What a Trip

Today is another one of those milestones – the kind we looked forward to as a kid and have endured ever since. I received these pithy remarks in the mail and this seems an appropriate place to repeat my favorits:

inside every older lady is a younger lady -- wondering what the hell happened.

        Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut her up with cookies.

   Thirty-five is when you finally get your head together and your body starts falling apart.

     And my own thoughts as I celebrate my 86^th year: If you thought being a teenager or raising kids was hard, just look at it this way…It was just toughening you up for old age, ‘cause  old age sure ain't no place for sissies. But I’m enjoying the years, nevertheless!


A bit of history....

First birthday & no patience
for picture taking.

   

About 3 years. How about
that haircut

Second grade

Just another teenager but
that dress is made from
13¢ a yard fabric

Watermelon time on the farm

Sweet sixteen

My sailor is on leave

Our first apartment is upstairs and
is 9'x16' with a bath downstairs
and across this breezeway

Getting a sunburn & baby due
three months 

And here she is.And I'm a
mother at 18.

1947--reading my cousin's early
literary efforts. Twenty years later
she had a winner,

At second daughter's home wedding

Another home wedding...third daughter

A fall on my face sure affected my appearance.for
about a month. I looked much worse for awhile.

With a daughter and her family,

Just me and my dog. There's nothing like
a picture to remind a person of the years
gone by and the pounds that have been
gained. Wot happened to that 125 lb. girl
with the 23" waist?

Baling Wire and Spit

When being conservative was a way of life and had nothing to do with political leanings.

There is an old country saying that baling wire and spit will fix anything. I can vouch for the baling wire. Anyone who has ever lived on a farm knows that all quick repairs depend on that twist of baling wire hanging on a fence.

Baling wire was made to be fed into a hay baler to hold the hay in compact bales. Two strands were tightly wrapped around each bale and were strong enough to be a hand-hold for lifting and carrying the 50-75 lb. bales. After it was removed from the hay, it was often twisted around a fence or tossed aside in what often became huge piles of bundled, rusting wire, and from there became the most used, most indispensible and multipurpose item to ever come to the aid of a farm family. 

Baling wire has mended fences, made a gate fastener, mended a piece of harness, replaced or made a bucket handle, reinforced a sagging box or basket - whatever was broken, a piece of baling wire made a quick fix that often lasted for years.

When the day came that the patched, tied together objects were beyond help even from baling wire, they were stored in the barn. Why? Because there might be something salvageable: a bolt or nut, a piece of oak, a drawer pull or a hinge. Fifty years later they may still there, waiting to be discovered by an antique or junk dealer, and used to add atmosphere to someone’s patio – or their den-or to some eating establishment.

Those were the days before recycling had to be encouraged as necessary to save our planet. It was a way of life. Newspapers were used to start fires; advertising and promotional letters came printed on only one side, making handy drawing paper or shopping lists. Bread wrappers (whenever the luxury of bought bread was affordable) were saved, string that tied paper-wrapped purchases was rolled into balls, and sometimes used to crochet attractive doilies. Magazines were never thrown away. On our farm they were saved, their pages separated and used to line baskets holding tomatoes bound for the market. In those days tomatoes had tender skins. They could even be sliced without a knife with a serrated edge.

Despite the saving and multiple uses of everything that appeared on the farm in those depression years, every farm home accumulated a junk pile. A cup could be used without a handle but a broken bowl or plate had to be trashed. Old shoes eventually were worn beyond repair, and old bottles and broken jars were taken to the junk pile. Each new resident added another layer of discards to the accumulation. Today, they are a treasure trove for bottle collectors. Back in the ‘30s, treasure hunting kids ignored their mothers, and risked snake and spider bits, and the risk of broken glass, and poked around hoping to find something pretty. My only treasures were an ornate butter knife and a sugar spoon, both made of nickel silver. Not at all valuable, but a treasure never the less. Somehow they had escaped the watchful eyes of the former resident and had landed in the junk pile. They found a safe haven with me for I seldom throw anything away. I even know where they are at this moment - I think..

