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Today is the beginning of November, which includes Veterans Day when we salute all men and women who have honorably served our country. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there are about 16.5 million of them who have helped preserve everyone’s right to publicly show patriotism and to protest.

The federal holiday continues to be November 11 in recognition of the ending of the Great War at 11 o’clock in the morning of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.

My generation remembers the friends and relatives who fought in World War II. We stand with our hands over our hearts for the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and when Old Glory passes by during a parade just like we were taught when we were students who began each school day with the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

Each person who joins a branch of the service recites the following oath: “I, ____, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.” The people in uniform are trained and ready to do whatever might become necessary.

Those who enter the military leave home and loved ones not knowing when or if they will return. Parents, husbands, wives and children learn to get along without them for long periods of time.

Some of those who have served wear a tee shirt or a cap proudly proclaiming they are veterans. Often, the only recognition these men and women ever receive is a “Thank you for your service,” from an appreciative citizen. Have you voiced your gratitude to a veteran for his or her contribution to your freedom?

Learning is something we do in many ways all of our lives. In the beginning, our parents are our first instructors. Attending school, we study text books and listen to our teachers. Since I met Dick and Jane in first grade primers, I’ve loved to read. As an adult, I balance our checkbook using the basic arithmetic I gained from elementary flash cards.

When formal education is finished, we have apprenticeships, a program or position in which someone learns a trade by working under a certified expert for several years. Also, there is on-the-job training.

Another way is questioning a wiser person. In the early 2000s, my eight-year-old grandson and I were watching the TV sitcom, “Becker,” starring Ted Danson as John Becker, a misanthropic doctor who operates a small practice in New York City. He is constantly annoyed by everybody and everything, but he is well-liked because he genuinely cares about others. The physician was listening to a friend venting because his son had just come out as gay.

Jacob asked, “Grandma, what does gay mean?”

I wasn’t prepared for his question. It took me a moment to reply, “Guys date guys instead of girls.” Both of us were satisfied with my explanation and finished watching the show in companionable silence.

Osmosis can teach us about things in which we have no interest. I don’t like professional football. During its season, I’m irked when my favorite, Sunday night TV programs are delayed because an afternoon game lasts overly long. Still, I know a lot more about the sport than I want to because my husband and our daughter are Minnesota Vikings’ fans. I hear them talk about the latest match-ups and some of their knowledge seeps into my brain. Each fall, Lisa buys season tickets. One year, I joined the two of them attending a contest in Minneapolis because I think it’s fun to do about anything once.

How have you acquired your knowledge?

Since the COVID 19 pandemic ended, most social events are continuing. Recently, I attended a club meeting where one of the others had the residue of a cold. She was wearing a mask and dipping into a bag of lozenges sitting on the table, but she still did a lot of coughing. Each time she gave a vigorous hack, it was difficult to hear the person speaking.

I can understand people going to work when they’re not up to par because some don’t get paid unless they’re on the job; others have a project that is on deadline and must be finished.

Social events are a different story. I think it’s selfish to answer, “Here,” when a person has any of the outward symptoms of a cold. I know that when anyone has been cooped up for a week or more, it’s tempting to take advantage of an opportunity to be with people. Perhaps, she assumed she was no longer contagious but I’m sure no one else in that group of senior citizens wanted even the possibility of sharing her germs.

A part of our church service is passing the peace. It’s a time when everyone shakes hands with those next to them and says, “Peace be with you.” During the winter, I keep my hands folded together because I don’t want the contact.

Everyone wants to avoid a cold, but for some of us it’s more threatening than it is for others. A person doesn’t have to be old to have a health condition that isn’t obvious. I was forty-two when my left lung collapsed and was surgically removed because I had histoplasmosis often caused by a fungus found in bird droppings. Since then, a simple respiratory infection could cause me serious problems needing to treated in a hospital.

When you have the remnants of a cold, do you join a social gathering of people if you feel well enough to attend?

