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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?

Today is Ken’s 88th birthday–he has many reasons to celebrate. Our family will get together for supper at Fritz’s Wooden Nickel in Stillman Valley followed by eating Watergate Cake that I made by his request and will serve at our house.

His parents raised him to show love and be a gentleman. He kisses me good morning and good night. When we go out, he holds my coat, opens the doors and makes sure he walks on the outside when we’re strolling along a sidewalk. I’m an independent woman who gets along fine on my own but we both enjoy those little niceties.

After serving thirty-seven years in law enforcement, Ken is enjoying retirement. Since personalized license plates became available, the ones on his Ram truck read FSHALOT. Every April, he and our son, Kurt, take our boat and spend a week at a resort on Kentucky Lake. They hope to catch enough crappies for the family dinner he’ll cook on Mother’s Day. The rest of the summer, when the weather cooperates and a buddy can go with him, he likes to fish for catfish at Lake Koshkonong, about an hour away in Wisconsin.

Last spring, Ken planted his usual big garden. He shared his excess vegetables by putting them on our picnic table with a sign, FREE VEGGIES, for anyone to help themselves. He has cleared the plot and a friend with a small tractor did the fall plowing. He’s making plans for another growing season next year.

Ken takes care of many chores around the house including mowing the lawn during warm weather and using the snow-blower on our walks as needed during the winter. If I’m gone or not feeling well, he takes over as the househusband.

How do you celebrate your birthday?

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?