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My treasures wouldn’t catch the eye of a burglar, but they make me smile as they remind me of the important people and times in my life. A few of them are:

Dad’s small, patched German accordion that he played by ear is on a shelf in our curio cabinet. When I was in grade school, he taught me to play “You Are My Sunshine” but I couldn’t add any more tunes to my repertoire. A few years later, I took piano accordion lessons; I needed to read sheet music to play songs.

I have a charm bracelet that a jeweler made using five childhood rings worn by Mom, our daughter, Linda, and myself. That seems like a better idea than leaving them in boxes stored in a drawer.

The hand-carved, wooden, rearing horse atop the China cupboard in the corner of our kitchen was purchased from the artist at a flea market in Mexico. Mom babysat so Ken and I could spend a week with my cousin, Doris, and her husband, Bob, who had time-share lodging there during the winter.

The small, stuffed, black and white puffin perched on top of our refrigerator was purchased during the disastrous, summer holiday in Alaska with my friend, Gloria. The guide who drove the van for our trip made many errors but the six of us women riding along had a lot of laughs. In a tourist shop, I couldn’t resist buying the bird after reading that sometimes it eats so much that it can’t fly. I could empathize because I always expect to gain a few pounds during a vacation.

The two, little, plastic duckies that sit on our coffee table beside my rocking chair are less than an inch tall and were a prize in a candy pack. They remind me of our daughter, Lisa, and the cuddly, yellow Ducky that comforted her during the difficulties of her childhood.

The little stuffed devil that rests above my dresser mirror was a customer premium when my cousin, Doris, was selling cosmetics. The plastic face reminded her of our son, Kurt, so she gave me one.

I wear the Linde star sapphire ring that Ken bought as a Christmas present many years ago. At the time, his patrol partner suggested that he should spend his money on a new, zigzag, electric sewing machine instead. Sometimes, love isn’t practical.

What are your treasures?

We learn to do many things. Our parents were so proud when we said “Dada” and “Mama” followed by taking our first, shaky steps. Those two skills continue for the rest of our lives.

Others, we use for s short time and then set them aside. Sometimes, I wonder if I could still hit a pitched softball or ride a horse. Those were two things I was pretty good at when I was a teenager but, when I do the math, that was seventy years ago.

The last time I attended a National Federation of Press Women weekend conference, I dusted off a skill I hadn’t used in years. The formal dinner closing the event required a long dress. I didn’t have one and I didn’t want to buy a new garment to wear once. While looking over my wardrobe, I decided a navy blue and white top hanging in my closet would work if I had a dark-blue maxi to wear with it.

During the first years of our marriage, I bought a used, electric sewing machine, read instruction booklets to learn to sew and made my own clothes. After I became a part-time journalist, I discontinued the practice and spent my spare hours writing. Still, I should be able to stitch up a straight skirt. I bought a pattern and a couple of yards of material. Then, I had to dig out the direction booklet to thread my sewing machine correctly. I easily finished the project but I didn’t have the rhythm I once had.

As society changes, we must continue to update our skills. Some things like using an automatic clothes washer make our life easier. Others, such as a computer, bring a lot of frustration.

What skills do you continue to use and which ones have you abandoned?

This is the third day of the new year. Are you still reminding yourself to write 2024 instead of 2023? Habits allow us to do things without thinking about it.

Sometimes, that could be embarrassing. For example, at home, Ken and I always wipe our dishes with our paper napkins when we finish eating. I have this horrible vision of being in a restaurant with friends and while engrossed in conversation at the end of the meal, we rub our plates with our cloth napkins.

According to experts who study us, about 40% of our daily actions are driven by repetition. It’s easy to think the words routine and habit mean the same thing but they don’t. Routine refers to an involved task like cleaning the house. Yet, according to journalist Charles Duhigg, author of “The Power of Habit,” we must establish a routine to form a habit.

An action I’ve been working on for several months is putting my hearing aids back in my ears when I leave the bathroom after taking a shower. Last fall, I thought I would ‘kill two birds with one stone’ by doing needed shopping before attending the afternoon meeting of Authors Supporting Authors in Rockford. I finally realized that people in stores weren’t mumbling–I’d forgotten my hearing aids. I just had time to make a quick, twenty-mile-drive back home to get them and return to the city for my meeting.

