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Sunday will be Father’s Day. One of the things I remember about my dad was our shared love for the Old West. During evening milking while I was growing up, he and I listened to “The Lone Ranger” on the barn radio. Our family saw all of the movies made by the popular, singing cowboy stars, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers.

When I was 4 1/2 years old, my parents bought me a pony. On Sunday afternoons, Dad and I would ride together–he mounted his horse, Mickey, and I was astride Millie. He held a lead rope snapped to my pony’s bridle to make sure she didn’t run away. One summer day, while we were galloping along a makeshift road behind the farm buildings, I slipped out of the saddle, landed in a bed of sand and started to cry. I wasn’t hurt, just scared.

My father immediately stopped, jumped down from Mickey and checked that I was okay. “Come on, get back on and we’ll go to the barn.”

“No,” I whimpered. “I don’t want to ride Millie any more. She threw me off.”

“You didn’t get thrown off. You just fell off.” Dad lifted me into the saddle and made sure my feet were firmly in the stirrups. I left the reins lay on my pony’s neck and clung to the horn with both hands. Dad climbed back on his horse and we slowly walked the animals the rest of the way to the barn. After that day, I enjoyed many more hours riding Millie. When I out-grew my pony, we sold her to another family, and I rode Mickey to bring the cows from the pasture for evening milking.

Two things have stayed with me from that day: when things go wrong, don’t try to shift the blame when it’s my own fault and try again.

What did your father teach you as a child that you have remembered all of your life?

My friendship with Corky began when I was bused from our farm into town to join the thirty-plus seventh graders in the newly created Durand Junior High School. When I was a sophomore, I started dating the guy who has been my husband for sixty-four years. As often happens in rural communities, he is also one of Corky’s first cousins.

I never said to Corky tell me about Ken’s folks who were killed in a car crash three years after we were married. Yet, during the mental leapfrog of two recent, casual conversations, I learned a little more about the couple who raised the fellow I married.

On a warm, summer day, Corky and I were sitting on her driveway reminiscing about our school days and I mentioned, “I had to say no the first time that Kenny called and asked me to go to a movie because my parents thought fourteen was too young for me to date.”

Corky responded, “Aunt Hazel was mad at your mother because she wouldn’t let you go out with her son.”

The two women had been best friends while members of the class of 1930 attending Durand High School, but drifted apart as often happened after marriage. I knew girls’ mothers were involved in their daughters’ dating lives but I didn’t know boys’ moms were concerned, too.

At a recent lunch with Corky, I mentioned I had stabbed the end of a finger on my left hand with a paring knife while washing dishes. With a Band-Aid on the small wound to prevent bleeding, I babied that hand–Ken did the dishes for several days. I said, “When I have a little injury that makes me do things with only one hand, it reminds me of my father-in-law.” Rolland had lost his left hand in a factory accident during the 1940s and wore a hook prothesis in its place.

Corky replied, “I remember being at their house when he was learning to tie his shoes one-handed. When he finally got it done, Aunt Hazel reached down, untied it and said, ‘Do it again’.” My friend’s remark made me realize that for him to accomplish all that he did, it took a lot of practice and also, support from his family.

Those two anecdotes made me feel I knew Ken’s parents a little better.

Do you have conversations with relatives that give you insights into members of your family?

Who decides these green things are plants to be cultivated and those are weeds to be eradicated? Weed is part of the name of milkweeds, but the perennials that grow up to six feet tall with broad, egg-shaped leaves, fragrant pink flowers, green pods and milky, white sap are proven lifesavers. They are poisonous to pets and livestock but most animals won’t eat them because they have a sour taste.

During World War II, the federal government asked my dad and other farmers like him to delay mowing the interlopers growing in corners of their fields until us kids fought our way through the head-high patches and gathered the pods in September. A pound-and-a-half of the floss from the pods could be sewed inside a life preserver, which would keep a 150-pound sailor afloat for ten hours.

Today, people are encouraged to plant milkweeds to prevent the extinction of monarch butterflies. According to U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service statistics, nearly a billion monarchs have vanished since 1990. Herbicides used by farmers and homeowners to eliminate milkweeds are blamed. The greenery are the food source, home and nursery for the king of butterflies with their familiar four-inch, black, orange and white patterned wing-spans floating in slow, sailing flights. Monarch caterpillars feed exclusively on the leaves of milkweed, the only host plant for this iconic butterfly species.

Another perennial that many homeowners curse as weeds and dig out of their lawns is the dandelion. The hearty plant never gives up–it can be found growing in such inhospitable places as cracks in sidewalks. It withstands frost and provides one of the first pollen sources in the spring for bees and other pollinating insects.

The first bouquet of flowers a mother receives from her child is often a bunch of dandelions.

Some people consider the plant a food and eat the greens as part of a salad or cooked like spinach. My dad talked about folks of his era making wine from the blossoms.

How do you see milkweeds and dandelions?

Next Monday is Memorial Day, an American holiday honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military. Many people visit cemeteries or memorials, hold family gatherings and participate in parades.

