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Tomorrow night you’ll be hearing “Trick-or-treat” from little, costumed children knocking on your door. They aren’t prepared to carry out the trick part of their threat–just carrying a bag to hold the candy they expect you to hand them. Kids used to soap windows or string toilet paper in trees as Halloween pranks. In the Durand area, some ‘big kids’ hauled outhouses to public places. I haven’t seen any evidence of mischief for quite a few years.

According to what I’m seeing in the news, many towns held a trunk-or-treat program in their downtown area during a daylight time to give the kids an added time to gather candy.

I’ve read on social media that school teachers have a tough time in the classroom on November 1 coping with students who are hyped up from eating large amounts of sugar.

When our three kids were trick-or-treating fifty years ago, children were urged to trick-or-treat for UNICEF and give up their candy bars in favor of cash dropped into the little orange boxes they held.

In our village, the powers-that-be didn’t want to deprive the witches and goblins of their treats; it just asked neighbors to donate twice. On Sunday night, the costumed kids would be asking for contributions to UNICEF but whatever night of the week was Halloween, the small monsters would be back knocking on the doors requesting their goodies.

In thinking about Halloween, I wondered if there was still a UNICEF–I hadn’t heard about it for years. I’m not advocating for it–I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity.

I found it still in existence on the internet. The letters stand for the original name of the United Nations International Children’s Emergency fund, which has been shortened to the United Nations Children’s Fund. It was created in 1946 as a response to the needs of children affected by World War II and became a permanent United Nations agency in 1953. It is a critical, flexible funding that can be used for programs that provide essentials such as education, safe water and vaccinations when and where they need it most.

Have you ever had trick-or-treaters for UNICEF?

Rocking chairs have been the subject of popular songs a couple times that I remember. During the 1940s, the quartet, the Mills Bros., sang “Old Rocking Chair’s Got Me.” In 1992, country singer, George Jones, who was in his sixties, declared, “I Don’t Need Your Rockin’ Chair.”

For the past thirty years, my seat in the living room has been a padded rocking chair and matching foot stool. In the beginning, it worked well for soothing grandbabies. Through the years, it has been ideal for reading and watching TV.

A study published in the American Journal of Alzheimer’s Disease and Other Dementia found that “there were improvements in depression/anxiety and reductions in pain medication significantly related to amount of rocking.” Those residents that enjoyed the program and wanted to continue rocking past the six weeks of the study “demonstrated significant improvements in balance as measured by center of gravity.”

Rocking chairs provide older adults with many advantages. Rocking works the muscles and the tendons of the thighs, the lower legs and ankles helping to keep you fitter.

As little as ten minutes of rocking s day can reduce blood pressure and improve circulation.

The rocking chair combined with some basic exercises can help relieve chronic back pain. The late JF Kennedy frequently used his rocking chair yo help ease his chronic back problems.

R0cking causes the release of endorphins that elevates the mood and relieves pain plus rocking can even lead to some weight loss as you burn 150 calories per hour with this form of exercise.

One of the things I saved from my parents’ home was a little rocker that Mom had recovered several times through the years. It was always one of my favorite perches. I think it must have been part of their original furniture when they married in 1935.

Do you enjoy a rocking chair?

This fall, our daughter, Lisa, and our granddaughter, Katelyn, are teammates participating in a women’s recreational volleyball league in Rockford. Katelyn sums up the relationship, “Lisa’s the oldest by about a decade and I’m the youngest by about a decade, but we are the two best players.” Her statement reminds me of the 1960s TV series, “The Guns of Will Sonnet,” and Walter Brennan’s catch phrase, “No brag–just fact.”

Girls’ competitive sports in high schools began more than fifty years ago when Title IX became federal law in 1972. The change was just in time to include Lisa, who loves athletics.

When Katelyn was a member of Durand High School girls’ volleyball team during the early 2000s, Aunt Lisa watched from the bleachers and was a boisterous booster.

Some of the girls of earlier generations enjoyed the rough and tumble of sports but society placed more limits on young ladies’ behavior. My mother, who was a member of the class of 1930, the first to complete four years in the new Durand High School built on the north side of West South Street. In her Physical Education classes, they played girls’ rules basketball, which is much more restrictive than the fellows’ version. There were six players on each team, three on each side of the court and neither trio was allowed to cross the center line. A player could only bounce the ball twice in succession so there was no dribbling. Mom and some of her friends played the rowdier, boys’ rules basketball in the gymnasium during their lunch hour.