With the new year, many people have made decisions pertaining to their habits. The brain can’t tell the difference between trying to drop a bad habit or add a good one. The time it takes to develop the act of doing something new varies from person to person and whether it’s pleasurable or not.

Have you made a new year’s resolution regarding your habits? Reward yourself for making a baby step toward change and don’t be too hard on yourself if you slip.

The youngest generation in our family is turning thirty years old–time to act like a grown-up. It seems each time we change the first number in our age, it changes us.

When I was a teenager, many advertisements began, “After forty…” like it was the beginning of old age. My parents, who were in their forties, farmed every day and danced on Saturday nights.

During the summer that I was approaching fifty, I received an invitation to join AARP. I accepted and so did my friend, Joyce. When the two of us spent a week-end at a writer’s workshop in northern Wisconsin, we received our first senior citizen discount–the motel where we stayed gave 10% off to members of the organization. After returning home, I asked Mom, who had faithfully kept a baby book about her only child’s accomplishments, “Do you want to use that as the final entry?” She didn’t think I was funny.

Last spring, our youngest joined his sister in the sixties age bracket. I’ve noticed many ads on TV about health such as getting vaccines are geared to those over sixty.

The year I hit another benchmark, our son asked, “What’s it like to be seventy?”

I responded, “A lot depends on your health. This morning, I walked to the store and purchased two bags of groceries. As I crossed the parking lot on my way home, I saw your old high school coach who was having trouble exiting his car, which was parked in a handicapped space. He’s about my age but it was an effort for him to hobble into the building.”

My cousin, Sis, who was twelve years older than I was had been one of my mentors. When she turned eighty, I phoned to offer congratulations. Her response, “Eighty isn’t old.” The widow continued living alone and driving. Her gift to herself was a newer, used car. Her phrase has been my mantra for the past six years.

How do you handle the milestones in your life?

The holidays stir memories. Like Scrooge, each of us entertain various Ghosts of Christmas Past. I often think of the first year Ken was a police officer.

It’s ten o’clock Christmas Eve 1966. I’m relaxing in my husband’s lounge chair–the first chance I’ve had all day to sit alone and put my feet up. The tree lights add a multi-colored glow to the pine-scented, living room. Santa has delivered toys for our three–Linda, 6, Lisa, 5 and Kurt, 3, who are asleep upstairs. Carols play softly on the radio. Five candles flicker in the Advent Wreath sitting on a small table in the front hallway.

Earlier in the evening, my parents and my cousin, Doris, with her husband, Bob, joined the kids and me for supper and presents. I took over hosting my side of the family’s traditional Christmas Eve observance after we had children. It’s easier to just put them to bed than to gather up gifts and bundle up little ones to drive home from Grandpa and Grandma’s house.

Last week, when I stopped at my parents’ rural home to get eggs to do my holiday baking, I broke the news that Ken would be working instead of spending the evening with us.

Dad said, “How can you have Christmas Eve without Ken?”

I replied, “It’s something we have to get used to.”

Last October, my husband climbed down from a farm tractor and slid into a squad car. He will soon be home from working the evening 3 – 11 shift with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. In anticipation of a romantic interlude, I’ve changed into a lace-trimmed, long, turquoise nightgown and peignoir. We will exchange gifts while he drinks a beer and I sip a glass of wine.

A large box wrapped in red and green, wreath-printed paper waits under the tree for Ken. It contains a burgundy-colored, wool sport coat that I made. His brother, Tom, who’s the same size, served as my clothes dummy for fittings so I could keep the garment a secret. During the last five years, I’ve learned a lot about sewing. With three females in our family, it’s cheaper to make clothes instead of buying them and I enjoy doing it.

I see no package for me under the tree, but a few days ago my husband made a big deal of going shopping. I have large expectations.

The back door closes softly–Ken’s home. I jump out of the chair to greet him with a kiss.

“What a night!” he blurts. “We got a call for a welfare check and found a man who had probably been dead for a couple days. It must have been eighty degrees in that house. The stink was terrible. Then the coroner’s people spread some sweet-smelling stuff and that was worse.”