 Cans were plentiful in junk piles, but although not as versatile as baling wire, they were almost as useful. They were ideal for dipping feed for the chickens, a dozen or so or nail holes in the bottom of a large can made an excellent sprinkler for watering small delicate seedlings. They were more often put into use as holders for nails, and bolts and screws – or just the junk that was being saved because someday it might be useful. A generation later, no one knows what it was originally, and it becomes an interesting relic.

If the kids had run out of chores to keep them busy, tin can stilts would help burn off some of that extra energy. Turned upside down and with a couple of holes on either side near the top for attaching a strong cord, kids put a each foot on a can, held the cords in their hands, and walked as far as they could without falling off.

Besides these ‘close to the ground’ stilts to play with, there was kick the can, and walkie-talkies or play phones made of cans.

Another multiuse item was binder twine. It was widely used for binding bundles of grain - and often the dried stalks of corn. This was a hands-on job that called for long-sleeves and gloves. The corn stalks are cut, stacked in manageable bundles, and then tied tightly with binding twine. Then they are arranged in teepee like shocks to shed the rainfall and complete the drying process. Later they would be hauled to a shed and be taken to the mill for grinding. The stalks were not bare – the leaves were still intact and would make tiny stinging cuts and were simply unpleasant to handle. The dried tassels sifted their pollen into clothing and by the time the day’s work was over a worker was an itching, stinging, miserable person.

Even the twine was rough to handle. It came in tightly wound rolls about 9” in diameter, that for some reason had a hollow core. It was  made of either Manila or Sisal hemp, rough on the hands that handled it and had a slight creosote scent. It was also insect repellant.

Those picturesque Thanksgiving photographs of shocks of corn and pumpkins, represent many hours of stingy, itching, hard work.

Like baling wire, binding twine had other uses. It was extremely strong and practically indestructible. One of the main uses was to replace the worn-out seats of straight chairs. Occasionally this was done in an intricate weaving technique, but more often in a simple crisscross design. For comfort, a thin cushion was added – one made of scraps, of course.

Today we can add duct tape and masking tape to the “fix anything” list and tin can stilts, along with other can uses, have made their way into the crafts magazines as things for the kids to do.

And we of that older generation continue to tell our tales and write our memories – and hope those days never return. 

Snake tales

          When I was a kid, living on a farm far out in what some of my classmates liked to call "hoot owl" country, all seasons except the dead of winter was a snake season.
        That must have been the heart of copperhead land.  They loved the deep sand, post oak region then.. and now. We had no rattle snakes but could usually count on seeing a copperhead every day or two...if we were out and about, and especially in warm weather.
        Mother and I carried a sturdy stick. If you couldn't pound the rascal to death, you could at least scare it away. Dad, with his high topped work shoes, and overalls, didn't bother with arming himself.
        Often when walking to school, a copperhead would slither across the road, and we had to let it go its way, hoping it wouldn't be waiting for us some dark night when we were walking home from a school program. Carry a flash light? We didn't have such a luxury back in the good ole days.We had kerosene lanterns for real emergencies, but what kid in its right mind is going to carry a lantern  to a school function, regardless of the dark, copperheads, and lurking spooky things.
       After I left home, my parents tore down the old house and built a another. Stacks of old lumber made it as far as the backyard fence and remained there for some time. They had two dogs that got perturbed at some of the nighttime roamers that came into their yard and set up quite a racket. One night they seemed especially disturbed but Dad could see nothing needing his attention (by this time their living facilities included things like porch lights and flashlights), so he expected a snake had ventured into the yard, and shushed the dogs and went back to bed.
        The next morning, knowing the ways of dogs and copperheads, he decided it was time to investigate that pile of lumber, so he began moving it aside with a long handled hoe. And when he had finished, he had killed eleven copperheads.
         Another time we were visiting and the smaller children were playing on the front porch. One of them came in, big-eyed and excited, and said there was a snake out there in a bush by the porch. My hubby got his .22 and shot that fellow out of his resting place far up among the limbs of the tall bush. Nothing to get excited about...just another copperhead.