Growing older is a privilege that’s denied to many. We should never feel bad about aging but enter this chapter of our lives with humility, grace and pride over everything we’ve been through and accomplished. We are survivors who have raised families, run households, paid bills, dealt with diseases, sadness and everything else life has assigned us providing wisdom and experience. Some of our skills such as driving a shift car may be obsolete. Many things remain the same such as a need for money.

Growing old takes gold, isn’t just an easy rhyme–it’s true. Articles on saving for retirement, show gray-haired people doing fun things such as traveling, playing golf and boating. There’s another side–the necessities to continue enjoying life. Doctor visits increase and so do bottles of pills on the shelf. Not everyone needs the same things. The above takeoff on the three wise monkeys, which originated in Japan centuries ago, shows a few of the items aging requires. Supplies for incontinence may also become a must

The handicapped laws make public places more accessible. However, a person’s mobility may include assistance such as a cane, a walker or wheels.

For those of us who came of age using a party-line telephone and a typewriter, a smart phone and a computer can make us feel stupid. If we’re lucky, we have a younger member of the family or a friend who can help with problems. Otherwise, needing a member of the geek squad is another expense.

Many of us choose to remain in our own homes. We may need to hire help such as someone to clean the house, mow the lawn or remove snow. Eating out or ordering meals delivered may also become more frequent.

When you’re budgeting for retirement, have you thought about these needs?

Recently, I was reminded how fortunate I am to have a home. I take for granted all the little things like going to the kitchen and grabbing my dilapidated recipe book from the cupboard when it’s time to cook a meal.

It isn’t just the homeless that camp out on our city streets–a lot of people don’t live in their own home for various reasons. I was nineteen when I spent five months in the Rockford Sanitarium recovering from tuberculosis. Ken served in the U.S. Navy from 1954 to 1958.

Sixty-four years ago, we set-up housekeeping in our rented abode using wedding gifts and our purchases. From time to time, most items have been replaced at least once or twice except we continue to climb into the same walnut, double bed at night and store our underwear and socks in the two matching chests of drawers.

In 1966, we bought a lot in Durand and live in one of the houses constructed in the 1850s when the village was being settled. Through the years, we’ve added a family room and a two-car garage plus remodeling several times. Our do-it-yourself decor would never earn a prize from House Beautiful magazine but it suits us. I chose and pasted up the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathroom. Ken painted the remaining walls and woodwork in our pick of colors. I am the pseudo-artist of the large, paint-by-number, country mural that nearly fills the expanse in the family room. In front of it, the model train from Ken’s childhood crosses a wooden bridge built by our carpenter friend, Jim. Framed pictures of our family and plaques noting our various achievements in the workplace have been hung.

Our empty-nester upstairs stores the slides Ken took while he was in the navy. Boxes contain keepsakes from my parents and items from my childhood. There are family photographs, some in albums and some in piles waiting to be organized.

Do you ever think about how lucky you are to live in your own home?

While I was growing up on the farm, my clothes consisted of three categories: everyday, which included old jeans and shirts that absorbed the ‘barn smell’, a combination of cows, manure and hay odors; school skirts, blouses, sweaters and jeans plus a good dress for Sunday church and special occasions. Jackets and coats were divided in a similar manner.

Mom washed our clothes on Mondays so we didn’t change often. Baths were taken on Saturday nights–the rest of the week, we washed-up in the kitchen sink at the end of the day.

After I became a housewife and started sewing my clothes, I made a couple of shirtwaist dresses to wear at home to follow the example set by mothers portrayed on TV. That didn’t last long–I wasn’t comfortable. I went back to the similar divisions from my childhood: everyday jeans and tops; a good pair of pants, a shirt or sweater and a blazer that I wore working as a reporter, shopping in the city or socializing plus a good dress.

