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This morning when I was slicing a banana on my breakfast cereal, I thought of this little girl who sliced her own banana for the first time. The pieces were probably about 1/2 an inch thick, but are there prouder words than, “I did it?”

As I grew, there were so many firsts. Before I started school, I had to be able to tie my shoes, a staggering procedure. When I was eight, I received a bicycle for Christmas and struggled to balance it. About the same time, our teacher taught me to write cursive like a grown-up. Today, shoes are closed with Velcro, I see no bike racks at the school and students in classes are no longer taught to write longhand.

I’m no longer around young children–all I know is what I read and observe from a distance. Is society robbing them of some of the senses of accomplishment I’ve known or have they just been replaced?

When a day is over, I still need to feel I’ve accomplished something. This blog is one of them. My first drafts are filled with cliches. At odd moments, I’ll think of the exact words I should use and replace them as I rewrite.

Renewing my driver’s license recently was another milestone. I feel confident when I’m driving but as long as Illinois decrees I must annually show my skill to an examiner, I’ll silently exclaim, “I did it,” when I hear, “You passed.”

I make to-do lists but as fast as I scratch an item off, at least two more are added. I’m tempted to make a done list. My husband, Ken, often sighs, “There, that’s done,” when he completes a task he’s set for himself.

As we age, it becomes harder to keep up with everyday activities. Maybe it’s time to include such things as showering, cooking meals, washing clothes or grocery shopping as a day’s accomplishments.

What are some of your accomplishments?

I’ve been looking through the Rockford Morning Star newspaper articles I wrote when I was a reporter during the 1970s. I clipped and saved all my items by turning the filled notebooks I used during meetings and interviews into scrapbooks. From time to time, I mailed in features including photos about local people doing interesting things. I’m looking for a story I remember and hope it contains the fact I’m seeking to use in my blog.

Another one of my former duties was attending every school board and village board meeting. On those evenings, I phoned in my report before the 10 p.m. deadline so it appeared in the next morning’s edition. Most Durand residents subscribed to the daily. Neighborhood teens were up early riding their bicycles to deliver the paper door-to-door so readers could absorb the news while they drank their morning coffee. Residents knew what their local elected officials were doing as well as neighboring communities. We have lost that comprehensive source of area activities.

All television outlets inundate us with the same national news that’s important at the moment and told in as many ways possible. We may hear about a school board in Florida or Pennsylvania that does something out of the ordinary, but the usual actions of the Durand CUSD 322 board are not publicized.

The school is the heart of small, rural communities. Whether residents have young children or not, everyone is affected by the actions of the trustees in more ways than taxes. The elected officials hire the administrators and teachers to run the schools in accordance with state laws but the board has the final word. Such things as are the teachers satisfied with their pay scale and will it attract good teachers and encourage the ones we have to remain are important to the entire community.

I miss the old Morning Star, which has become the Rockford Register Star and is delivered on-line with the print version arriving in the U.S. mail.

Where do you get your news?

This last week, our granddaughter and her husband celebrated their fifth anniversary. There’s something about the fives that make them seem like a milestone. It launched my thinking about th past.

Katelyn and Sean and my parents both cite similar beginnings to their relationships. The young Edith was driving her black, 1929 Dodge sedan along an unpaved rural, road when she was aggravated by a flat tire. The young Alex, riding his horse, came along, stopped and changed it for her.

Katelyn was parked in a concrete lot when she discovered a flat tire on her white, 2004 Jeep Liberty SUV. Sean saw her predicament and changed it for her. Although the two vehicles were manufactured 75 years apart, they continued to have one thing in common–each was equipped with a spare tire in case of emergency.

There are many differences between farm kids from the 1930s and suburban, college students from the 2000s. Yet, the two young men had the same innate desire to aid a “damsel in distress” and the same urge to continue pursuit of the young woman.

During the Great Depression, my parents were married on a February, Thursday afternoon in a private ceremony conducted in the church parsonage. In the evening, after the cows were milked, friends and relatives gathered in an area town hall for a traditional wedding dance to celebrate with the newly-weds.

Our granddaughter’s wedding was held on a September, Saturday afternoon, in an outdoor facility and witnessed by several hundred guests. Afterwards, the group moved inside for a meal and dancing.

Although people change with the times, the attraction between a man and a woman that becomes a lifetime of true love continues to flow from generation to generation. My parents’ marriage lasted 41 years, ’til death do us part.

How did you first encounter your spouse?

Is bingo making a comeback? Last week, I drove by the Bethlehem Lutheran Church in Brodhead, Wisconsin, and noticed a large sign in their yard announcing Bingo. I passed too quickly to catch when it was being held regularly.

I remember seventy-five years ago, many organizations sponsored the fund raisers and the “old corn game” was included as part of the entertainment at local carnivals and county fairs.

Aunt Frannie and her friend, Blanche, spent several evenings each month playing the game at different churches and clubs in the area. Each of the women played nine cards at a time and kept a running total of how much money was spent and how much was won in cash prizes. The Jackpots growing week-to-week to several hundred dollars were a drawing card.

