WORRY

I don’t know if worry is a part of some people’s DNA or if it’s just a habit learned over time. When I say I don’t worry, people look at me like I’m the grandmother of Alfred E. Neuman, the fictional, gap-toothed, red-haired, cover boy for the 1950s humor magazine, MAD. His motto was, “What, me worry?”

During our first seven years of marriage, Ken was a farmer and so were most of our friends. In the fall of 1966, when he announced he was going to become a Winnebago County Sheriff’s Deputy, the first thing the other wives asked me was, “Won’t you be worried all the time?”

I was ready with my surprising answer, “Farming is considered more dangerous than police work.” The statistics were a shock to me, too. I had always lived in the country and felt safe.

Two of our children grew up to follow in their father’s duty shoe footsteps. Our daughter, Lisa, became one of the first women to join the Illinois State Troopers, followed two years later by our son, Kurt, who also became a cop. Some people were sure that three police officers in the family would set my nerves on edge.

My philosophy is, “If my worrying would keep my family safe, I would wear a string of worry beads around my neck, but I know it wouldn’t make a bit of difference–just ruin my days.” I love my family, but I don’t confuse love with worry.

I believe each of us should do the work we feel is our calling. When our grandson, Jacob, joined the Rockford Police Department, he became the fourth generation of Ditzlers to pin a badge over his heart. Ken’s father, Rolland, was a motorcycle cop in Freeport while he was a single man in the 1930s.

Are you a worrier?