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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?

Sunday will be Father’s Day, a time to honor the men who have enriched our lives. I would like to pay tribute to four fellows who have been great fathers–my dad, Alex; my father-in-law, Rolland; my husband, Ken, and our son, Kurt. These guys have generously given their love, time and support to their sons and daughters. It leaves a lasting impression–our family continues to observe the old-fashion virtues including trust, honesty and treating others as you want to be treated.

My dad was a dairy farmer so every day was ‘take your daughter to work’. I spent many hours in the cowbarn with him. We shared a love of animals and a fascination with the Old West. During evening milking, the barn radio was turned up as loud as it would go so we didn’t miss a word of our favorite program, “The Lone Ranger.” Dad continued to be a good example of how a man treats his family when he became a father-in-law and a grandfather.

My husband owes his male parent for many things. Ken has said his dad emphasized give a firm handshake when you meet others. A lot of the lessons weren’t pointed out–they just happened. Ken inherited his father’s mechanical ability, honed those skills helping his dad fix things and continues to keep our household running smoothly. I benefited when Rolland became my father-in-law and a grand father to our two girls.

Sadly, both of our fathers were taken from us too soon. Rolland was 55 when he was killed in a car crash. He missed meeting our son, Kurt, who was born the following spring. Alex succumbed to a heart attack when he was 63.

Every generation has benefitted from these men whether they spent time together or not. For example, law enforcement has become a family tradition beginning when Rolland was a motorcycle cop in Freeport during the 1930s. Ken joined the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police during the 1960s followed by Kurt in the 1980s. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first female Illinois troopers at the same time. Today, our grandson, Jacob, is a member of the Rockford Police Department and our granddaughter, Katelyn, is an assistant prosecutor in the Winnebago County State’s Attorney’s office. Each of them fulfills an innate desire to help others.

How have generations of fathers influenced your family?

Going by TV ads, stink appears to be a big societal problem. A woman recently invented an all-body deodorant that can be used on arm pits, private parts, feet and anyplace in between to make a person odor-free for 72 hours. She followed the ladies’ version with one especially for gentlemen and is hawking both with commercials. I’ve noticed some of the established brands of underarm deodorant are jumping on the bandwagon and also offering an all-body spray or cream.

Growing up with allergies while living on a farm, I’ve been especially sensitive to smells. It wasn’t until I was an adult that antihistamines came on the market. Up until that time, I just blew my nose a lot and felt like I was keeping Kleenex in business.

During the first seven years of our marriage, Ken was a farmer. Only a woven wire fence separated our backyard from the pig lot. A spring rain intensified that stench especially when the wind was from the north.

When our family moved from the farm into the village of Durand, I assumed we were leaving foul odors behind until the public works crew used tar to resurface our street. I thought that was worse than the hogs had ever been.

For as long as I can remember, there have been room deodorizers and people have burned incense or candles to add a pleasant aroma to the inside of their homes. There are various products on the market to add to our laundry to accomplish the same thing. Not only do we want our dirty clothes washed, they must also smell clean when they come out of the dryer. Some of us remember our sheets and pillow cases after they were dried on an outdoor clothesline in the sun and breeze. Now, packaged products seek to mimic it.

What products do you buy to mask or eliminate unwanted odors?

Last month, Ken and I celebrated our 65th wedding anniversary. I am fortunate to still be in contact with several women who have been my cronies since before Kenny became my boyfriend in high school. At that time, we girls all lived on family, dairy farms so we had a lot in common. As teenagers do, we exchanged confidences about the guys we were dating.

When my contemporaries and I were graduating seniors, we had no clue about where our adult lives might take us. I have stayed in the Durand community, become the matriarch of a police family and a journalist. Some of my chums moved away for marriage or employment but then returned and we reunited.

Through the years, we didn’t always take time to stay in contact with everyone we knew. It may be necessary to fill in the gaps in our relationships that occurred while we were each busy with our own families and activities.

All of us have coped with marriages, births, divorces, serious illnesses and deaths. We have changed but there remains that inner something that brought us together in the first place. It’s a treat to chat with someone my age who is looking forward as we as “remembering when…”

We may surreptitiously make comparisons about how each of us is handling old age. As octogenarians, we have said final good-byes to many of our cohorts. My twenty-three DHS classmates no longer gather for an annual reunion because so many have died or are in poor health and no longer able to attend.

I had never thought my friendships unusual until I was talking with a woman who had grown up in a family that moved around the country a lot. She had no longtime comrades.

Do you still have any friends that you grew up with?

Monday, May 27, is our nation’s observance of Memorial Day, a holiday honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Activities will include flying Old Glory, parades and the American Legion organizations selling artificial, red poppies as a fund raiser. The flower has been a symbol of lives lost since the World War I poem by John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.”