My husband doesn’t need to describe the smell–the odor clings to him like fermented after shave. He strides into the bedroom to remove his gun belt and uniform so he can take a much-needed shower. My romantic ambiance is shot by the reality of being married to a cop.

What are some of your Christmas memories?

My folks had a saying for everything. One that I continue to use is, “It could be worse.” A few months ago, we had one of those situations. A little before 11 a.m. I walked out of the house and slid into the car to attend a family bridal shower in the local bank’s community room. Ken was working in his garden. When I backed out of the garage, my husband was sprawled in the grass next to the driveway and his forehead was bleeding. I immediately stopped and rushed to his side. He griped, “I tripped on that down spout, fell and hit my forehead on the cement.” He got up and walked over to sit on the wooden steps in the garage. I got a towel for him to stanch the blood flow and phoned our son, who is an EMT. Kurt was here in less than ten minutes. I left for the shower. Soon, I received a text that they were on their way to a Monroe Clinic Urgent Care facility in Freeport to have the gash sewed up. After Ken received six stitches, they returned home. He showed no signs of a brain concussion or broken bones.

Whenever I’m dealing with a difficulty, I feel like I’m keeping company with Joe Btfspik, a character in Al Capp’s satirical comic strip, “Li’l Abner,” which ran in newspapers from 1934 to 1977. Joe, who dressed in black, and had a small dark rain cloud hovering above his head, was well-meaning but he was the world’s worst jinx who brought disastrous misfortune to those around him. When I’m trying to convince myself, “It could be worse,” I often wonder if there’s someone in the world beset with a catastrophe so terrible that it couldn’t be any worse.

How do you deal with the problems of your life?

Tomorrow is Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day. Eighty-two years ago, December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Hawaii, thrusting the United States into World War II. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s War Address broadcast on the radio termed the action “a date which will live in infamy.” Men from every family enlisted or were drafted into the armed forces. Some ladies joined the auxiliaries. A total of 16 million served.

The women, children and older fellows left behind on the home front sacrificed. Similar to World War I, the females took the places of the males who went to fight. “Rosie, the Riveters” worked in the factories, which converted to making war materials instead of assembling cars.

Many items were rationed. A national speed limit of 35 miles per hour was enacted to reduce gas and rubber consumption.

Mom took our coupon books along to shop for meat and sugar at Hopkins’ Grocery, operated by a father and his two sons in the town of Rockton, near our farm. As a substitute, she bought small, wooden boxes filled with dried cod fish, creamed the seafood and served it over mashed potatoes for dinner. She also found recipes for cookies that used honey instead of sugar.

Cigarettes were a scarce commodity for civilians because 30 percent of the production was allotted for servicemen. Although, Dad wasn’t a smoker, he joined lines to buy the tobacco for Uncle Hookie.

Qualified educators were in short supply. Young ladies with little more than a high school education were granted emergency certificates to teach. Students began each day standing beside their desks, facing the flag and placing their right hands over their hearts while reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

Instead of using their coins to buy candy and gum, kids purchased savings stamps and pasted them in a booklet. When it was full, they traded it at a bank for a war bond costing $18.75. In ten years, the certificate could be cashed in for $25.00.

The Allies victory in 1945 ended the conflict and people celebrated in the streets. Although my generation were children, the war instilled in us a deep love and loyal support of our country. In the words of former Illinois governor Adlai Stevenson, “Patriotism is not short, frenzied outbursts of emotion, but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime.”

The U.S. Dept. of Veterans Affairs estimates there are about 119,000 veterans of the Big War still living–every day, an average of 131 die. When the Greatest Generation is gone, will the American people continue to “remember Pearl Harbor” so that it never happens again?

The first snowfall of the season was welcomed by kids when I was growing up. It opened up a brand new playland. If the temperature was above 20 degrees, it was warm enough to be outdoors, especially if the sun was shining. We were aware of frost bite and bundled up.

We slipped old, bread wrappers around our shoes before pulling on our rubber boots to protect our feet from the snow spilling in from over the tops of the overshoes. Sometimes, by the time we finished playing outside, the snow was packed so tightly into our boots, we needed an adult to drag them off.

Sleds were hauled out of sheds. As a farm kid, sliding down a hill in a large, shiny scoop shovel was a topsy-turvy adventure.