The observance originated three years after the Civil War ended. 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 an act of Congress designated the last Monday in May as Memorial Day, an official federal holiday beginning in 1971.

The Civil War was the last time Americans witnessed battles in their homeland. Our nation has been attacked twice since, but the retaliation has been carried out on foreign soil. Japanese airplanes bombed the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor on Oahu Island, Hawaii, December 7, 1941, bringing the United States into World War II. Most of that combat took place in Europe, East Asia, Africa and islands in the Pacific Ocean.

On September 11, 2001, four U.S. passenger jets were highjacked by the militant Islamic extremist group al-Qaeda terrorists and coordinated suicide attacks were carried out. The first two planes hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City and the third smashed into the Pentagon in Arlington County, Virginia. The fourth airliner was intended for a federal building in Washington, D.C., but passengers caused it to crash in a field in Pennsylvania. The international conflict in Afghanistan followed.

Unofficially, Memorial weekend is also considered the beginning of summer. Many things will vie for our attention; stores will advertise bargains for shoppers, grills and patio furniture will be dusted off and picnics planned. Women who follow the conventional fashion rule will dig out white shoes that have been abandoned in the back of closets since Labor Day.

How will you observe Memorial Day?

The easiest leap to make is to jump to a conclusion. What we hear or see isn’t always what it seems at first.

After our third child entered school, I became the parttime, church secretary to brush-up my clerical skills. One morning while I was working in the office, several older ladies were quilting in the adjoining room. When I stopped typing to think about how I wanted to word an announcement in the bulletin, I could overhear their conversation. One of the women said, “Poor Debbie. Although David is the father of her expected baby, he doesn’t want to marry her.”

Apparently, the rumors I’d heard about the quilting circle being a gossip session were true. I immediately tried to figure out who they were talking about. Our congregation was small and I knew everyone so it shouldn’t be too hard.

Then, another voice said, “Oh, Volly, you missed the show yesterday. David got down on one knee and proposed.”

I was embarrassed. They weren’t talking about someone in the congregation–they were discussing a soap opera they all watched. I quickly returned to my work.

A similar thing happened one beautiful, spring morning. I had gotten the mail from our post office box and was walking a little extra by going past the west side businesses in town. I saw my older cousin, Bob, come out of the tavern and have a little trouble getting down off the curb. It was just noon so I wondered what was going on that he’d had too much to drink so early in the day. I stopped to greet him. He said, “I’ve spent the morning helping clean the church cemetery and my knees are the worse for wear. I just stopped for a beer to cool off before going home to lunch.”

I responded, “Good for you. I know it’s hard to find volunteers each spring.” I didn’t mention my bad thoughts.

Have you ever quickly jumped to the wrong conclusion?

From the time we’re pregnant with a baby, we gradually realize motherhood lasts forever. We never discard those attributes that keep popping out whether our child is a toddler, a young adult or middle-aged.

I hand our three-year-old granddaughter a glass of orange juice. Our daughter-in-law, Sandy, reminds her, “Tell Grandma thank you, Katelyn.”

The tot repeats, “Thank you, Grandma.”

A few days later, I’m visiting my eighty-year-old mother. My cousin has left some pictures and newspaper clippings at her house for me to pick up. She hands them to me and says, “Be sure and tell Doris thank you.” As soon as I arrive back home, I make the necessary phone call.

Mom also gave me an envelope containing some money for our state trooper daughter, Lisa, to use for a treat during her upcoming vacation. When I pass the cash along, I add, “Don’t forget to thank your grandmother.” A few days later, Grandma received a picture postcard with a thank you note written on the back from Lisa.

Probably at three, our granddaughter had already learned to thank people for favors. I’m sure it was ingrained in my daughter and me to say thank you for gifts, but, still, the mothers felt a reminder was necessary.

Much of our learning is absorbed from daily living with our mothers–not what they formally teach us. I was shocked the first time I heard my mother’s words come out of my mouth when I was mad at my new husband. While I was growing up, I was a Daddy’s girl, and felt sorry for him when he was the subject of my mother’s wrath. At that time, I didn’t realize how frustrating being married to a man could be.

No matter how old we are, our mothers influence us. I still hear Mom’s voice in my head whenever I am preparing to leave the house, “Go to the bathroom and get a drink.”

What lessons have you learned from your mother?

Every day when we get up, there is work to do whether we get paid in dollars or satisfaction. The Grit, a weekly newspaper in the rural United States during much of the twentieth century, ran a series featuring various people talking about their jobs. I was surprised how many found enjoyment and appreciation in jobs others would hate.

But not everybody likes what they do. While I was serving on the local election board, we had a lot of free time for conversation. One of the other four women, a childless, retired, grade school teacher, said she had hated every minute of the many years she spent in her profession. She explained, her husband died young and opportunities for women to work were limited at that time–it was the best way she could support herself. I hope she was able to hide her feelings from her pupils.

Her remark stuck in my memory and made me think about how we choose our jobs. Many times, ways of life run in families such as our members of law enforcement. Farm boys take over from their fathers. The daughters of nurses often become nurses.

