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Each of us has different talents. Some people can look at a motor and see how it operates. Others look at a motor and are flummoxed. Lacking a particular talent does not make a person stupid.

When I was a pre-teen, boys and girls were flocking to music studios to take accordion lessons hoping to become the next Dick Contino, an 18-year-old from California who gained worldwide fame playing the instrument during the late 1940s. Every Saturday morning for 2 1/2 years, my parents drove 25 miles to Beloit, Wisconsin, so I could spend half-an-hour with Dallas learning to play the squeeze box. When my teacher enlisted in the U.S. Navy, I didn’t believe anyone could take his place and took no more instruction.

I consider myself fortunate to have attended a small high school where it was possible to take part in extra-curricular activities without passing a talent requirement. We learn many things by joining in a pastime even if we aren’t very good at it.

Although I would never be considered a singer, I belonged to the girls’ chorus, the mixed chorus and a girls’ ensemble. At that time, there were no organized girls’ sports.

Boys who were interested in athletics could participate with a team although the coach might designate some as ‘bench-warmers’ who earned little game playing time.

When I was a junior and a senior, it was the tradition that our class put on a play each year. For our final comedy, the director found one that included all 24 members of our class. After the speaking parts were assigned, the remaining boys and girls were dancers at a teen hang-out.

Since I could wield a pencil, I’ve liked to draw pictures. My favorite subject was horses but it frustrated me that I could rarely get them quite right. When I was a teenager, I saw an ad in a magazine soliciting budding artists to submit a test drawing of a girl’s head to an art school. I did and received a letter stating I was a winner. A representative from the company called on my family to talk about my attending the institution after high school graduation. The agent only mouthed a canned spiel and didn’t answer my parents’ questions so he was asked to leave our home. I’ll never know if I missed out on a career in art.

I never considered writing as a profession but when I was in my thirties and looking for a parttime job, I had the opportunity to become a freelance reporter. I had no education or experience in the field but I’d learned to give new things a try. After selling articles to area newspapers and national magazines, I felt I had found my calling.

What do you consider your talents?

I read a lot of fiction and have attended many movies in my lifetime. As the story unfolds, the heroine and hero must fit my stereotypes to maintain my interest.

I think of a movie I saw several years ago, “The Heat.” It starred Sandra Bullock as a tall, slender FBI agent and Melissa McCarthy as a chubby, foul-mouthed, Boston cop. The two worked together to take down a drug lord. My mind would never have accepted the characters if their roles had been reversed.

When men are involved, the hero is usually tall, dark and handsome–never short, bald and dumpy. He has a distinctive name such as Rhett, Lance or Pierce and not Tom, Dick or harry.

It isn’t just pretend-people that must fit stereotypes but society tries to apply the same restrictions on everyone. While I was growing up, I was a tomboy, an energetic and sometimes boisterous girl who liked wearing overalls every day and whose behavior was considered more typical of fellows. I preferred batting a softball and running with the guys instead of wearing a skirt while sitting to play jacks with the gals.

When I became a bride in 1959, a married woman was expected to be a fulltime wife and mother. The husband was the breadwinner who went to work to support his family. I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied with that role after our three kids were in school. As a compromise, I had the opportunity to be a freelance journalist working from home writing articles for area newspapers and national magazines.

When I attended writers’ workshops during the summer to enhance my skills, everyone dressed casually, usually shorts and a loose-fitting shirt. It was surprising to learn the person I was sitting beside and visiting with had a day job as a pastor or a psychologist. He or she didn’t look like my mental picture of a member of that profession.

When you meet a person do you attempt to pigeonhole them?

My identity is who, deep down, I think of myself–not how others see me. I’ve had many titles during my lifetime. People have asked me, “Are you Alex or Bobbie Tschabold’s daughter?” Later, it has been, “Oh, you’re Ken’s wife,” or aren’t you Lisa’s mother or Kurt’s mother? One day I was shopping in a Rockford store and heard a woman’s voice ring out, “Hi, Mary’s friend. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” I had recently met the preacher’s wife when we ate lunch with our mutual friend.

For forty-six years, I served as Durand’s Town Clerk but I considered that just an enjoyable, part-time job. Like all of the township officials in the state, I received a complimentary, monthly magazine that included a column addressed to clerks written by a woman who apparently thought of the post as part of her identity.