It’s difficult to change my ways, but I’m trying. I recently took the necklace Ken gave me about fifteen years ago to the jewelry store where he purchased it. Their repair department replaced the small clasp that matched the fine chain with a larger fastener that’s easier for these old fingers to manipulate. Now, I wear the pendant, a sapphire inside a circle of small diamonds, every day instead of letting it languish in its box waiting for a dress-up occasion. I admire it every time I pass a mirror.

Although, I now spend most of my time at home, I’m trying to make myself wear the clothes that I’ve been saving. After all, one of these days, someone will be cleaning out my closet and donating them to a resale shop.

Do you divide your clothes and accessories into categories or wear them every day?

As soon as early settlers had built a place to live, they wanted two things–a school for their children and a cemetery to bury their loved ones.

Since I was seven years old, I have considered the Laona Township Cemetery mine. In the 1940s, my parents lost two baby boys at birth and buried them there. At that time, no one took care of the grounds. I remember my parents mowing the grass on those lots and the adjoining ones where Mom’s parents were interred. Several times a month during the growing season, Dad loaded our reel-type, push lawn mower into the trunk of our 1936, black, Chevy sedan and drove from our farm east of Harrison on Highway 75 to the graveyard north of Durand on Yale Bridge Road. He parked along the black-top in front of the burial grounds and carried the lawn mower up the steep bank and through the gate that provided an opening in the iron fence along the area’s south side. While they worked, I roamed around looking at the headstones. Some were large monuments. Others were old with worn inscriptions hard to read. A few were people I had known.

Mom’s Uncle George was nearby. His funeral had been my introduction to the ritual although my parents and my cousins tried to talk me out of attending. I was an adamant, four-year-old because I loved the old man. He had been a widower and his grown son, ‘Spud’, still lived with him on their farm. Every week, the two men were invited to our house for Sunday dinner.

In 1976, Dad died of a heart attack and was buried alongside his sons. Twenty-seven years later, Mom joined them.

When it came time to acquire a burial plot for Linda, our 48-year-old daughter who was dying of breast cancer, I knew I wanted her by her grandparents. When we bought a marker for Linda’s grave, we also bought a joint-one for ours in the same lot.

I am used to the tradition following the death of a family member. A few days after someone passes away, an evening visitation is held at the funeral home with a final viewing of the body in its casket and allowing people to share condolences with the survivors. The following day there is a religious service with burial in a near-by cemetery. Friends and relatives then gather together and food is served.

People tracing their ancestry visit cemeteries looking for departed relatives. Every year before Memorial Day, members of our local Legion place a small U.S. flag on the grave of each veteran buried in area cemeteries.

Will the future render cemeteries obsolete? Society is changing the way it handles a death in the family. Some are opting for cremation and scattering the ashes in a beloved place. At a convenient time, friends and relatives gather in a public place to celebrate the deceased life.

Have you thought about your final wishes?

The other night while watching TV, I thought of the new ice cream I’d bought that day and wanted to try it. I got the container out of the freezer, dipped a couple scoops into a bowl, and stepped back into the garage to return the package to the freezer. I heard a noise and looked toward the open window that had no screen. A possum was looking back at me. We surprised each other and it dropped out of sight.

That encounter made me curious. As a farm kid, I had always gotten glimpses of possums but I didn’t know much about them. As usual, I turned to the internet.

The window is 4 1/2 feet off the ground but the possum’s rat tail acts like another arm while climbing. Its beady eyes appeared black because the nocturnal animal has such large pupils.

The animal’s most famous characteristic is playing dead. They can’t choose it–it’s a response when in fear of predators such as foxes or bobcats. They not only are inert but they produce the putrid odor of a corpse.

According to the Washington Department of Fish & Wildlife, the possum is known as the most sanitary animal in nature. Like house cats, they frequently use their tongues and paws to groom themselves, rendering them odorless.