Talents usually dictate how people pursue a career. A love of numbers influences some to become accountants. Mechanics and electricians are able to see how things work. People who can draw become artists.

Some of us stumble into occupations by luck. When Ken and I were wed, women were expected to become full-time housewives and mothers. That only worked for me until our three children started school. Then, while reading help wanted ads looking for an office job like I’d had when I was single, I found a career as a freelance journalist working from home. I enjoyed sticking my nose in where it wasn’t always wanted to report on civic meetings, chasing fire trucks and writing features about people and their passions. I joined writers’ groups and attended workshops to learn more about the craft. I’m glad it doesn’t have a retirement age.

How did you choose your job?

The week before Easter, I was disappointed–I went to Fannie May to get a few of their usual candy eggs and they no longer had what had been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The original goodies were bigger than the eggs that came from Mom’s hen house; pink was filled with fruits and nuts, green was chocolate cream and yellow was vanilla cream. When I was planning on cooking dinner for our family on the holiday, I bought eight of each color for our dessert and so some could go home with everyone. For several years, we’ve all gone out to brunch on Easter Sunday so I don’t know when the company made the shift.

First off, there were no pink ones, my favorite. The eggs were in separate boxes labeled 2 oz. each. Before, they had sat in large baskets on the counter and an employee packaged my purchase. When I arrived home, I opened one of the boxes. The egg sat on an elevated cardboard so it looked larger than it actually was. It was nearly flat in an oval shape.

I’ve never run a business so I don’t know anything about the decisions demanded of an owner, whether a mom & pop or a conglomerate. I do know customers need to be satisfied and this buyer isn’t happy.

I know I have to accept that we’re living in changing times. A lot of the renovations I appreciate. A recent power outage reminded me how much we rely on electricity. I was thankful my husband set up a generator to continue operating the furnace, basement sump pump and a few more necessities.

Only a few things remain the same. I enjoy buying a box of oatmeal. I have no problem finding it on the grocer’s shelf–it’s the same round box with the picture of a Quaker on the side. When I fix it for breakfast, it tastes the same as always.

Are you ever disappointed that something you enjoyed is no longer available?

It was late-afternoon and I sat in the living room reading a novel for book club. I was still mulling over what to fix for supper. Nothing that crossed my mind appealed to me. Maybe I’d just heat up one of the Schwan prepared meals that were stashed in the freezer.

I heard an additional voice talking to Ken in the family room and went to greet our son. Kurt asked his dad if he would go with him to Elgin to retrieve his son’s truck. Our grandson had left it parked in his sister’s driveway while he caught a flight at O’Hare Airport. Jacob was worried about a predicted hail storm damaging his prized possession. My husband agreed. Kurt turned to me and said, “If you want to ride along, I’ll buy supper.” I couldn’t turn down an offer like that. An hour-and-a-half later, the three of us were dining in a busy Elgin restaurant.

Afterward, I chose to ride back to Durand with our son. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror to be sure the headlights of the other pick-up were following the streets’ twists and turns before we entered I-90. The intimacy of a vehicle sets the stage for conversation; the time passed quickly.

An hour-and-a-half later, Kurt could make a call to assure Jacob that his beloved truck was safely in its garage stall.

It reminded me of days gone by. I’d be grumping around during the late morning, still wearing my nightclothes and not sure if I felt sick or well. A call from a girlfriend suggesting, “Let’s do lunch,” was all I needed to feel fine. I hurried through a shower and dressed for an outing.

Sadly, one of the draw-backs of living to an old age is that many of my playmates have passed away.

Do you like surprises to break up your routine?

Next Monday marks sixty-four years that Ken and I have been married. One of the perennial questions for those who have been husband and wife for a long time is, “What is your secret?”

If I was to isolate one factor, it would be trust. After our Ferris wheel ride in 1952 when I was fourteen, I had to feel I could trust that sixteen-year-old boy before I gave him my heart. Two years later, when he began a four-year hitch in the navy, we declared our love and promised to wait for each other. Following his return home, we were wed.

I expected to have disagreements during our marriage but we would make it through them. While I was growing up on a family dairy farm, my folks worked together, played together and dragged their only child along. When their tempers flared, I observed the storm that ensued and the rainbow that always followed the venting.

Ken and I are thankful for our loving parents who raised us with similar ethics instilled in our characters. We did the same with our own three children. Today, we are proud of our family.

Since Ken retired after serving in law enforcement for 37 years, we spend a lot of time at home together. We also enjoy getting away to pursue our own interests knowing we’ll always return refreshed. For forty years, November meant his annual deer hunting trip to northern Wisconsin with his former, patrol partner, Jerry. That has ended but every April, he and our son continue to make a week-long fishing trip to Kentucky Lake. He also has buddies to spend a day fishing with him at nearby Lake Koshkonong in Wisconsin. I meet with other writers sometimes for a few hours and once in a while, for a few days.

Monday evening, we’ll dress up and go to a restaurant for supper to celebrate. We will share memories and count our many blessings, especially continuing to be together.

What is your primary requirement for a relationship?