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I can’t shrug my shoulders and say, “I don’t know what to do.” I can make detailed plans, but I need some way to follow through with them.

This blog is one motivation in my life. It gives me something to do when I sit down at my computer each morning. For years, I’ve reserved mornings for writing. It began when I was a freelance journalist and taking care of our oldest daughter, Linda, who was developmentally different and stayed at home. Morning chores out of the way by nine a.m., the two of us would walk the six blocks to get our mail at the post office. Then, I could work while she was quiet until the noon whistle blew. With my blog always in the back of my mind, I’m more aware of the goings on in my life. From time to time, I think, hey, that could be a subject for a blog. The word I’ve been looking for may pop up at an odd moment.

It’s things like cleaning the refrigerator that I keep putting off. Every time I’m preparing a meal, I think I should do something about this but that’s as far as it goes. The more I think about it, the Nike shoe company’s iconic, marketing slogan, “Just do it,” comes to mind. Tomorrow or the next day isn’t going to be better than today. I’m not going to suddenly wake-up feeling 45-years-old again. I should count my blessings and use the abilities I still have. Some duties, I can break down into smaller pieces such as do the frig door storage area one day and the main area another.

I’ve had to admit that some tasks have become more than I can handle. I’ve hired a cleaning service–I can no longer vacuum and mop. I don’t want to give up hosting holiday dinners, so our daughter, Lisa, helps me with the preparations.

How do you motivate yourself to do unpleasant jobs?

Since I’ve gotten older, I realize how heavy things have become. These changes don’t happen overnight, but they’re gradual enough that it often takes a specific event to notice them. Recently, I made a trip to the grocery store. After I returned home and carried the items one plastic bag at a time from the car into the kitchen and set them on the table, I was putting the foodstuffs away. I grabbed a gallon of milk off the table to place it in the refrigerator. The added weight, threw me off balance and I fell. Afterwards, I was curious how much a gallon of milk weighed. It registered 8 pounds 14 ounces on our kitchen scales. That’s probably the heaviest thing I lift regularly. I make sure my feet are firmly planted before I pick up the jug.

I’ve never lifted weights but growing up a farm girl, I’ve always felt strong and could heft most things in the household. Now, I carry the filled 2 1/2 quart casserole dish carefully to make sure I don’t drop it.

After stirring up a cake in my large mixing bowl, I start putting it in the 9 x 13 baking pan, one large spoonful at a time. When I’m about half done, I can hold the bowl up and scrape the rest of the batter out of it.

It’s all I can do to open some entrance doors to a large building. People who hold a door open for me don’t realize they’re doing more than a common courtesy.

I have trouble with those over-the-counter pill bottles that contain pain relievers or allergy remedies and a lid that says hold down and turn. It may take me several tries to hold down firm enough. The boxes with every pill in a separate little pocket require strong fingers to release one.

Do you have any tricks to by-pass a problem that requires strength?

Markings designating six-feet intervals remain on the grocery store floor, left-over from the COVID 19 pandemic when shoppers were urged not to get close to one another. They made me think about how everyone has personal and emotional space, the distance maintained to feel comfortable and secure during social encounters.

It reminds me of writers’ seminars I’ve attended. One of the objectives of the gatherings is for people to meet others who enjoy the same profession or pastime. We all wear comfortable summer clothes so there’s no hint of who we are in our everyday lives. It’s a time I’m just Lolita instead of my husband’s wife or our children’s mother. Everyone is friendly and there’s no lack of subjects to talk about with strangers.

It amazes me that when I enter a large room, which is filled with chairs for all who will be attending the lecture, the early entrants sit down leaving an empty spot between themselves and the person already seated. It seems that although everyone chats, it’s done from a distance. As the room fills with people, the latecomers are forced to crawl over legs and feet to claim a vacancy. I began to wonder why leave a space to be filled later? I adopted the habit of sitting down beside a person–I’ve received many startled looks

One morning, a man and I were the first for breakfast in the college cafeteria where the symposium was being held. He’d been there before and gave me a run-down of the procedure. I thanked him. When I had filled my plate, no one had joined us two early-birds. I sat down at his table for four so we could visit while we ate. He immediately started telling me about his wife. To quash any anxieties he had that I was flirting, I countered with tales about my husband. The room soon filled with people and two more joined us.