Possums gobble up about 90 percent of the ticks that attach to them unlike other mammals that may spread Lyme disease. According to the National Wildlife Federation, a single possum consumes 5,000 of the parasites per tick season. They are immune to most forms of snake venom so they see a serpent as a neat meal. The marsupials have a lower body temperature so they aren’t suited to the rabies virus.

Do you stop for a possum crossing the road in front of your car?

I was elated when I turned 13 and Dad had to buy an adult ticket for me when we attended a movie. I could hardly wait to grow up.

In the 1950s, the State of Illinois considered females like me adults at 18 and we could drink alcohol or marry. Ken and the other males had to wait until they were 21 to do the same things. He was allowed to join the U.S. Navy at 18.

Society has no qualms setting minimum ages but rarely sets maximums. The cops in my family had to be at least 21-years-old to pin on a badge and carry a gun. In their fifties, they each retired with a pension. Most departments have a maximum age for serving in this grueling occupation.

To lead our country, the Constitution requires a presidential candidate to be at least 35 years old. The minimum age to serve in the Senate is 30 and the House of Representatives is 25. The only maximum limit for elected officials in Washington, D.C., is the Twenty-second Amendment to the United States Constitution, which was ratified in 1951 and allows a president to serve only two terms.

For 46 years, I was the Durand Township clerk. I had run unopposed in the independent elections held in April every four years. I wasn’t sure if that meant I was doing a great job or just that no one else wanted the nondescript, part-time position. In 2017, with my 80th birthday approaching, I felt it was time to step aside.

Becoming an octogenarian seems to be a milestone. Instead of every four years, I must pass an eye test and demonstrate my ability behind the wheel every two years to retain my Illinois driver’s license.

When I have my annual Medicare check-up in the doctor’s office, the nurse gives me three words, continues asking questions for several minutes and then asks me to repeat the same three words. I also must draw a clock face with the hands indicating the time she designates. I don’t know what happens if I fail those tests.

At 86, I feel confident handling my own affairs and writing. My memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” the story of our seven-year courtship in the 1950s, was published by Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, two years ago. Every Wednesday, I continue to post to my blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com.

People age differently. My father, a teetotaler and nonsmoker, was a retired farmer turned school janitor when his heart gave out at 63.

Clint Eastwood, actor, director and producer, is in his nineties and still active in the Hollywood movie industry. I’ve been a fan since the 1960s when he appeared as cowboy Rowdy Yates in the TV series, “Rawhide.”

Do you think we need term limits or maximum age limits for people to serve in public offices or continue to leave the decisions to the voters?

Next Monday is my 86th birthday. I’m in good health and just passed the eye test and maneuvering my car to renew my Illinois driver’s license for two years. Those are reasons enough to celebrate with my family. Nothing gives me the feeling of freedom like getting behind the wheel of our dark blue, 2005 Chrysler sedan and heading where I want to go.

Dad and Mom taught me to drive our 1952, black-over-maroon, 2-door Chevrolet. It was our first new car and had been made to our order including an automatic transmission. I preferred having only one of them with me for a training session. When both of them were along, I often heard one say, “Turn left at the next corner,” but the other would chime in, “No, go straight.”

I remember passing my first driver’s test seventy years ago when I turned 16. Butterflies were square dancing in my stomach when my parents took me to the Secretary of State’s Office on North Main Street in Rockford. I had studied “The Rules of the Road” booklet from cover to cover because there was a written questionnaire I needed to pass before the examiner took me out for a drive. I had practiced parallel parking and the proper way to turn the front wheels when stopping on a hill.

I expected that license would be my ticket to independence, but not much changed. My father didn’t want his little girl driving alone at night. When I had something going on at school in the evening, he continued to take me and waited until I was ready to go home. To pass the time, he enjoyed visiting with Howard who was working at Spelman’s Oil Station until closing time at 9 p.m.

I was allowed to take the car by myself only during daylight hours. Then, it had to be something important such as a dental appointment–no joy riding and no taking passengers.

Do you enjoy driving?