      A few years back, we cleaned out three barns preparing for an auction. They were full of stacked lumber, hay, accumulated junk that made its way to the barn instead of the dump ground or the handy ditches that were nearby. We dug...no, I dug, while my husband sorted through the treasures I uncovered, and decided what to sell and what we couldn't do without. I figured I was the experienced copperhead person and I would be careful. He just didn't take that copperhead haven seriously. So I was very careful and was amazed to disturb no snakes. After the auction and the buyers were carrying away their purchases, two big copperheads came out of their hiding place and  met their end before they made it to safety.
        It's not that we're vicious people. A copperhead bite is not only very painful but calls for a quick trip for treatment,  hospitalization and a painful recuperation.A victim is facing tissue loss and probably a period of therapy.


       Then there's rattlesnakes. A friend who lives in a different area...a rocky, hilly place, was enjoying the fresh spring breezes with her windows opened wide. She walked back to her bedroom and did a double-take. She was staring eye-to-eye with a big rattler. Nothing between them but a window screen. So far as I know, she's never   opened a window since.


         My last snake experience was in my house. One evening I glanced down the hall as I walked by and saw something that looked like a belt lying far down toward the end...yet not quite like a belt, and anyway, there was no reason for a belt to be lying on the floor. Nobody was living at that end of the house. Those thoughts took about two seconds to fly through my mind––then the belt wiggled and in that special, quavery voice that comes out when I need help and don't want to admit it, I called my husband.
        "Huh?" he responded from his recliner.
       "Snake," I squeaked.
       That got him on his feet to come over and make sure I knew a snake when I saw one. After all, he knew I was an experienced snake killer––I was the copperhead queen of owl-country. I was the gal that without fear, had tackled three barns of junk in snake-land, so the panicky call was a bit puzzling.
       Well, this was different. Out in the open, if you have no other options, you can walk away and leave a snake alone and hope you never meet again.
        In your house, if you walk away, your can be sure you'll meet again. Your house has become the snake's house, and this particular snake needed watching. It was on the move and it had two choices when it reached the end of the hall––the room directly ahead or the one on the right, which happened to be our son's room packed wall-to-wall with junk. If the snake entered that room. we'd never find it. And there was no way I was going to live in a house with a resident snake.
        Luckily for us, the snake went straight ahead, so hubby fetched a snake handling tool and with the fellow cornered, the situation was resolved and I still have a home.

       A lesson was learned– an open outside door, even one into the garage, is an invitation for a snake to come a-visiting. So even if you're going to be out only a minute of two, close that door. Most likely the snake that ventures in will be a harmless one, but once in, you either remove the fellow or live with the excitement of having a snake slither from beneath the couch or out of your closet, or.........

Dannie

The Good Ole Days

An Old Grismill

This afternoon a look at this old gristmill brought back memories of its original use––or at least what my dad intended to use it for.  I think he bought it at an old junk store called Fry’s on North Main Street, here in Weatherford, and being a do-it-yourself kind of guy, thought he could grind his own cornmeal.

It did grind the shelled corn he poured into its hopper, but turning the wheel produced nothing close to the fine meal Mother used for cornbread, It was very coarse, more like chicken feed, so it was retired to the barn where many years later I retrieved it and have now placed it in use far different from that of long ago.

I think he frequented the junk store quite often, and probably for the same reasons most of do nowadays–-to find something useful at only a few cents on a dollar, or something surprising nice. Like the cobalt blue cathedral bottle he bought for my mother. 

One day he came home with an old cast iron kettle and from then on, it sat on the back of the cookstove, providing a constant supply of hot water. It held the heat much longer than the previous aluminum one. And yes, I still have both. Would I throw anything away?  

No, of course not, and  glad I haven't. The    old "hot water heater" has turned into a great piece for holding those Christmas poinsettias.

            Usually, Dad’s suggestions were followed withoutquestioning. There was never, never, any argument––until the time we had no milk.