I am the matriarch of a police family. Ken and I are fortunate that our family has remained in the area and followed the tradition of law and order begun by Ken’s dad, Rolland, who was a Freeport motorcycle officer in the 1930s before he was married. Ken and our son, Kurt, are retired from the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police; our daughter, Lisa, is retired from the Illinois State Police; our grandson, Jacob, is a cop with the Rockford Police Department and our granddaughter, Katelyn, is an assistant prosecutor with the Winnebago County State’s Attorney Office. I’ve learned to juggle the 24/7 work times and sleeping hours so that we could all get together to celebrate special occasions and holidays.

I also consider myself a journalist. Instead of education and experience, I entered the writing world 55 years ago through the backdoor of learn-by-doing. As a freelancer, I’ve sold articles to area newspapers and national magazines. Three years ago, Adelaide Books published my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” the story of our seven-year courtship in the 1950s. I enjoy writing nonfiction including my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com. but I never had a desire to write fiction.

What makes up your identity?

We’re bombarded by TV ads including heart-wrenching pictures soliciting just $19 a month to help children with cancer or abused dogs. At least once a week, we receive mail asking for a donation to a worthy cause.

The one that really bugs me is when I’m checking out at a store and the clerk at the cash register asks if I want to donate to —–. Whoever is behind that solicitation is counting on my not having the nerve to say no, but saying no is one of my strong points.

I’m reminded of years ago when our granddaughter was little, Katelyn said, “Grandma, don’t say no, say I’ll think about it.” I found early in my parenting experience it’s easy to change a no to yes if circumstances change but changing a yes to no is nearly impossible because of the flak.

Ken and I have reasons behind our giving to certain national causes. We’re not wealthy enough to support all of them. We have evaluated which ones we’ll support and the amount we’ll donate. We are old people hoping our money lasts as long as we do–they’re not frivolous decisions. That’s why I resent the attempt to guilt me into a donation, no matter how small it might be.

When we contribute to a neighbor going through a trying time, whether we’re acquainted or not, we know the check we write will be used for daily expenses; not an administrator’s over-blown salary.

Our family has been the recipient of our community’s generosity. During the early years of our marriage, we accrued a pile of doctor and hospital bills. It was before medical insurance was provided as a benefit for many jobs. A couple of local organizations raised cash to help tide us over the rough period. Our family physician had an independent practice instead of being part of a large organization. He wrote “no charge” on most bills for follow-up visits. The local merchants were aware of our plight and very patient with our slow payment for necessities such as fuel oil for our furnace in the winter time. Generosity like that is never forgotten.

How do you determine your charitable giving?

There’s something about music that clings to my brain. Sometimes, while riding in the truck with my husband, Ken, I hear a classic, country song on the radio that reminds me of a time years ago. For example, my childhood, cowboy hero, Gene Autry, singing “Be Honest with Me.” I enjoy its repeating over and over again in my head.

Lately, I’ve been muting the extraordinarily, choreographed, TV commercial for a prescription drug used for type 2 diabetes. I’m trying to avoid that music replaying in my mind.

It’s the proliferation of TV ads for prescription drugs that gets under my skin. The pills and shots are expensive–I wonder how much of their price goes for advertising. After hearing the side effects enumerated, I think the condition must be dreadful to make a person consider taking the medication to relieve it.

I dislike their audacity, “Ask your doctor.” I consult a physician for his judgment coming from a combination of his education, experience and expertise. I’m not looking for him to rubber stamp my TV and internet knowledge.

For several years, jingles were prevalent in TV ads but I hadn’t noticed any lately. Many of the bygone tunes such as the Hamm’s beer commercial, “From the land of sky-blue waters,” or “I wish I was an Oscar Mayer Wiener” are still etched in my memory.

Apparently. writing the little rhymes for TV was quite lucrative. When I watched the sitcom, “Two and a Half Men,” from 2003 – 2015, Charlie, who owned a Malibu beachfront house, was a piano player who made his fortune as a jingle writer.

Some of the early TV sponsors such as cigarettes have been banned because they’re hazardous to our health. Many of the prevalent advertisers seem to be drugs and attorneys who file class action lawsuits for people who have been harmed.

