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Last week we celebrated Ken’s ninetieth birthday. On Sunday evening, our family gathered at The Butterfly near Beloit, Wisconsin, for supper followed by Watergate Cake, candles and singing “Happy Birthday” at our house.

Saturday, his actual birthday, the two of us planned to go to Big O’s on the Hollow near Freeport, Illinois. Instead, an ambulance took Ken to the Emergency Room in Monroe, Wisconsin. He then was transferred to St. Mary’s Hospital in Madison, Wisconsin. A hiatal hernia was causing problems. Yesterday, he came home.

I’ve been thinking about the surprise parties we had for his fiftieth and seventieth birthdays. I think my husband is the only person who asked for a surprise party and then was shocked when one materialized. After we had attended a surprise party for his longtime friend, Wayne, who turned fifty October 19th, I asked my husband how he wanted to acknowledge his half-a-century birthday, which was coming up November 8th. He mumbled, “I’d really like a surprise party like Wayne’s.” I assured him it was too late to plan a party. After he left for work, I started phoning our closest friends and was assured they were free to join us. As a ruse, his brother, Tom, called to invite the two of us to go to supper in New Glarus, Wisconsin, on the designated date.

The night of Ken’s birthday, Tom and his wife, Jan, arrived at our house a little early so we could enjoy a celebratory drink before the sitter for our daughter, Linda, arrived. When there was a knock on the door, the birthday boy went to let in the caretaker but instead was greeted by his friends yelling, “Surprise.”

Twenty years later, the ruse was our grandson, Jacob, had a Cub Scout event at the Legion Hall. When we walked into the building, a large group of friends and relatives echoed, “Surprise.”

So many of those people are gone but it’s fun to reminisce. The good times live on in our photos and memories. I’m thankful for our family to continue enjoying a party.

How do you celebrate your birthday?

Next Tuesday is Veterans Day, a time to recognize all veterans who have honorably served our country. If you see a man or woman wearing a tee shirt or cap denoting a veteran, it’s a good chance to voice your gratitude for the person devoting a slice of their young life to guaranteeing your freedom.

The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in remembrance of the ending of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. At the time, it was known as “the war to end all wars.” If only that proved true.

The Durand American Legion Gold Star Post 676 has recently installed street signs honoring Durand Gold Star Veterans at six locations in the village where the youngsters grew up. These aren’t just faceless names–the red, white and blue designations include photos of the young men in uniform. If you haven’t seen all of these honorariums, now might be a good time to take a ride around town.

Older generations remember the draft, which allowed the country to conscript the needed young men to serve in the Army. When a young male celebrated his eighteenth birthday, he had to register with the Selective Service System, an independent federal agency, that administers the program. Since 1973, the United States military has relied on an all-volunteer force but all young men still have to register in case it becomes necessary for Congress to reinstitute the draft.

It’s easy to assume that there will always be enough young people available to serve our country, but during the past decade, more Americans have been having an increasingly difficult time meeting military standards for enlistment. The Future Soldiers Preparatory Course, a ninety-day program that enables candidates to meet the service’s physical standards and academic standards before reporting for traditional basic training. The army gained 13,200 recruits through this route in 2024.

After World War II (1939 – 1945), which older folks like me remember, every family had at least one member who served our country. We were surrounded by veterans.

Recently, Air Force Gen. Paul J. Selva said only one percent of our population will wear the uniform of this nation in any of the incarnations–soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, active Guard or Reserve.

Do you know a veteran?

I don’t know if worry is a part of some people’s DNA or if it’s just a habit learned over time. When I say I don’t worry, people look at me like I’m the grandmother of Alfred E. Neuman, the fictional, gap-toothed, red-haired, cover boy for the 1950s humor magazine, MAD. His motto was, “What, me worry?”

During our first seven years of marriage, Ken was a farmer and so were most of our friends. In the fall of 1966, when he announced he was going to become a Winnebago County Sheriff’s Deputy, the first thing the other wives asked me was, “Won’t you be worried all the time?”

I was ready with my surprising answer, “Farming is considered more dangerous than police work.” The statistics were a shock to me, too. I had always lived in the country and felt safe.

Two of our children grew up to follow in their father’s duty shoe footsteps. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first women to join the Illinois State Troopers, followed two years later by our son, Kurt, who also became a cop. Some people were sure that three police officers in the family would set my nerves on edge.

My philosophy is, “If my worrying would keep my family safe, I would wear a string of worry beads around my neck, but I know it wouldn’t make a bit of difference–just ruin my days.” I love my family, but I don’t confuse love with worry.

I believe each of us should do the work we feel is our calling. When our grandson, Jacob, joined the Rockford Police Department, he became the fourth generation of Ditzlers to pin a badge over his heart. Ken’s father, Rolland, was a motorcycle cop in Freeport while he was a single man in the 1930s.

Are you a worrier?

My choice of social media is Facebook. Sometimes I think it’s just a good way to waste time. Then again, it allows me to keep track of friends, family and people I know who also subscribe. I take news items with a grain of salt and check them with another source.

Through the years, folks have entered and left my life. Social media has given me a chance to reconnect with some of those people that I knew along the way but for various reasons, we drifted apart. Others, I have met for a brief period while we attended an event. I would love to meet them for a cup of coffee or lunch but we live too far apart for that to happen.

I never agree with any of my friends on everything, which I think would be boring. I know each of us probably won’t change our opinions. When I disagree with a viewpoint someone expresses, I consider their viewpoint and just move on. I see no point in arguing on Facebook.

Sometimes it allows me to start my day with a good laugh.

I can keep track of current news such as strawberry season with the farms’ Facebook pages. When the fields I patronize are thirty or more miles away, this saves me making unnecessary trips such as alerting me that one is sold out of ready-picked berries by 9:00 a.m.

The pictures keep me up-to-date on what people currently look like. I tend to expect everyone to continue to look the same as the last time I saw them. I’d never imagine the little boy who use to live next door as a middle-aged man with a beard.

It’s been surprising how many people have the same name even when I think it’s not that common. I’ve had to check several entries to find the person I know. A lot of the women include both their single and married name so that makes it easier to find old girlfriends.

Do you take part with social media?

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?