         Cows are not providers of a constant supply of milk. They take a break to have a baby calf and then again become a dependable supplier of fresh milk. This  eventuality is something a farmer plans for, but plans are merely plans, and occasionally  reality rules. So for several weeks we had no milk.

         In these modern times, a trip to the grocery store would be the logical thing to do, but these are tales of farm life in the Depression Era. A person did not drive twelve miles to town to buy milk, plus the ice to keep it chilled, in order to have fresh milk for a couple of days. Not even to pour over your morning cereal.

         Dad started each day fortified with a hefty breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal, some sort of cured pork,( although it usually began to taste a bit stale between hog-killing times),  an egg, and several biscuits.

         On the other hand, I refused to eat those slimy oats, merely poked at my eggs, would not drink milk, and was generally a bratty kid at breakfast time. So, even in those hard times, I was humored with boxed ceral—usually Post Corn Flakes which at that time cost less than 10¢ for a large box.

         So-o-o, we had no milk. Dad doused his bowl of slimy oats with generous helpings of butter and sugar. I stared at choices: my box of dry cereal, the platter of scrambled eggs, or the remaining dish of oats.  My father suggested I add sugar and water to the corn flakes and they’d be almost as good as before.

         With the choices before me, that seemed like the best idea so I dished up my corn flakes and sugar, and tried the new watery taste. It was a taste I never tried again. And Dad never suggested it again.


Ah-h, the good ole days!


Dannie

        

  

        

Wimpy, A Lot of Bull

Wimpy, the bull

A family friend, who is not prone to exaggeration,, told this story about an experience of his, back in a cold icy spell a few winters ago.

He lives in a small town but has a small herd of cattle a few miles out in the country. Cattle are notoriously hard on boundary fences, living by the old adage that the grass is greener on the other side, and thus frequently find themselves grazing on a neighboring pasture. Naturally, they don’t remain by the spot of entry. They wander. Sometimes miles. Sometimes even into another pasture or out into a road.

Farmers and rancher are a little possessive about their available grass, especially in times of drought, when grazing begins to get in short supply, and cattle wandering along a road is always frowned upon, so action is called for.

So this is life in the country. Fences get old. Fence posts rot and break off, or staples holding the barbed wire loosen, making an apparently sturdy barrier nothing more than a than an annoyance to a hungry cow reaching for that blade of green grass on the other side.

Fence building is time consuming and hard work, Farmers generally have too little of the first and too much of the second, so cattle often roam from their home pasture into that of a neighbor.

Country folks usually know their neighbors fairly well, but they are not quite as well acquainted with each herd member. After all, one white-faced Hereford, or Black Angus looks very much like another, so the owner is not always readily identified. When stray cattle are spotted and their owner not known, the sheriff’s department is generally notified.

The deputies, whose duty is to remove the roaming cattle and find the owner, often get well acquainted with these herd members. They often have a closer contact than they’d prefer, for that cow grazing so peacefully often develops an attitude when she’s being herded toward a strange trailer. If she happens to have a young calf by her side, well, to paraphrase another old saying ––Hell has no fury like a mama cow when a stranger approaches her baby.

Then there’s the self-appointed protector of his herd. If the bull happened to take advantage of the break in the fence, and has meandered along with other herd members, nobody wants to test his feelings toward the two-legged intruders into his otherwise pleasant day.

On this icy day, our friend got a phone call from a frantic deputy who had recognized the cattle but was not familiar with the herd’s guardian – a black angus bull not in the least interested in moving along toward the deputy’s trailer. Neither was the deputy interested in testing his powers of persuasion, so my friend, Matt, was called.

Of course, Matt didn’t want his cattle annoying his neighbor or wandering out on the road and causing an accident, and the deputy sounded especially perturbed,so he hurried the three or four miles out to the location the deputy had called from. Once there, it was easy to understand the deputy’s frantic call. He was sitting atop the cab of his pickup, shivering in the cold wind, and intently watching every move of the herd bull––a big fellow standing over five’ 8” at the shoulders, apparently very interested in the strange actions of the law officer.