Do you ever feel someone is invading your space?

During my life, I’ve acquired many skills. When I was four years old, my parents bought a pony for me to ride. After I out-grew Millie, I spent my teenage years straddling our horse, Mickey. While I was in school, I did a pretty good job of playing softball. During the time our kids were small, I made my own clothes and some of theirs. I quit sewing when I became a reporter. As a mother, I didn’t have time to do both.

Does all expertise fall in the same category of the idiom, “it’s like riding a bike,” commonly used to describe competence once learned, is never forgotten even after a long period of inactivity? A few years ago, I planned on attending the National Federation of Press Women conference. It required donning a long dress for the formal, Saturday night awards dinner. It seemed like a waste of money to buy the necessary outfit to wear once. As I looked over my wardrobe, I decided one of my tops would work if I had a floor length, navy-blue skirt. I could make the garment quicker than shopping stores trying to find one. Although it had been years since I sewed, I hadn’t forgotten how but I lacked the finesse.

One of the skills I regret not learning is to swim–it always looked like such fun. During the summer while I was growing up, I longed to stop at the public pool on Kilburn Avenue when we drove into Rockford. Dad kiboshed that idea with, “Would you get into the bathtub with others?”

When I was dating Ken, who could swim, we would go to a lake on a hot, Sunday afternoon. He was considerate of me and only played in the shallow water to cool off. We enjoyed lying side by side on a blanket spread on the sandy beach.

While Ken was in the navy, my cousin, Doris, tried to teach me to swim one Sunday afternoon when we visited our mothers’ Aunt Maggie and Uncle Martin at Lake Koshkonong. I guess it was too little too late. I could do the Deadman’s Float but when I started moving my arms and legs, I sank.

As parents often do, I made sure our three children learned to swim by making weekly trips for lessons at the YWCA in Rockford. When we took a traveling vacation with our pick-up camper during the summer, I always looked for campgrounds with pools. The kids could burn some of the energy that had built up while they spent the day riding.

Do you ever wonder if you could still master any of the skills you once had?

During the summer, the Ditzlers dig out a relic–the family reunion, a meeting of the descendants of my husband’s grandfather, Eugene Ditzler, who spent most of his life as proprietor of the drugstore in the village of Davis. He was married twice. His first wife, Minnie, died while their children, Irene and Rolland, were growing up. His second wife, Henrietta, was the mother of Robert and also Minnie’s younger sister. In those days, when a woman died leaving the man with children to raise, he often married another one of her family.

Although Grandpa loved all his great-grandchildren, he was especially pleased when our son, Kurt, was born. At last, there was a boy to carry on the family name. Ken and his younger brother, Tom, have become the oldest Ditzler men in the clan.

When I was a kid, family reunions were a common warm weather event. It was a once-a-year time to see distant cousins and observe how people had changed–children matured, some adults grew fat, and the old might have “slipped a little.”

Each family had their designated Sunday, the only day of the week farmers socialized. Everyone arrived to eat dinner at noon so the festivities would be finished late in the afternoon to allow attendees to return home by chore time. Food was plentiful and tasty because every woman brought her favorite dish-to-pass.

My dad’s family, the Tschabolds, always met on the last Sunday in June at cousin Johnny’s Wisconsin farm. Dad said his kin liked to show off his modern, dairy set-up, but the gathering included a keg of beer, which wasn’t allowed in public forest preserves or parks. A few relatives came from Arkansas and Minnesota, but most lived in the area.

In families, first names were used generation after generation. At our gathering, stand up and shout, “Margaret,” and several females of different ages would answer.