Do you pay attention to TV ads?

I just bought a lifetime supply of erasers. I didn’t intend to–I just wanted one but the Ticonderoga erasers on display at our local grocery store came six to a package for $2.49. My heirs can count on an eraser as part of their legacy.

I use an eraser daily because I enjoy working the crossword, sudoku and cryptoquote printed in the newspaper. I’m not smart enough to do the puzzles in ink–I have to make corrections to my pencil work.

My old eraser lasted for many years until it was a nubbin that I could barely hold on to. I was raised by parents who lived through the Great Depression and World War II. Anything they had wasn’t easily replaced. Their rule was use it up completely before buying new.

Some things I don’t mind spending money for. When I have shopping to do in the city, I take advantage of the situation and enjoy lunch out in a restaurant–hey, I’m worth it because I cook most of our meals.

When I compare costs today to years ago, it’s hard to believe I could have a hamburger and a malt for fifty cents in a Durand restaurant when I was a senior in high school. Mom let me enjoy the treat once in a while instead of my usual sack lunch.

Salaries were quite different, too. After graduation in 1955, I went to work in Rockford with three other clerks in the ASC Office, a local branch of the United States Department of Agriculture. My starting pay was $1.25 per hour. Our boss, the manager, was paid an annual salary of $5,000. which was considered good pay, especially for a woman.

I have worked at not showing my alarm at the price increase when I’m buying something such as a pair of shoes, which doesn’t need to be done very often.

When it comes to spending your money, are you a tightwad, a lavish spender or like me, somewhere in between?

One of the first things I do when I get up in the morning is check the date and the day of the week, today is July 10th, Wednesday. The date rang a bell in my brain, but it took me a moment to remember what it signified–it’s the birthday of my old friend, Gloria. I no longer send a birthday card because those who are in heaven have no mailing address but they continue to live in my memories.

Gloria and I were a year apart when we attended the small high school in Durand so we knew one another but didn’t become close friends until we married. Our husbands, Wayne and Ken, had been best buddies since they began first grade together. Wayne was best man at our wedding.

The best vacation I ever had that wasn’t with my family was in 2000 when Gloria and I spent two weeks in Kauai, Hawaii, visiting our mutual friend, Susan. A trip to Hawaii wasn’t even on my bucket list because I thought it would be an impossibility but Ken was able to stay with our daughter, Linda, so I could get away. Gloria worked for United Airlines and I got a special lower rate accompanying her on the plane. On our way back to California, she scored two seats in first class–an area I never would have been able to enjoy on my own.

Gloria and I shared good times and not-so-good times. I miss the couple who were our friends for a lifetime.

I never know when a memory will pop up. On the Fourth of July, when it was fireworks time, I remembered the year when our son, Kurt, was four years old. Daddy was working; the kids and I walked down to the school grounds to claim a spot to watch the extravaganza. Our three kids sat with my parents and I joined some friends on their blanket spread across the grass. As dusk was settling in and the show was about to start, Dad walked the boy to me. “He wants Mommie,” he said and left. It’s the only time I remember Grandpa sounding disgusted with his grandson.

Yesterday, I fixed chicken thighs for supper. I’m glad we can now buy only the parts of a chicken we want to eat instead of a whole chicken. I thought of the time Ken and I were newlyweds and invited his Grandma Stilwell and her husband Harley, for Sunday dinner. I had a lot to learn as a housewife, but I thought I was a good cook. To make the meal special, I had prepared only the meaty parts of two chickens. I was dumbfounded when Harley, an out-spoken fellow, asked, “Didn’t this chicken have any backs?” I didn’t realize some people preferred the bony parts of a chicken.

I have a mountain of remembrances. For a few moments, I travel back in time and enjoy reliving one of them.

What are some of your favorite memories?

Tomorrow is the 4th of July, a holiday to celebrate our freedom . As citizens of the U.S.A., we’re each free to choose but not free to alter the consequences of our decisions. Every day we make multiple decisions–most are inconsequential but others change the direction of our li8ves. Sometimes we don’t recognize the difference at the time.