When I attended DHS in the 1950s, we still played the same girls’ rules basketball in P.E., as my mother’s era. About twenty of us belonged to the Girls Athletic Association, which met after school once a week to engage in various sports among themselves.

High school athletic programs have been studied for more than a century. According to the experts, three of the most important participation takeaway that students continue to practice after graduation are: 1) a stronger sense of self-confidence in building relationships with others and having an expanded capacity for empathy, (2) developing better understanding of self and in so doing understanding how their actions affect others and (3) building foundations for lifelong fitness habits.

Have you ever played competitive sports?

When Linda, Lisa and Kurt were growing up, we had very understanding neighbors. Our offspring spent most of their free time playing outside with the three Wise Guys who were similar ages and lived just two houses down the street from us. At the end of the block, the boys’ uncle, Cliffie, whose teenage sons had outgrown playing in the yard, owned a vacant lot adjacent to his house. He allowed the youngsters to play there whenever they wanted more space for their activities such as a ballgame. As parents, we were glad they had a place to expand without needing to cross a street.

The elderly, brother and sister who lived just west of the empty land had one request, the children use a Nerf Ball constructed of foam so if it hit the siding of their house, it would do no damage.

The kids were quite boisterous during their activities. Whoever heard of a ballgame without arguments? With home air conditioning rare at that time, most people opened their windows when it was warm, but no one complained about the noise.

Our yard boasted a couple treasures–a metal swing set and an old, wooden, chicken coop that the kids claimed for a club house. Every spring, Dad threatened to tear it down because it was the ugliest sight in the neighborhood, but I prevailed in letting it stand because even when it rained, the building provided the kids a place to play besides in the house. When ‘our angels’ were inside with me, their favorite pastime was fighting.

Two village sources provided materials to constantly remodel the building. Periodically, McCorkle Furniture disposed of large pieces of cardboard when the store received a shipment of mattresses and occasionally the proprietor gave away some carpet samples that were out of date.

A few coins from Kurt’s allowance bought some scraps of wood and a bag of nails at the nearby lumber yard. Both fathers had hammers in their tool collections that the pre-teens could use. I couldn’t begin to count the skills the six of them honed during their years of unsupervised play together.

How did the children in your neighborhood amuse themselves while growing up?

One of my all-time favorite tunes is “In the Mood” made popular during the 1940s by the Glenn Miller band. Perhaps, because I do my best work when I’m in the mood.

My mother pointed that out to me while I was still a teenager. When I was going to beauty school after high school graduation, she took advantage of a chance to get a return of some of her investment in the tuition money. Every three months, she asked me to give her a permanent but she always couched her request with the phrase, “If you’re in the mood?” Hard to tell what she would have looked like if I wasn’t in the mood.

According to the American Psychological Association, moods are a little different from emotions. That organization defines mood as “a disposition to respond emotionally in a particular way that may last for hours, days, or even weeks, perhaps at a low level without the person knowing what prompted the state.”

By the time I became a mother with three little kids and a husband, I could not do things just when I was in the mood. Every day brought a stack of duties that had to be carried out.

When I became a journalist, one of the first things I heard about at a writers’ conference was writer’s block, finding yourself staring at a blank page for long periods of time trying to write but unable to find the right words. The day I visited the Rockford Morning Star newsroom, I learned first hand that writing went on no matter the surrounding conditions. The best way to accomplish it was “to put the seat of the pants on the seat of the chair.” The syntax might not be brilliant but the gist of the story would be completed.

Since I’ve been an empty-nester with a retired husband and my writing doesn’t have to be completed before a fast-approaching deadline, I have lapsed into doing some things when the mood strikes. Lately, I haven’t been sick but I haven’t been feeling up to par, either, which means I’m not in the mood to do anything but read a book.. One of the jobs I must accomplish daily is prepare our meals. I have found even when I double-check a recipe, I can still overlook the same ingredient twice. Ken usually notices something doesn’t taste quite right. I can identify what I did wrong.

Do you adhere to a schedule or do you tend to do things when the mood strikes?

When we had company while I was growing up, Dad would set up the card table and the four adults would gather around it for a competition of “500.” I often watched and absorbed the intricies of bidding and playing. I was determined to stay awake during their visit so I could take Mom’s place for a few rounds while she went to the kitchen about 10 p.m. to fix coffee and a sweet for lunch before the guests went home.

The popular, area card game brought people of all ages together. When I was a teenager, I often joined my parents at public “500” card parties and played with some people old enough to be my grandparents.