I never did figure out how many brothers my grandfather had. Sometimes, Dad would refer to his uncles using monikers including Jug, Pork or Bean, and then again he said given names such as Will, Herman or Emil.

Do you attend any family reunions?

Friday is the 4th of July–a time for appreciating our freedoms. One thing that we often take for granted is the sanctity of our homes. As I grow older, I think more about how grateful I am to live in our own abode with my husband, Ken. When I return from a vacation or a grueling day out and about, I sigh with relief when I walk through our door again. I cast off the public clothes and shoes I’m wearing and don a comfortable leisure outfit. We lock our doors. No one enters unless we invite them.

When I was nineteen, legally an adult, I complained my parents were too controlling. They responded with the saying, “You put your feet under our table, you abide by our rules.” I had an office job in Rockford and daydreamed about moving out on my own. I made the change, but not in the manner I fantasized. I spent five months living in a tuberculosis sanitarium. The institution was well-run. I had a room to myself but my day was laid out for me. I had no choice in the time I arose in the morning, the meals I ate and when they were served, one to two in the afternoon was naptime and all patients went to bed at ten p.m. The hours family and friends could visit me were limited. It surprised me how excited I was to return home.

Mentally, home is where many of my memories reside. My parents rented farms instead of owning the property. Only one of the five places I lived while growing up remains standing and my parents have been gone for many years. Still, I remember the rooms in the houses, the barns and the life our family led when we resided there. Those flashbacks are joined by remembrances of our own family created in the two places we have lived.

Do you appreciate the freedom of living where you call home?

The word glass evokes a mental picture of my wineglass that I handle carefully because it would shatter if I dropped it, but there are several forms of glass.

There are the baking dishes that I slide into the oven and pull out a thirteen-by-nine devil’s food cake or a meat loaf for supper. Pyrex is a brand introduced by Corning Inc., in 1915, initially for a line of clear, low-thermal-expansion borosilicate glass used for laboratory glassware and kitchenware. It was later expanded in the 1930s to include kitchenware products made of soda-lime glass and other materials. Its name has become famous for making rectangular roasters.

While I was stirring the recipes up, I used a Pyrex measuring cup featuring gradations in both U.S. and metric units to put in the proper amount of ingredients.

If you’re like us, you eat your meals from Corelle tableware. I like it much better than the plastic set of dishes I obtained with Green Stamps, a grocery store premium, when our kids were growing up. It comes in many patterns, is light weight and doesn’t chip easily like the cheap, tableware we had when we were first married, but it does break. I still have remnants of our first set. I got curious about what the Corelle was made of. A little research told me it’s Vitelli, a tempered glass product consisting of two types of glass laminated into three layers. It was introduced by Corning Glass Works in 1970, but it is now manufactured and sold by Corelle Brands. A couple of my casserole dishes are also Corelle.

Sometimes plastic has taken the place of glass but we still refer to the items as glass. The tumblers I put on the table for water or milk are nearly unbreakable. Saves replacing often as the glass beverage holders broke easily.

Do you know more about glass now than you did?

A week ago, I was looking forward to spending the afternoon with two of my oldest friends, Janice and Joyce, plus a writing group. After eating a breakfast of an English muffin, orange juice and coffee, my stomach was upset. I didn’t understand why–I’d had nothing unusual but I would remain close to the bathroom. I called Joyce to say that I would not be attending our planned meeting. Because she carried her cell phone, I reached her at a rehab facility where she was convalescing after being hospitalized. In notifying people, she had missed me–there would be no meeting. I realized, I should have called to verify the day before setting out on a fifty-mile drive. I would have been irate if I’d reached her home, knocked on the door and nobody was there.

I met the sisters when we were grade-schoolers attending country, one-roomers. Janice and I took weekly accordion lessons from Dallas, a dark-haired, sixteen-year-old fellow who worked at Voight Music Center in Beloit, Wisconsin. Girls and boys of that era flocked to studios with hopes of emulating Dick Contino, an eighteen-year-old, California squeeze-box player who became famous after winning a nationwide talent contest that was broadcast to millions of people listening to their radios.