My folks liked to play bingo every Monday night at the New England Grange Hall in Durand. Of course, I had to go along because I was a grade-schooler. We each played three cards at a time. I learned to hate the game because I rarely won.

Sometime after that, Illinois joined the neighboring state, Wisconsin, and out-lawed the gambling game. The state legislature again legalized bingo in 1971 but it never regained its popularity. For a while, the Grange renewed their Monday evening gatherings but the organization soon died for a lack of members.

When I reached the age that a big part of my social life was attending showers for brides-to-be, the evening was often spent playing “take-away” bingo. None of the hostesses had much money and this allowed them to provide only three or four small prizes for multiple games. Each winner chose a prize already won by someone else. At the end of the evening, the guests who ended up with the prizes kept them. They were usually small, household items and passed to the guest-of-honor.

I still avoid the game, although I hear it is popular in retirement homes.

Do you enjoy playing bingo?

My name, Lolita, sits on our coffee table. When we were on a bus tour of Savannah, Georgia, I saw a young man crafting names using electric fence wire. I had to have one for two reasons: (1) while I was growing up, barrettes bearing popular girls’ names such as Pat and Carol were on sale in Woolworth’s Five and Dime stores. I was always disappointed that my name was never there; and (2) once in a while when I was growing up on the farm, Dad used a temporary electric fence to pasture the cows in a different area. To make sure the battery-operated fence was working, I touched the wire with a long, dried-out horseweed. I could faintly feel its pulse in my wrist.

Another item that was useful on the farm was baling wire. Balers used a pair of wires to hold the hay together. During the winter. when dairymen fed the cows, they saved the wire.

When my first teenage boyfriend came to visit me during the summer of 1952, he drove a decrepit, pick-up truck. The front bumper was held in place with baling wire.

Until plastic hangers became popular, the old-fashioned ones made from wire provided material for household projects. In our bedroom, a piece was salvaged and became a fastener to keep our pair of closet doors closed.

When my husband was a deputy on patrol, he became quite adept at using a wire hanger to open car doors for motorists who inadvertently locked their keys inside.

Dry cleaners still return garments on wire hangers. Recently, I found one in an upstairs closet which provided a temporary repair for our shower until a professional plumber could visit and solve the problem.

Do you use any wires as a fix-it in your household or do you rely on duct tape and super glue?

Many traits divide the population into two groups such as introverts and extroverts or night owls and early birds. Recently, I was visiting with a friend, who is a goal-setter. She said, “Every morning, I ask my husband, ‘What’s your goal for today?'”

I was a young mother when I learned that setting goals does not work for me.

When Ken and I were married in 1959, I complied with the old routine: Monday – wash clothes; Tuesday – iron; Wednesday – baking, mending and sewing; Thursday – buy groceries; Friday – clean the house; Saturday – bake a cake and fix food for Sunday meals; Sunday – attend church and enjoy a day of rest. Modern conveniences revamped that schedule–laundry became a small, daily chore and ironing nearly nonexistent.

When our three children neared school age, I decided it was a chance for me to change my habits. I read several self-help books about life-plans. I devised what I thought was the prefect twenty-year strategy. By the time, our trio were all enrolled, real life had made a shambles of my scheme.

I’ve learned to open the door to opportunity any time I hear a feeble knock. I’ve ended up doing things that would never have crossed my mind if left to my own devices.

For 46 years, I served as Durand Town clerk–a part-time, position I didn’t know existed until we moved into the village. Our elderly neighbor, Ernie Baker, who was the supervisor, asked me to be a trustee candidate in the current township election. Two years later, the clerk left the area and Baker appointed me to take her place. It was ideal for me because I could accomplish most of the duties from home. One evening a month, I attended the regular board of trustees’ meeting to take notes. Later, I typed a record of the proceedings. I ran unopposed in each of the following elections until I retired. I never figured out if that meant I was doing a terrific job or just nobody else wanted the post.

In the summer of 1969, I was looking for additional part-time employment when I answered a Rockford Morning Star ad for a freelance reporter in our community. I qualified because no education or experience was required. After becoming a journalist, I felt I had found my calling.

Are you a goal-setter or do you take advantage of whatever comes along?

Tomorrow will be my 88th birthday. I’m a one percenter, that sliver of the population born between 1930 and 1946 who are still enjoying life. Strong ancestors, healthy eating, exercise and medical care help us continue, but physical and mental impairments can reduce us to climbing molehills instead of mountains.

We’ve been dubbed the Silent Generation sandwiched between the Greatest (1901 – 1927) who fought World War II and their children, the Baby Boomers (1946 – 1964) but many of us have been outstanding. To name a few: Elvis Presley, the king of rock n’ roll; Sandra Day O’Conner, the first female to serve on the Supreme Court; Eldridge Cleaver, Black Power advocate, changed politics; Ralph Nader became a voice for consumers with his book, “Unsafe at Any Speed,” that focused on the Chevrolet Corvair and resulted in the National Traffic and Motor Vehicle Safety Act of 1966 establishing safety standards for new cars; and Gail Henion Sheehy whose publication, “The Silent Passage: Menopause,” cracked the last taboo.