The first commemoration was held three years after the ending of the Civil War (1861 – 1865). General John Logan designated May 30, 1868, as Decoration Day, because it wasn’t the anniversary of any battle. He asked people to strew flowers or otherwise decorate the graves in a nationwide remembrance of his comrades who died in defense of our country during the late rebellion and whose bodies lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. The tradition continued until 1971 when an Act of Congress designated the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, an official federal holiday.

According to the United States Census Bureau, at least 1.2 million people have been killed in battle beginning with the Revolutionary War (1775 – 1783). A few casualties were female, mostly nurses, but the majority were male. Some enlisted in the armed services and others were drafted.

Most of the people were young–just beginning their adult lives. Some weren’t considered mature enough to vote in elections or drink alcohol but they were the right age to fight for our country. Our armed services have standards to meet–only the fit are welcomed.

Many people consider Memorial weekend the unofficial beginning of summer activities. Grills and patio furniture will be dusted off for picnics, bar-b-ques and parties. Businesses will conduct sales urging customers to buy big ticket items such as furniture.

I hope everyone will take time to look around and consider, “Was my freedom worth someone’s life?”

Vintage doesn’t just apply to wine–it can be an adjective or noun that means of high quality or typical of a past period. I recently read in the newspaper that vintage clothing has become a big thing in area thrift stores. I guess I’m still wearing mine.

I have a pair of jeans with a high waist and another with a low waist, both styles popular at different times. I don’t usually follow the latest trend but sometimes the only thing available in stores is what is the current fad. Thank heaven, I didn’t need any new pants while the holes in the knees of denims was popular. I felt I was too old to sport the mode and I would never have spent our hard-earned money for something so silly.

Sometimes, I remember when I purchased one of my outfits because I bought it for a special occasion. In 2003, I bought a black pant suit to wear for Ken’s fiftieth high school class reunion held aboard a pleasure boat at Oregon, Illinois. Two years later, the garment seemed like a good choice to wear for our family portrait taken when our church published an album of its members. We also bought an 8 x 10 copy to hang on our wall.

In 2019, when it was time for our sixtieth anniversary, we wanted another formal family picture taken. When we hung that photo on the wall above the other one, I noticed I was wearing the same black pant suit in both pictures taken fourteen years apart. The outfit still hangs in my closet waiting for another special occasion. I’m fortunate that it still fits.

When I buy something new, it is usually similar to what I already have.

Do you purchase clothes in the latest style or stick to classics?

I had just become a mother when Mom said, “I never had anyone to teach me to be a mother or a grandmother.”

I responded, “You’ve certainly done an excellent job.”

I knew Mom was only seven when her mother had died but I’d never really thought about what her life had been like. Her two much older sisters soon married leaving her father alone to raise Mom and her brother.

I’ve taken for granted the many things I learned from my mother and her oldest sister, Aunt Frannie, who was like a grandmother to me.

I didn’t know much about babies when Linda was born. I soon realized bearing a child didn’t automatically make me a mother. Mom lived close by and came every day to show me how to take care of our newborn. When Lisa came along a year later, I was a seasoned parent. Kurt joined our family two years after that. When I asked Mom to babysit while I went shopping, I said, “Can you handle all three of them? I could take one with me.”

Her response, “If you can, I can.” I hadn’t thought of it that way.

Our offspring spent a lot of time with their grandparents who considered babysitting a privilege instead of a job. Mom was my safety valve when I was out of patience with our little ones as well as giving Ken and me free time to spend as adults together. Our friends looked at my husband and me with envy because our kids usually stayed overnight at their grandparents’ house. Ken and I could sleep late in the morning after a night out.

If you’ve had a loving mother and grandmother, have you ever thought about how your life would have been without them?

Last Sunday night, I was alone–Ken was fishing at Kentucky Lake. The weather forecast for a thunder storm that night took my thoughts back to 1967.

October 23, 1966, Ken joined the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department. During the following summer, he and several other new deputies were sent to the university in Carbondale for a six-weeks, basic police school. He drove home on the weekends. After an early lunch Sunday, he would leave our Durand house and again make the trip from one end of the state to the other. It seemed I could count on a rip-roaring storm later that evening.

I’d been afraid of thunder storms for as long as I could remember. I blamed it on the fact that three times I’d lived in a house that had been struck by lightning. It never caused a fire, just damage such as breaking windows. When I was a small child, the first distant roll of thunder or slash of lightning at night woke me and sent me crawling into bed with Mom and Dad. As I grew older, I’d open the door that separated our two bedrooms.

While I was in grade school, I’d checked the encyclopedia Britannica and found the odds that one will be struck by lightning in the U.S. during one’s lifetime are 1 in 15,300. But even those statistics didn’t ease my fear–I thought I might be the one that the lightning was looking for.

After I was married, I didn’t sleep alone–I could curl up next to my husband and feel safe. While he was gone, I didn’t want to pass on my fear to my children. Besides, there wasn’t room in our double bed for our three little ones. I toughed it out, faced my fear week after week and won. Now, I don’t always wake up when it storms.

Have you ever been forced to face one of your fears?