I’m reminded of Ken’s navy days in the 1950s when he was coming home on a thirty-day leave. He was wearing his uniform and had his plane ticket in hand waiting for his flight to be called at a California airport when another sailor approached him. The young man said his mother was dying and he wanted to trade his ticket for a later flight for Ken’s earlier one to get home to Chicago as soon as possible. Ken switched. When my boyfriend landed at O’Hare, he learned that the previous flight he should have been aboard crashed in the Grand Canyon killing all passengers and crew.

On a typical day, we don’t realize how much we take our freedom for granted. The sanctity of our own home is one of them. No one is allowed on our property unless we invite them. If we read a morning newspaper or watch a morning TV news show, we’re taking advantage of freedom of the press. Enjoying our freedom to assemble, we gather with other on-lookers to watch a parade. A few police officers are on hand to keep order. On the way home, we pass a group of protestors but ignore them.

As citizens, we vote in free elections to decide who will be our leaders from local to national government. These representatives enact our laws. If we disobey a rule such as driving faster than the speed limit, we risk a reprimand called a traffic ticket.

I can determine my hairstyle and the clothing I wear to go anywhere I please. It may not be wise for this old woman to drive some places alone after dark, but it is my decision.

You’re able to read my writing because we each had access to a free public education through high school.

Can you count the freedoms you enjoy daily?

I would never be chosen as a contestant on a TV game show because I don’t jump for joy when I’m elated. I’m not a fan of the genre, but sometimes, I happen across one of the programs when I tune in early for something I want to watch. It seems the participants hop up and down whenever they win. Whether I’m happy or sad or somewhere in between, I don’t usually exhibit my emotions in public.

I had a chance to discuss this quirk with our children when they were grade-schoolers and Ken’s grandfather died after a long and productive life. My husband and I thought our kids were old enough to attend the evening visitation with us. Beforehand, I sat down with the three of them to explain that you can’t measure another person’s grief by the tears you see them shed. Some people show their emotions openly but others keep them inside. There Isn’t a right way or wrong way when it comes to personal feelings.

In bygone days, there were social customs about mourning.
The family members wore black for the funeral. The spouse spent a year grieving the loss of a partner. Today, there are no rules. Instead of a traditional visitation and funeral, some are opting for cremation and a celebration of life.

All phases of life are treated more openly. While I was little, only a few older ladies would give me a hug. Now, I find myself receiving an embrace from most acquaintances when we meet and say good-bye. I force myself to return the gesture of friendship but it still doesn’t feel natural to me.

Conversation is more informal. Growing up, I used Mr. and Mrs. for all adults. Our kids’ friends called us Ken and Lolita. It’s the same when I visit a doctor’s office. My records include a note about how to pronounce my first name although I continue to say doctor and use his last name.

Do you express your emotions openly or keep most of them inside except when you’re alone?

Tomorrow will be the first day of summer. One of the perks of the season that I miss, the screened-in porch that was part of the house on the farm where I grew up.

My parents were always renters–never owners. When we moved onto the farm located northwest of Durand on March 1, 1947, we had four landlords because the original owner, Uncle Ole, had died and left the acreage to his middle-aged, nieces and nephews. A lot of updating was needed in the house. Professional craftsmen added a bathroom and a kitchen with hot and cold running water, our first taste of modern plumbing.

The front porch needed new screens. When school was out in June, one of the ladies, Nellie, an old-maid, elementary teacher, handled that job. She was a tall, friendly woman who had a well-padded frame that filled out the bib overalls she wore over a short-sleeved blouse. She welcomed this nine-year-old girl who had nothing to do but watch her wield tools like a carpenter. She laid the old, wooden frames across saw-horses and repainted them black. The next day, she measured out the metal screening and cut it with tin snips. To hold the edges in place, she pounded small nails through the narrow laths that fit the frames.

That porch was the ideal place to enjoy warm weather. It was on the east side of the two-story house out of the hot, afternoon sun. The structure had a roof so it could be used when it was raining unless a wind was blowing the shower about. At the end of the day, we could sit out there and not be bothered by mosquitoes or other bugs. Mom often read the daily newspaper while it was still light. Dad moved a cot out there to sleep on during hot nights. When I came home from a date with Kenny, I shut the door softly and tiptoed across the wooden floor so I didn’t wake my father.

We no longer have porches–we have decks, which have no roofs and are open to all the flying insects.

Are there amenities no longer popular that you miss?