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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?

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?