Snow angels were made by lying on our backs in the snow and moving our extended arms back and forth to form the wings.

If it was a wet snow, snowmen could be constructed by rolling three balls of varying sizes and piling them up. Coal briquets were added for buttons and a face.

At school, we tromped a Fox and Goose track, a giant spoked wheel. For the game similar to tag, a fox was chosen and the rest of us were geese. As the fox caught a goose, he or she was sequestered in the hub of the wheel. The last goose caught became the fox for a new game.

For a snowball fight, kids were divided into two sides and forts had to be built.

A few of us had skis and learned to balance on those pieces of wood while zooming downhill. Two poles helped keep us upright.

Shoe skates, which were bought a couple sizes too big so they would last several years, were dug out of closets. By the time we had snow, the temperature had been below freezing long enough to make thick ice on ponds and river backwaters. Some towns flooded an open area to provide a skating rink.

Did you enjoy the winter weather when you were growing up?

I am thankful for my old age. A lot of good things have happened since I became an octogenarian. Our small family all live in the same area, so we get together for holidays and special occasions. Instead of our usual festive meal there have been two memorable events.

To observe Christmas 2016, we all spent several days at Walt Disney World in Florida. Our granddaughter, Katelyn, was working there and couldn’t come home for the holiday so she arranged for the six of us to join her.

In the spring of 2019, nine of us celebrated our daughter Lisa’s birthday with an afternoon of zip-lining at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. In case you’re wondering, zip-lining is done from a sitting position hanging from a small pulley and quickly sliding down a thick wire attached between two points, one higher than the other. We each did that in eight different spots and topped off the day with supper at a nearby restaurant.

It’s been gratifying to be part of Katelyn’s and Jacob’s lives as they grew from grandchildren to grandadults and took their place in the world.

After fifty years of writing newspaper and magazine articles as a freelance journalist, I’m a published author. Adelaide Books, an independent New York firm, offered me a contract for my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” about our seven-year courtship in the 1950s. The royalties won’t make me rich, but hearing from people who have enjoyed reading it is priceless.

As a woman who grew up using a party-line telephone and a typewriter, our son, Kurt, solves my problems with a smart phone and a computer. Nearly three years ago, he helped me start this Wednesday blog, lolita-s-bigtoe.com. It’s aimed at older women, but I have men readers, too.

I’m also thankful that my problems haven’t been worse. Three years ago, an MRI revealed that I had suffered a small stroke. My ability to perceive sound was affected and forced me to get hearing aids.

Every morning, when Ken and I sit down to breakfast after a restful night’s sleep, we realize how blessed we are to be starting a new day together.

What are you thankful for?

A blank, white sheet glaring back at me in my computer is a writer’s bane as I sit waiting for a brilliant idea. At least when I used a typewriter, I could jerk the paper out and crease it into an airplane. That was fun when I was in country school.

Kids of my era were easily amused. Most homes received a daily newspaper. A colorful hat could be fashioned by folding a double sheet of the Sunday comics.

As an only child living on a farm, I played catch by throwing a small, green, hard-rubber ball against the wall of our brick home. If I missed grabbing it when it bounced back, my companion, Tony, our white, English bulldog, quickly retrieved it. Then, I had to pry it out of his large mouth because he didn’t want to give it up.

Carefully placing each one of a set of 28 dominoes on end and knocking them down with a slight push to the last in line was entertaining.

During my twelve years of school, some of us brought our lunch in a brown, paper sack instead of a metal box. After eating, we’d squeeze the top of the bag together, bring it to our lips, blow it full of air, hold it tight and punch it to make it explode with a bang. It was especially hilarious if someone wasn’t paying attention and jumped from the unexpected noise.

I enjoyed board games but rarely had an opponent. Sometimes, Mom played checkers and I never gave up hope that I would beat her, but that never happened. Even when I was disgusted and suggested playing ‘give away’ with the winner the one who lost their men first, she was more adept. As an adult, I understood her wisdom in not playing off so I could win.

I spent many hours shuffling cards for Solitaire but mesmerizing, electronic games have taken over. My husband enjoys it on his computer. During a recent power outage, he declined my suggestion to search in the closet for an old deck to play the game while waiting for our electricity to come back on.

What were some of your amusements while growing up?