lolita-s-bigtoe.com

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?

August 27 bursts with many good memories. It’s the birthday of two women who were pillars in my life–Mom’s eldest sister, Frances, and my husband’s sister, Lola Mae.

Aunt Frannie and her husband, Uncle Hookie, always seemed old to me. They took the place of my maternal grandparents, who had died before my mother was married. I thought staying overnight at the Rowleys’ was close to heaven although their old house lacked electricity and was far from palatial. It was the people in it including my two teenage cousins, Doris and Sis, that made me feel special.

As an only child, my companion was our English bulldog, Tony. I referred to him as my little brother. Aunt Frannie gave me my first, hardcover book, “Lad: A Dog,” which Albert Payson Terhune had written about his beloved collie. I read that volume over and over.

Now and then, Aunt Frannie, who was an experienced seamstress, made a dress for me. As a kid, I had to climb up on the dining room table for measuring and fittings so she didn’t have to get down on the floor. For my first office Christmas party when I worked at the Department of Agriculture, I bought a pattern and pale-blue brocade with a gold and turquoise flower design, so she could make a one-of-a-kind frock with an off-the-shoulder bodice and a gathered skirt. Before she cut into my expensive material, she made a muslin prototype and fitted it to me. On the day of our party, I felt like a model greeting the people from the other offices on the second floor of the post office building and the farmers who came in regularly.

For years, I had dreamed of Aunt Frannie making my wedding dress, but she became ill and I was glad she was able to attend the spring event. She died in the fall, soon after I told her I was expecting a baby. Her response had been, “It’s almost like being a great-grandma.”

After Ken and I were married, Lola Mae became my lifeline. My husband worked for her husband on the farm and she lived less than a mile up the road. When I became a mother, she was a wealth of guidance because she was raising six children.

I remember preparing to host a bridal shower for my female, high school classmates honoring Shirley who would soon be married. Late in the afternoon, I made the open-faced, ground Spam and cheese sandwiches that I would serve as part of the night’s lunch. All I would have to do during the evening was pop them in the oven. It suddenly dawned on me, it was Friday and the several Catholic women who would be among my guests couldn’t eat meat. I phoned Lola Mae, who also was Catholic. She quickly concocted some festive, open-faced tuna sandwiches, which she delivered.

Lola Mae has passed away, too. I won’t be able to send the two ladies birthday cards except in my heart.

What women influenced your life?

School bells are ringing around the country and students are moving up a step. For some, it’s a scary, new level–kindergarteners begin first grade; elementary pupils enter junior high and teen-agers become freshmen.

It was a big change when I was bused from our farm to the newly, created Durand Junior High School to join more than thirty others in the seventh grade. For the preceding six years, I’d been the only one in my class at a one-room, country school.

Two years later, we climbed the stairs to the high school study hall situated in the top story of the main building. My class was the last group to suffer the indignities of freshman initiation. For one day, we were peons who literally bowed to the seniors as if they were kings and queens.

Our demeaning attire was dictated by them. The girls wore men’s work shirts and bib overalls on backwards, a pair of men’s work shoes and carried a suitcase filled with our books. Most of our fathers were farmers so we could raid their closets for our outfits.

The boys donned gym trunks with bathrobes over them, baby bonnets, shoes with the fronts cut out and a ribbon on each toe. They carried their books in a bucket.

After the day of silliness was over, we changed into our best school clothes to attend an evening, welcoming party hosted by the upper classmen. We felt like we belonged.

The following year, after the new term started, our superintendent, ‘P.G.’, announced the trustees voted to end initiation. Fred, the president of Ken’s class of seniors, went on a rant against the school board, but all he could do was gripe. We weren’t given a reason for the change, but rumors were that some schools had gotten out of hand leading to parental complaints.

The Class of 1955 matured from the time we wore those outlandish garbs to the formal caps and gowns of graduation.

The twenty-four of us remained friends. Every five years, we held an evening reunion in an area restaurant to brag a little and catch-up with everyone. As we aged, we began meeting annually in a Durand eatery for lunch. Those get-togethers have fallen victim to the passing of time and people.

What memories do you have of your school days?

Once people decide to make a change, they want it to happen now. A young woman who is tired of coping with long hair hanging down to her armpits goes to a stylist and with a few snips of the scissors, she emerges with a chin-length bob.

We have an upcoming wedding in our family. I received an invitation to a shower for the bride-to-be. The young woman, whom I haven’t met, is registered at Target. I checked the store’s website, found her preferences, chose and ordered a gift for pickup in Machesney Park, which is about twenty miles away. By the time I’d showered and dressed, I had an email that it was waiting. The counter was right inside the doors. Within another hour my shopping was done and I was back home. A gift bag for the bulky item made wrapping easy.

We are acquiring the habit of solving problems quickly. Some believe that if our Congress would pass the necessary legislation, some of our societal problems would be ended. If only it was that easy. People flaunt the existing laws.

Since Moses came down from Mt. Sinai bearing stone tablets etched with the Ten Commandments including, “Thou shalt not kill,” homicide has been outlawed, but that hasn’t eliminated the crime. According to the FBI, there were 21,570 murders in 2020.

There are numerous rules controlling drugs, but in 2021 more than 106,000 persons died from drug-involved overdose according to the National Center for Health Statics at the CDC.

The National Highway Traffic Administration estimates that the number of fatalities for 2021 will be 42,915 people. Speeding is one of the major risky behaviors involved in car crashes although all roads have speed limits ranging from 70 mph on divided, four-lane highways to 25 mph on village streets.

How do you think we can fix our societal problems?