Jamie Janosz

In the 1960s, hot rods with names like “No Big Thing,” “Gearbox,” “Breakout,” and “Old Injun” would show their stuff at local race tracks. One of the best loved in the Midwest was the US30 Drag Strip. On a cloudy Sunday in September, race fans gathered to honor the iconic drag strip. The track, which is no longer in existence, was located in Hobart, Indiana, and drew racers from across the Midwest. The AHRA counted US30 as one of its flagship courses. Chicago’s WLS radio would enthusiastically advertise the event: “Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! At smokin’ US30 Drag Strip . . . where the great ones run!” The track opened in 1957, some say maybe even 1954, in the early days of organized racing. Located near Chicago and in the race-crazed state of Indiana, US 30 became a social gathering for three decades of faithful fans until it closed in 1984. The Sunday show was an anticipated reunion of old friends, as fans swapped stories and showed photos of the glory days of racin

Every two years, the tiny Wisconsin town of Monroe holds a cheese festival. Known as the "Swiss Cheese Capital" of the United States, the town (population of approx. 10,000) is crowded with an influx of 100,000 party goers, standing in block-long lines to eat fried cheese curds We were invited to Cheese Days by our good friends, Marty and Sue, who always dress in cheesey costumes. Hosted by their gracious cousins, Betsey and Larry, our festooned group walked past blocks of Victorian homes to the center of the town square and plunged into the festivities. Marty and Sue set the standards high for Cheese Days garb, so we joined in the general craziness. We dressed as our favorite types of cheeses: French Brie, String Cheese, and Aged Cheddar. I know. Pretty cheesey, right? One of my friends says we looked "gouda." OK - no more cheese puns. Cheese Days began in 1914 when local businessman attended a neighboring town's "Sauerkraut Days"

My daughter told me recently that I am a part of the "gracefully aging" club. She intended this as a compliment. It came about when I was helping her choose an outfit to wear to junior high school. Because we werein the midst of spring, I suggested that she put a cardigan sweater over her t-shirt. "Mom," she sighed. "No one wears cardigans in my school. Except, maybe, the old teachers." "What? They're so cute! I wear cardigans," I insisted. "Well...they look good on you ," she said, back-peddling quickly. "But aren't they only worn by older teachers?" I pushed. Ever the diplomat, my beautiful and much younger offspring replied, "Yes, mom. But you look great. You're part of the gracefully aging club." Sigh. I am in my mid-forties. Actually, later mid-forties. I am only three short years away from the dreaded AARP application arriving in the mail. There are things I would want to wear that

Polynesian dresses were the order of the day as Chicago area Rockabilly types welcomed fall with the First Annual Fong Fest - a tiki fest featuring food, vendors, bands . . . and no palm trees anywhere. Bands, with names like The Hot Rod Huxters, The Concussions, The Dyes and The Neandrathals, graced the main stage wearing crazy get-ups from rubber skeleton masks to fur caveman outfits. Chicago's mayor of Rockabilly, Mr. Ken Mottet, emceed the two-day long event. Luckily, the temps had dropped to a respectable mid-70s, so the fur-wearers weren't sweating. It wasn't until 9 pm that the skies opened and guests rushed under the canopies or inside the restaurant to keep from washing away. Tiki vendors sold home decor and vintage clothing. My husband, Milt, inside the Chef. We enjoyed the company of John and Tina (my friend and fellow blogger at Retro Fashion is My Passion ). Go go dancers, a group named The Janes, entertained th

This is one of my favorite photos of my grandfather, or "Papa" as we called him. Papa (on the far right of the photo) retired from John Deere and Co. in Moline, Illinois. He worked long hours at his job in the foundry, work that was probably not particularly fulfilling. Yet, he got up at the crack of dawn, put on his work pants and boots, and took his black metal lunch box packed by my grandma each morning. He worked hard. My grandma, Honey, worked too. She labored in the home. She took odd jobs as a waitress or in a factory. She was determined, no matter what her circumstance to care for her children. Here she is at a coffee shop where she worked (on the far left of the photo). Most people in that generation were used to "labor." They did not see work as we see it, as a means to personal fulfillment. They weren't worried about their "calling" in life. They worked to put a meal on the table, to pay rent, to survive. According to Forbes