While our farmer fathers sat waiting for their budding musicians, they chatted and formed a friendship that soon included their families. I envied Janice having a sister just one grade ahead of her. They traded clothes, which I thought was neat. The girls and I were never classmates but we attended similar, small high school in different towns. We confided secrets. Our conversations included problems maturing from tomboys to ’50s young ladies, tales of current boyfriends and dreams for our futures.

Through the years, our comradery has ebbed and flowed as our lives have taken us in different directions. Today, we are older women who continue to love writing. We live about fifty miles apart so get-togethers are few and far between although each of us still drives her own car.

Was my stomach upset just a coincidence or was God working in my life? Many times, I’ve wondered the same thing but I’ll never know the answer. For years, I have stood in church and recited the Apostles’ Creed, which begins, “I believe in God…” but I have trouble accepting that He would be involved in my day-to-day activities with such big things vying for His concern.

Do you ever wonder if happenings are just a coincidence?

Sunday, June 15th, is Father’s Day. I knew what my father did for a living because he was a farmer and was at work when he walked out of the house through the back door. I was fortunate to spend a lot of time with him because my mother worked beside him most of the time so as an only child, I was there, too.

On the family farm. there were child-sized jobs. I remember one of my tasks during the summer fly season when Dad was milking cows by hand. He would have me hold on to a cow’s tail so she couldn’t switch him in the face while he was seated beside her. I felt so proud standing there on the walkway ’cause I was helping Dad.

As I grew older, I chose cleaning the manure from the barn gutters with Dad instead of dusting furniture in the house with Mom.

It was always the three of us–we worked together and played together. I went along to visit friends, attend a public card party at a nearby Grange Hall or a Saturday night dance at an area ballroom.

Dad was an ideal model when I chose a husband. I thought it amusing that he seemed more nervous than I was when he walked me down the church aisle at my wedding. At the time, I didn’t realize it was the end of an era for him–he went from being the number one man in my life to number two after my new husband.

My dad was a patient grandfather. Our three kids spent a lot of time at the farm because they were the only grandchildren and my folks were their only grandparents. Dad always answered the kid’s questions even if it was just “Why?”

A dairy farmer doesn’t have a day off but he doesn’t have a boss breathing down his neck either. Sometimes, he rearranged his workload to accommodate fun things he wanted to do with his family.

What kind of a relationship did you have with your dad?

Warmer weather has me thinking about rides with the top down on our 1965 Plymouth convertible. Lunch is always our destination–we’re familiar with restaurants within 100 miles in each direction.

While I was growing up, going for a Sunday drive was often our weekly recreation. Sometimes, Dad just turned this way and that at an intersection. He never got lost because eventually he’d come to a familiar highway.

Rural roads sometimes were gravel or one-lane blacktop. They didn’t have names except in Wisconsin where county roads were designated with a letter. We might come across two or three C’s if we traveled from one jurisdiction to another.

My folks viewed the crops along the way. Comments were made on the hay mowed and raked, the combining of oats or picking corn. If we went south, they were a little ahead of ours–those to the north, a little behind. They also commented on the farms such as those that appeared prosperous with a blue Harvestore silo.

Sitting alone in the back seat, I noted the animals in the pastures, mostly herds of black and white Holstein milk cows or a few bunches of beef cattle, which were black Angus or while-faced, red Herefords. Most farms had at least a team of horses grazing. Once in a while, I’d see a flock of sheep or goats.

When a friend moved to another neighborhood, we’d find their new home. Directions were vague such as go east from the village, turn left at the schoolhouse and it’s the third place on the right. Farmers all put their names on their mail boxes so that was our guide. We didn’t visit the people–just saw where they lived and compared the new place to the old.

Before returning home, we’d always top at a root beer stand or an ice cream parlor for a treat.

Whenever I happen across a detour today, the roads usually have a familiar look thanks to the rides we took while I was growing up,

Do you ever just go for a ride?