One of my requirements before Ken became my husband was, he had to learn to play “500.” The in-laws-to-be had a get-acquainted supper at our house in December before our April wedding. After the meal, Mom sat down beside Ken and helped him play the game with me as his partner and his parents as our opponents.

The next evening, the two of us visited Lola Mae and Joe, Ken’s sister and her husband. Ken showed off his newly acquired skill. He told them, “I was kind of scared of Lolita’s mother, but last night, when she sat down beside me and helped me play ‘500’, I decided she must like me.”

Shortly after Ken and I were married, we joined five other young couples in a “500” card club. Our homes could accommodate three card tables and we took turns entertaining the group once a month. Each night, the man and woman who had the highest and the second highest scores for the evening were awarded a small prize. The two with the lowest points each received a booby prize, which might be a gag gift. Snacks and a light lunch were provided by the hosting couple. None of us had much money and it was a cheap night out without children who stayed with a babysitter or grandparents.

One of my girlfriends wanted to learn bridge, considered more of a sophisticated card game. She asked me to be a member of her group of eight women. Although I’d never been fascinated by the pastime, I wasn’t going to pass-up the opportunity to learn. If we ever moved, it might be my ticket into a new community of women. I played more by “the seat of my pants” instead of learning all of the little nuances. Our bridge club lasted about forty years.

In our middle-age, Ken and I joined a Euchre club, a world-wide game similar to “500.” but using a smaller deck of cards. The six couples took turns hosting the meeting once a month. Since that group became too old to get together in the evenings, we haven’t played cards.

Many senior citizen organizations feature regular, afternoon Euchre games.

Do you play cards?

Seeing the obituary for Rose in The Volunteer was a surprise but not a shock. Last year when I stopped by her Roscoe home to drop off a copy of my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” it was obvious that neither she nor her husband, Bob, was in good health.

Reading the death notice, set me thinking about our friendship. More than eighty years ago, Rosie and I were preschoolers who lived on family dairy farms in the same neighborhood on Illinois 75. She was a blonde, pigtailed girl with a younger brother and sister–I was a tomboy, only child. From time to time, one of us walked the quarter-mile stretch between our houses to play together.

When we were six years old, we started riding the yellow school bus from our homes to Rockton Grade Scholl where we joined about twenty other students in the first-grade class. At the end of each day, our room was dismissed thirty-minutes earlier than the older elementary children and the teenagers who attended the high school across the street. Rosie and I killed the time waiting for our bus to leave for home by playing on the swing set in the school yard.

On that fateful, warm fall day, I had packed “Sally,” my baby doll, in her suitcase and brought her to school at the teacher’s invitation. The Wetsy Betsey had been a popular gift the previous Christmas. I could feed her a small bottle of water and then, through a tiny hole in her bottom, she wet her diaper and had to be changed. All I remember about that afternoon is setting the suitcase against one leg of the four metal anchors, before going to one of the four swings, each comprised of a piece if wooden plank suspended from a pair of chains.

Apparently, one of the swing seats hit me in the head. Rosie guided me into the school principal’s office. We didn’t have a telephone so the woman left a message for my parents with our landlord’s wife who lived in the cottage next door. The school official only said I was crying and my folks needed to pick me up. They assumed that something had happened to my favorite doll. When they arrived at the office, they learned I had been hurt and could not see. They rushed me to the Beloit Hospital where I was diagnosed with a brain concussion. The next thing I remember is waking up after dark, in a room with Dad and Mom. My mother stood at the foot of my bed and held up her hand. She asked, “How many fingers do you see?” When I answered correctly several times, she sat down in a chair beside my bed. Dad went home to do chores and she stayed overnight with me. The next morning, my father picked us up. Rosie had taken “Sally” to her house and we picked up my baby on our way by. I had no after-effects from my accident. Rosie and I continued as playmates.

The following March, my family moved to a farm on Moate Road near Durand. My folks rented instead of buying one so we usually moved every few years.

Rosie and I became pen pals writing letters back and forth to one another. After we’d both married, the missives became annual Christmas-time-catch-ups. Neither of us made the effort to get together although we never lived more than twenty-five miles apart.

About forty years later, Rose and I met face-to-face while supporting our grandsons who were competing in the Durand Cub Scout Pinewood Derby held at the school.

For me, friendships follow no specific pattern–they are as varied as the people involved.

Have you thought about the glue that holds your friendships together?