Matt assured the deputy that he was in no danger from Wimpy, the bull, and could descend from his perch, but the officer thought differently, and remained where he hoped he’d be out of reach if the big fellow decided to meander over to get acquainted.

The small group of cattle had not wandered far from the break in the fence, so Matt walked over to Wimpy, gave him a pat on the head and turned toward the home pasture with the big fellow following docilely, the rest of the herd falling in behind.

A few days later, as the icy weather became worse, Matt went to the farm to put out hay. He slipped on the ice and fell. He twisted and turned, but could not get enough traction on the icy surface to  get to his feet. There was nothing within reach to be of help in pulling himself upright. He was beginning to wonder how he was going to get out of his predicament when Wimpy walked over, lowered his head to our helpless friend, who immediately took a firm grip and was raised upright.

Who would’ve thought such a thing could happen? Wimpy was truly a lot of bull, but this story isn’t.

A Smart Kid

Exam questions and student answers:

Q1. In which battle did Napoleon die?

* his last battle

Q2. Where was the Declaration of Independence signed?

* at the bottom of the  page

Q3. River Ravi flows in which state?

* liquid

Q4. What is the main reason for divorce?

* marriage

Q5. What is the main reason for failure?

* exams

Q6. What can you never eat for breakfast?

* Lunch & dinner

Q7. What looks like half an apple?

* The other half

Q8. If you throw a red stone into the blue sea what it will become?

* It will simply become wet

Q9. How can a man go eight days without sleeping ?

* No problem, he sleeps at night.

Q10. How can you lift an elephant with one hand?

* You will never find an elephant that has only one hand..

Q11. If you had three apples and four oranges in one hand and four apples and three oranges in other hand, what would you have ?

* Very large hands

Q12. If it took eight men ten hours to build a  wall, how long would it take four men to build it?

* No time at all, the wall is already  built.

Q13. How can u drop a raw egg onto a concrete floor without cracking it?

*Any way you want, concrete floors are very hard to crack.

Would you have had a better answer?

The Game of Politics - Are We Having Fun Yet?

Politics! It gets to be such a silly game with such serious consequences.

Currently Mrs. Romney is roasting on the spit because of the assumption she has no clue to the problems women are facing as they juggle a job outside the home, homemaker and mother duties, and sometimes, a second job. It is quite true that she has not had to deal with the problems,but that does not make her oblivious to to these issues.

Do we know Mrs. Romney well enough to judge her capabilities? Do we know her at all?

Now think upon these situations in which our country had leaders responsible for directing  our lives and those of our children, who, if judged by the same criteria as Mrs. Romney, should never have risen to such positions of influence.

·     Not too far in the past it was reported that the Secretary of State at that time, had never held a job in the general work force. He was very well educated, a polical economist, professor, political commentator, and author. His latest book, Aftershock, is a serious study of America’s economic future. With that background and brainpower he must have been highly qualified, BUT he had no hands-on experience, as I recall. Look it up––Robert Benard Reich.

·    Shirley Mount Hufstedler had an impressive career in law, rising from private practice to Judge of U.S. Court of Appeals, Ninth Circuit. Jimmy Carter appointed her as the first the first U. S. Secretary of Education. Apparently, she had not been a teacher in an over-crowded class room, faced belligerent students and parents, or struggled with curriculum problems. She was obviously a very brainy  lady, but again no hands-on experience.

I researched no farther. The above are only examples to point out the way one little issue becomes hotly discussed, while similar ones have existed for years.

 Perhaps it would be more timely to whip up more concern about the direction our nation is taking and the problems it is facing, instead of Ann Romney’s ability (or inability) to emphasize with the average woman whose life is affected by these issues. 

I feel certain that if our future president seems to need advice on women’s issues, the women of our nation will find time to pass on their opinions.  Reckon we can manage to do that?

Rocking Chair Journey: Dandy's Yogg

Rocking Chair Journey: Dandy's Yogg: Easter at My House       Woof, woof. I'm back again. I need to tell you about what happened a few days ago. My Lady's whole pack came v...