We were a small group to begin with. Only 24.4 million birth cries were heard in the U.S. during the decade following the stock market crash of 1929, less than any other ten-year-period in the 20th century. This compares to 31.7 million in the forties and 40.3 million in the fifties. We are unique–conceived during the Great Depression and shaped by World War II. We were born before radar, credit cards, television, penicillin, polio shots and air conditioners.

Ninety-six percent of our females married and at a younger age than any other age group. Only 7% of the wives remained childless, the lowest proportion of any generation in American history. In 1960, ladies’ lives were revolutionized by The Pill. Spouses, who had sacrificed their own career aspirations for their husbands, went back to school and to work. Women’s new independence led to our being the first generation to have more than one-quarter of our marriages terminated by divorce.

Which generation are you?

I can’t ignore a ringing phone–it might be an important message. I’m receiving quite a few calls in a day but I rarely talk to a person. Most are listed as potential spam or an unknown number from a faraway city. It’s annoying to have to check each one to be sure it isn’t someone I want to speak with. A message is usually left on my voice mail, which I have to clear, too. There used to be a number to call to be put on a do not call list but I haven’t seen anything about that for quite a while.

Some of my friends amuse themselves by answering and giving bogus information but I don’t want to waste my time that way.

The calls come in streaks. I’ll have a bunch and then respite for a short while. According to my limited, highly, unscientific survey, I believe that women are targeted. The men I’ve questioned don’t seem to be bothered. Perhaps the callers are hawking products used by females or they just think we are more gullible.

I wonder how they get my number. If I want to call a person who isn’t on my contact list, I have to go through a “six degrees from Kevin Bacon” ritual. Who do I know that might have the number I need or know someone who does?

It’s hard to believe that not long ago, telephone companies supplied customers with a book listing everyone’s name, address and phone number. To make a long distance call, I could contact an operator for the needed number and address.

Before phones identified the caller, I remember teenagers making anonymous calls asking innocuous questions such as, “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” referring to the popular pipe tobacco. After an affirmative reply, “Well, let him out–he can’t breathe.” Mobile devices have ended that nonsense.

Are you bothered by unwanted phone calls?

Recently, I took my annual driver’s test required in Illinois by my birthday to renew my license. Another female, who looked to be in my age group, was also in the secretary of state’s office doing the same thing. She had recently received a traffic ticket, which just showed up on her record requiring her to also complete the written test in addition to the eye exam and driving.

While the woman waited, I overheard her confide to the young man who accompanied her, “I’m nervous–I haven’t had a chance to study.”

As I remember the questionnaire from when I was sixteen and seeking my first permit, there were answers that required a number of feet. I had judiciously reviewed the booklet, “Rules of the Road.”

It’s still referred to as the written test but instead of handing the lady a pencil and paper, an employee led her to a machine and gave her instruction on how to use it. I don’t know if the senior citizen was familiar with modern technology or if this added to her jitters. Three attempts to pass the state exam are allowed.

I’m glad I only had to pass the eye exam and drive my car with a friendly person in the seat beside me giving directions.

Like it or not, older people are forced to keep up with the times. I’ve learned to pump my own gasoline, get my cash from an ATM and use a computer the same way I drive a car–turn it on and turn it off. If we’re lucky, we have someone close to us who can help when there’s a problem.

Some Amish families live about twenty miles north of us in Wisconsin. I often see a man driving a horse and buggy when I travel the road to Madison to visit friends. On a nice, summer day, I sometimes think they have the right idea ignoring modern civilization. A blustery, winter afternoon, kills that thought–I’m enjoying my car with its heater and realize I wouldn’t be making the trip without it.

Do you have problems coping with technology?

it may feel a little different but it’s great to be back in our double bed that Ken and I purchased when we were married in 1959. We’ve spent nearly two weeks with him sleeping in his family room lounge chair and me on the living room davenport.

For the past fifty years, we’ve been using a waterbed. At the height of their popularity, the industry came out with a water-mattress containing a plastic bladder, which worked for us. Our bedroom is too small to accommodate a queen or king-sized framework. Before we made the switch, we spent a summer night at a Madison, Wisconsin, motel to make ssure we would like sleeping on one.

The first cold day we had the water mattress with an electric heater, I thought I would be frugal like I was with our furnace, which I lowered ten degrees at night. I turned the bed warmer down during the time no one was sleeping. When I turned it up again for my cop husband who was working a night shift, it took a long time to heat up. Ken thought he was having a chill and getting a cold. I’ve never touched that dial again.

Through the years, waterbeds have fallen out of favor. The last time we needed a new bladder, we had to make a fifty-mile trip to Woodstock to buy one.

When our present set-up sprang a leak, Ken did the clean-up and declared enough. He had been an advocate for the waterbed because before we had one, he made regular trips to the chiropractor for a spinal adjustment. After making the sleeping change, he had no more back problems.

A couple weeks ago, we went mattress shopping in Rockford and found one that suited us but, the store didn’t deliver to the boondocks until last Thursday.

Did you succumb to the waterbed fad?