“Be prepared” may be the Boy Scout motto but I’ve found it’s a good idea for me, too. Recently, I drove to the grocery store and purchased what was on my list. After returning home, I carried the supplies from the car parked in the garage into the house and set them on the kitchen table After removing the goods from the bags, I began putting them away. When I swung the eight-pound jug of milk off the table, it altered my balance and I fell. I was sure nothing was broken but I banged the back of my head against the bathroom door frame. It was bleeding heavily as a head wound always does. Ken was driving a buddy to the VA Hospital so I was home alone. My phone was still in the back pocket of my pants. I called our son, Kurt, who was here in a few minutes. He stopped the bleeding, determined I didn’t need stitches and cleaned up the mess.

A few days later, Ken was working in the garden and stopped a couple times to chat with neighbors. He recounted my little adventure. Both of the people told him I could always call them if I needed help. I was glad to hear that. As I thought about it, I didn’t have their cell phone numbers. The next day, I knocked on their doors to make sure they meant what they said and add them to my contacts list.

Younger folks have made their cell phones an extra body part. People of my generation are more apt to bury them in a woman’s purse or leave them on the end table next to a man’s recliner. I’ve started making sure I have my phone with me at all times.

We’re all familiar with the TV commercial, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” It’s advertising an emergency alert button that older people can purchase to wear at all times.

Are you prepared to call for help if you need it?

Today is my 87th birthday. I’ll celebrate twice–tonight Ken will take me out for supper. When our family’s schedules mesh, we will have a celebratory supper at the China Palace in Rockton followed by birthday cake at our house.

I am part of what has been termed the Silent Generation. Those of us born during the 1930s are sandwiched between the Greatest Generation that fought World War II and their children, the Baby Boomers. We are the smallest group born in the 20th Century according to the U.S. Census Bureau. Only 24.4 million live births were recorded during The Great Depression compared to 31.7 million in the 1940s and 40.3 million in the 1950s.

During the fifties, 96 percent of our women married at younger ages and became mothers. Only 7 percent remained childless, the lowest proportion of any generation in American history.

The sixties became known as a time for ‘sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll’, but I was busy washing cloth diapers, providing 2 a.m. feedings and singing lullabies. Linda, Lisa and Kurt were born in 1960, 1961 and 1963.

At the same time, despite the TV depictions of Mom at home such as Ozzie and Harriett Nelson, availability of The Pill revolutionized female lives by giving us reliable birth control. We are the first generation of women to be employed in large numbers outside the house. Sadly, this new independence contributed to more than a quarter of our marriages ending in divorce.

Today, there are an estimated 7 to 8 million of us still living–the old, old compared to the young old. Strong ancestors, healthy eating, exercise and medical care have brought us this far. We give physical and mental impairments a nod and climb molehills instead of mountains. Yet, we must not abdicate, but continue to speak for ourselves and form partnerships with the generations following us.

How are you handling growing older?

Several times during my life, society has changed the age when a young person is considered a mature adult. In the 1950s, I could marry or drink alcohol when I turned eighteen. A male like my boyfriend, Ken, had to be twenty-one to do the same things, but he could join the U.S. Navy when he was eighteen. Both men and women had to be twenty-one to vote in elections.

I was an only child who spent most of my time with grown-ups. I felt like I was a little adult who became a big adult. Yet, my parents thought it was their duty to oversee my behavior no matter my age. They said, “You put your feet under our table, you abide by our rules.” I stayed with Dad and Mom until I married at twenty-one. Like most girls of that era, I’ve never lived alone.

During our 1979 family vacation, Ken and I plus our three children travelled west through many areas to see the sights. Our daughter, Lisa, who was eighteen that summer, wanted to join Ken and me drinking a beer with supper but we had to check the state laws where we were spending the night. Some allowed young women to consume alcohol at eighteen and others required them to be twenty-one.

Today, all young people in the United States must be 21 to drink alcohol. They can marry, vote and enlist in the service beginning at age eighteen. Allowances are made for some minors to make life-changing decisions for themselves at an earlier age.

One of the current discussions looks at the other end of the age spectrum, “Do people get too old to hold a government office?” The Constitution includes minimum ages for president and members of Congress but no maximum age.

To keep an Illinois driver’s license, older people must demonstrate to an examiner from the Secretary of State’s office that they can safely maneuver their car every year or two instead of just renewing it every four years.

If grown children think Dad or Mom has reached the point of needing supervision with daily business, they can go to court for a competency hearing.

Do you agree with current age requirements or do you think some should be changed?