Dandy's Yogg

Easter at My House

      Woof, woof. I'm back again. I need to tell you about what happened a few days ago. My Lady's whole pack came visiting. Well, I heard it wasn't all of them, but there were twelve big'uns and three little ones and a teeny tiny little thing.
     Well like a proper host I tried to greet everyone. I asked them all sorts of questions about what they'd been doing, but I didn't get any sensible answers. It just beats me what they get out of getting together and making a lot of noise that a fellow like me can't understand. I just gave up.
      My Lady insisted I get in my bed, so it seemed like a good thing to do if I didn't want to get squashed so that's what I did––at least while she was watching. And boy, that woman has eyes like a hawk. I couldn't even sneak down to the end of my couch for a nice snooze.

Then, whoosh, they were all outside. Craziest pack I ever saw. Those three little ones were running around holding baskets and spilling stuff that they were finding in all sorts of crazy places. Now I go out in that yard every day and I have never seen such things as they were finding. I must not have been living right 'cause they sure were having fun. Of course I  wasn't allowed to find any of that pretty stuff.

I got to look around a little but I didn't see anything to get all excited about. I guess it's just a people thing.


One of those little fellows took
a liking to My Lady. He kinda
liked me, too. He got in My Lady's lap and just stayed there. Now, I'm definitely not a lap dog.
As you well know, I'm a guard dog, but enough is enough. I finally crawled right up there with that little fellow and My Lady
sure had a lap full. Everybody thought it was funny, but to my way of thinking, it was time to make my presence known, before she forgot who took care of things around here.

Well, it was a nice day and I decided My Lady might have had the right idea about insisting I share my couch with the visitors. I got a lot of petting 'cause I guess they appreciated sharing my place, and it didn't take long for me to figure out that my corner was a good safe place to watch all the activity. There were a lot of good smells, too. You know how that goes, though––"sweets aren't good for dogs,"  or "He doesn't need any fat." I wouldn't have minded a chance to make my own decision but I guess a poor dumb dog needs taking care of.

Little do they know! Woof

We've Come a Long Way, Baby

                                                                         

A hot issue

        We have come a long way but it’s taken two hundred years, the persistence of some very determined women, two World Wars, and an explosion of technological advances. after World War Two. All these have combined to place women in their present position. 

  We’ve moved from the washtub, rub board, and clothesline, to automatic washer and dryer sets, with numerous settings to control each phase of the washday chore.

  We’ve exchanged the fireplace and wood cook stove for sophisticated stoves that cook when we want, and how we want, without our oversight, although one that will stir the sauce, or turn the bacon, doesn’t seem to be on the market.

   Freezers and microwaves have changed both shopping and meal preparation time, and changed a lot of eating habits.

   In addition to all that, air conditioning has changed the kitchen from a sweatshop to a rather pleasant place for the family or guests to congregate during the meal preparation.

   Yep, all that’s nice. In fact, it’s extremely nice, but also absolutely necessary in the society that has changed as rapidly as technology. Women’s work outside the home would not be possible without the helping hands of their improved appliances and often those of their husbands. No longer “just a housewife” they were upgraded to “homemaker.” So what are they now?  

      There’s a bit of a political controversy going on that may show that they’re a mean, mad, fighting machine. To say they’re stirred up over some recent actions and opinions of our lawmakers is an understatement. They are furious. After years of struggling for recognition as persons of great capabilities, and having proved that fact time and time again, many women are insulted by laws that are being enacted that affect their personal decision-making, and even the future of their family.

      Women have long been involved in controversies over their rights. It’s a depressing issue. Is it a carry-over from our pre-historical days? The cartoonish image of a guy with a club dragging his chosen mate by the hair back to his cave comes to mind. We really have come a long way! So have the guys, thank goodness.

      Putting fun thoughts aside, today’s woman has had none of the frustrating experiences of those early women who fought so hard for women’s suffrage.  And it started while the Revolutionary War was in progress – even while leaders of the colonies were meeting to draw up the guidelines for the independent country they were hoping to become.

