveless dresses and handsome men wearing polo shirts and slacks. Those books were about an inch-and-a half thick with at least ninety pages featuring everything from bras to bicycles.

The last thing I remember ordering was a set of china dishes called Moss Rose. While thumbing through the pages of Monkey Ward’s new offerings, the modern-looking, round, white plates with a gold edge and trimmed with pink roses captivated me. Ken was in the navy and we weren’t engaged, but I believed we would be married when he finished his four-year hitch.

The books came in handy in many ways. When I was small and ate a meal at Aunt Frannie’s table, she piled the two on a chair to act as a booster seat for me.

Frugal farmers didn’t throw the old editions away when the new ones arrived. The outdated tomes were stashed in the outhouse. The paper wasn’t as soft as modern toilet tissue but it did the job.

Do you remember mail-order catalogs?

Making New Year’s resolutions is an ancient tradition practiced by the Babylonians and the Romans and continued by many of us. The top ten are: eat healthier, exercise more, save money, learn something new, let go of nasty habits, read more, change jobs, drink less, spend more time with family and friends, get organized.

As “Auld Lange Syne” fades into the background for another year, you may find your good intentions doing the same thing. Ten tips for continuing are: be realistic, plan ahead, outline your plan, make a pros and cons list, talk about it, reward yourself, track your progress, don’t beat yourself up, stick to it, keep trying.

Change is difficult. Don’t try to create a new person in one fell swoop. One thing at a time is a good rule. For example, if you’re trying to eat healthier, you may not be saving money but spending more at the groery store. If you start a new job, you may have less time to spend with relatives and friends for a while. A few things can work together. If your quitting smoking, increasing your exercise by taking long walks could help.

This blog was my resolution two years ago. It took until mid-March to make it happen and I’m still trying to figure out some of the mechanics involved. Writing’s fun. Facts I need such as my two top ten lists printed above are easy to find on the internet. Type in my question and a couple clicks give me an immediate answer. In the old days, I had to spend half-an-hour driving to the Rockford Library and hoping the librarian could find the right book for the answer. Phone inquiries were never as fruitful as in-person requests.

Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, but Ken and I won’t go out to celebrate. For several years, I’ve been making lobster thermidor for supper and opening a bottle of Asti. We’ll reminisce about the night sixty-three years ago when my boyfriend was in the navy.

That evening, my folks and I stayed home, too. It had snowed all day and blocked our driveway. We missed the crowded dance floor at the Wigwam hall. At midnight, the band would play “Auld Lang Syne” while everyone donned paper hats, blew cardboard horns, and shook metal noisemakers. Instead Mom popped corn to snack on while we watched TV and went to bed after the ten o’clock news.

1958 began with the jangle of the telephone startling us awake from a sound sleep–a long and a short, our ring on the party line. Good news did not arrive at 2 a.m.

Mom crawled out of my parents’ warm bed to answer the phone sitting on the desk in the kitchen. I held my breath to hear her better. After a pensive, “Hello,” she paused before uttering a disgusted, “Happy New Year.” Her tone dripped with exasperation when she called, “Lolita, it’s for you.” She shuffled back to bed.

I knew it was Ken using a pay phone in California. His ship, the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Bennington, was docked at its home port of San Diego. I hopped out of bed, dashed to the kitchen, and eagerly picked up the receiver. “Hello” I said breathlessly.

My boyfriend had forgotten that in Durand no one sat at the switchboard between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. After-hours calls roused Nona, the middle-aged, corpulent, red-head who lived in the house where the system was located. I assumed our neighbors also crawled out of their cozy nests and lifted their receivers to learn about the Tschabolds’ catastrophe that necessitated a late-night call.

After a bit of small talk, Ken ended the call, which was limited to three minutes, “I’m here in San Diego at the Jade Room bar and I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year. I’ll see you in July. Bye.”

“Happy New Year. I’m glad you called. Bye.” I returned to bed feeling warm and gooey inside like a toasted marshmallow. After nearly four hour of sleep combined with the excitement of talking to my steady, it took me a long time to return to dreamland.

What is your most memorable New Year’s Eve?

Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve. Santa will circle the globe visiting all of the children. I remember being the jolly old elf’s first stop when we lived five miles southeast of Durand on Herb Lillie’s 120-acre farm. I was a second grader at the Dobson country school that sat on the far side of our garden. The ‘big kids’ had told me there was no Santa Claus, but I thought they were just teasing me, which they often did.

At 4:30 p.m., I had to go to the barn with my father while he hand-milked our small herd of a dozen cows. My mother usually helped him, but she was busy making supper for Aunt Frannie, Uncle Hookie, Doris and Sis who were coming at 7:00 to eat and open gifts. To wait for Dad, I sat down on Mom’s wooden milk stool. The body heat generated by the bovines had warmed the building enough that I took off my mittens and stuffed them in my snowsuit pockets. I picked up Fuzzy, our long-haired, coon-colored cat, and held her on my lap. She purred as I petted her. Tony, our white, English bulldog, was curled up on a bed of straw in the corner beside me. I told him all about our plans for the evening.

Dad interrupted, “Did you hear sleigh bells?” I’d missed the sound. He was soon done because he could skip the ones that were dried up in prepaaration for delivering calves in the new year.

I re-entered the house through the back porch and ran across the kitchen to the decorated tree in the living room. There sat the sled I had asked for when I talked to the man with the white beard at Sears & Roebuck department store in Rockford. The wooden surface atop the shiny, metal runners was painted bright red with DODGER in black letters down the middle. There also were more wrapped packages than when I went out. Mom was busy cooking and didn’t hear Santa slip in through the front door that we never used. That was the last year the reindeer stopped at my house.

How old were you when you quit believing in Santa Claus?

Two Christmas gifts I received seven years apart made it possible for me to become a writer. When I was a sophomore at Durand High School, I took typing in preparation for an office job after graduation. In December, my parents gave me a Royal portable typewriter. Later, I learned it was the first time they bought an item on time. I never knew why they purchased such an expensive present that I hadn’t even hinted I wanted but was thrilled to receive.

The first holiday after Ken and I were married, he suggested we give each other a 35 mm camera. I was pregnant and he wanted to be ready to take pictures of our future family.

Ten years later, our three kids were in school. I thought I could go back to work at an office job similar to the one I’d had before we were married. While reading the help wanted pages in the Rockford Morning Star, I was intrigued by the newspaper’s ad for a correspondent in the Durand community. I met with an editor and learned all I needed to be one of their part-time, freelance journalists was a typewriter and a 35 mm camera. Education or experience weren’t required. I reported on civic board meetings, chased fire trucks and wrote feature stories about people doing interesting things. I had found my calling. To enhance my writing skills, I read publications, attended workshops and joined professional organizations. Thirteen years later, the daily dropped all community correspondents. I pursued submitting articles to national farm, police and women’s magazines.

Our fiftieth wedding anniversary stirred memories of our seven-year courtship, which began with a Ferris wheel ride when I was fourteen and Ken was sixteen. I realized life on a family dairy farm during the 1950s was alien to people living in this new century. I wrote a memoir, The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel, using my mother’s daily entries in her diary as a guide. It will be released by Adelaide Books, an independent New York City publisher.

Do you ever get the feeling that your life is preordained?