      Records show that a 1776 letter from Abigail Adams, written to her husband, John Adams, who was meeting with that group, made the gentle suggestion that they “remember the ladies”  in the new code of laws. She got this reply: “The men will fight the ‘despotism of the petticoat’.” This came from a man who became the first vice-president, and the man who became the second president of our country. Was this a bit of humor? Quite likely it was. In his reply he may have been using a humorous approach to disguise the harsh truth – that the women would not have equal rights in this newly formed country.

Another point of view

      Old records show that  from the beginning of our nation, women were asking for the right to vote and be allowed to shape this new nation, It was not to be. State after state denied them that right. In the 1800s, the ladies began to organize. Even so, it was a long battle. Those women who persisted in being at the forefront of the issue of women’s rights, were sneered at, arrested, jailed and fined. Why? Why did it take these activist and reformers almost 100 years to win the fight that they, like men, deserved all the rights and responsibilities of citizenship.

    

Imagine this:

        In the early 1870s, when  Myra Bradwell applied for admission to the Illinois state bar in accordance with that state’s law that permitted any adult of good character and sufficient training to be admitted, she was refused.

      Because she was a woman the state’s supreme court denied her admission on the grounds that “the strife of the bar would surely destroy femininity. Bradwell appealed. The U.S. Supreme Court decided it was within the power of Illinois to limit membership to the bar to men only. One Justice dissented.  Another wrote:

        “ Man is, or should be, woman's protector or defender. The         natural and proper timidity and delicacy which belongs to the female sex evidently unfits it for many of the occupations of civil life.... The paramount destiny and mission of woman are to fulfill the benign offices of wife and mother. This is the law of the Creator. And the rules of civil society must be adapted to the general constitution of things, and cannot be based on exceptional cases.”

    Our dignified and learned gentlemen of the court seemed to overlook some important facts in their ruling. Women had been doing whatever was necessary for their families since the dark ages. In the more recent history of our country they fought Indians, nursed the ill and injured, and were instrumental in establishing schools, hospitals and charitable institutions.

     Apparently the considerable strife involved in these activities did not destroy their femininity, for they continued to give birth and raise large families. No wife and mother, then or now, would classify these as a “benign” occupation. In addition to these obvious facts, many women did not have that protector the Justice spoke of.

       Finally the long battle was over. In 1920, millions of women were proud and determined to exercise their right to vote.  Ninety-two years ago!

      That’s a short history of women’s fight for equality. Our present-day laws give women the right to vote, fight, and work at whatever we’re qualified to do – although most people will agree that many jobs are filled by persons of either sex, who are far from qualified

      

      Today’s women are descendants of those who entered the work force en masse when WWII broke out. They worked as mechanics, painters, riveters – whatever needed doing, they did it. Those who had never dreamed of driving that wild monster of a family car, learned to do so, and learned how to keep it running, when it started acting persnickety. Remember, this was in the days of the Great Depression, and the family vehicle was a very distant relative of those of today. So were the roads.

      Then, sadly, with thousands of men killed in that war, a large number of women continued to use their new skills to support themselves and their families. So the die was cast. Women entered many fields. They became laborers, business owners, members of Congress, Governors and diplomats. They have proven they deserved that right to vote and were most capable of assuming the rights and responsibilities of citizenship that their predecessors fought for.

      So here we are in 2012, and another battle is brewing. With all the advances that have been made, women are aghast and infuriated by recent laws or proposed laws that limit their right to decide what course of action is best for them and their families. These issues are being brought forth across the nation, often promoted by legislators and candidates, who have never experienced or thought deeply about the consequences of the laws they are endorsing. 

      It has become a very emotional time for many people. Not only for women. Religion, health, financial situations, and the freedom to direct one’s personal life, are all involved. In one way or another, the effects of these laws will be widespread and touch the lives of almost everyone.

Think carefully in the coming months. Encourage our Leaders and the Wannabes to consider very carefully the results of all they promote, and let’s hope for some good old

common sense decisions

Certainly the Voters need to exercise theirs.