Musings of the Chronologically Challenged™ Fourth Generation

 
Polly want a derogatory term
for a Melanin-Challenged Euro-American?

Dear Word Detective: Can you tell me the origin of the word "cracker"? Someone told me that it dated back to the slave days, when slave owners were called "crackers" because they cracked a whip on slaves. Is this true? -- Cygerr, via the internet.

Probably not, although that is one oft-heard theory among many. But before we proceed any further, we'd better back up a bit and explain (especially for our overseas readers) that "cracker" is a derogatory slang term usually used to mean a poor white person resident in the Southern U.S., especially in the state of Georgia, which is sometimes referred to as "the Cracker State." More than simply a regional slur, "cracker" carries the implication that the person is a racist, and is sometimes applied to any white person perceived as harboring racist sentiments, regardless of class or geographic particulars.

There are theories tracing "cracker" to the crack of a slavemaster's whip, or to "corncracker" (slang for country folk, who presumably ate a lot of corn). But the actual source is almost certainly the much older slang sense of "to crack" meaning "to boast or brag," first seen around 1460, and its derivative "cracker," meaning "braggart," which appeared around 1509. The earliest use of "cracker" used in the "poor white" sense discovered so far bears out the connection. In a letter written to the Earl of Dartmouth in 1766, an observer named Gavin Cochrane, referring to bands of outlaws operating at that time in the Southern U.S., noted: "I should explain to your Lordship what is meant by crackers; a name they have got from being great boasters; they are a lawless set of rascalls on the frontiers of Virginia, Maryland, the Carolinas and Georgia, who often change their places of abode."

Evidently these outlaws were so successful that their exploits, along with their bragging habits, became legendary throughout the eastern United States. By the early 19th century, "cracker" had become a term applied to poor Southern whites in general.

[Yes, it's dedicated to him!]


posted by HCL at 8:03 PM

 
Work Hard--Do your best--Keep your word--Never get too big for your britches--Trust in God--Have no fear--and Never forget a friend. ~~Harry S. Truman

[Indigo: Harry Who?]



You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. ~~James D. Miles

[Indigo: Pause to cogitate.]



Praise and blame, gain and loss, pleasure and sorrow come and go like the wind. To be happy, rest like a giant tree in the midst of them all. ~~Buddha

[Indigo: The Buddha didn't tell us how best to accomplish this in the midst of a political maelstrom of unprecedented hate mongering. I am trying to think like a giant tree. ]



God's Blog
Maybe I should have never started this whole "Earth" experiment in the first place. In fact, maybe it's time to terminate it before it gets any worse out of control. I'm going to go make myself a pot of flavandia and think about this some more.

From a February 2003 post by South Knox Bubba.






posted by HCL at 2:48 PM

 
FROM MY "ANYTHING BUT POLITICS" FILE


SIGNS, SIGNS, EVERYWHERE A SIGN

TOILET OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE FLOOR BELOW

In a Laundromat:
AUTOMATIC WASHING MACHINES: PLEASE REMOVE ALL YOUR CLOTHES WHEN THE LIGHT GOES OUT

In a London department store:
BARGAIN BASEMENT UPSTAIRS

In an office:
WOULD THE PERSON WHO TOOK THE STEP LADDER YESTERDAY PLEASE BRING IT BACK OR FURTHER STEPS WILL BE TAKEN

In an office:
AFTER TEA BREAK STAFF SHOULD EMPTY THE TEAPOT AND STAND UPSIDE DOWN ON THE DRAINING BOARD

Outside a secondhand shop:
WE EXCHANGE ANYTHING - BICYCLES, WASHING MACHINES, ETC. WHY NOT BRING YOUR WIFE ALONG AND GET A WONDERFUL BARGAIN?

Notice in health food shop window:
CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS

Spotted in a safari park:
ELEPHANTS PLEASE STAY IN YOUR CAR

Seen during a conference:
FOR ANYONE WHO HAS CHILDREN AND DOESN'T KNOW IT, THERE IS A DAY CARE ON THE 1ST FLOOR

Notice in a farmer's field:
THE FARMER ALLOWS WALKERS TO CROSS THE FIELD FOR FREE, BUT THE BULL CHARGES.

Message on a leaflet:
IF YOU CANNOT READ, THIS LEAFLET WILL TELL YOU HOW TO GET LESSONS

On a repair shop door:
WE CAN REPAIR ANYTHING. (PLEASE KNOCK HARD ON THE DOOR - THE BELL DOESN'T WORK)

[In the Mail Box from Deanna, Swansboro, NC]



THE YELLOW SHIRT

The baggy yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. It was faded from years of wear but still in decent shape. I found it in 1963 when I was home from college on Christmas break, rummaging through bags of clothes Mom intended to give away. "You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing the yellow shirt. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"

"It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.

The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois. But that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier. That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. When Mom wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.

The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt!

And so the pattern was set.

On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living-room floor lamp. The yellow shirt was just what I needed now while refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.

In 1975 my husband and I divorced. With my three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."

I tried to picture myself wearing God's armor, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armor? My courage was renewed.

Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.

Meanwhile, I found a good job at a radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet. Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words "I BELONG TO PAT."

Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER." But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, VA. We enclosed an official looking letter from "The Institute for the Destitute," announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.

Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: "Read John 14:27-29. I love you both, Mother."

That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me."
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year at age 57.

I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.

[In the Mail Box from Cousin Kimberly, Greenville, NC]




posted by HCL at 6:14 PM

 
SECOND EDITION

This is the second posting for this writing. The first is lost in space somewhere. Murphy's Law will tell you it was better written and referenced than this one, but you'll get the idea if you dig around a little.

Jack said:
I've just been told I make "holier than thou" remarks by someone I think highly of in blogworld. I didn't see how any remarks I made could be interpreted that way, so it's obvious I need to look at myself and what I've been writing.

Indigo commented:
How ironic that I came back for the second time today to fact-check your "Whatever Feels Good" post for a reference on my blog. Is this the one referred to as "holier than thou"? And let me get this straight -- You're going to "look at" yourself because of a remark by ONE reader -- however highly you think of him/her? How about the rest of us, your readers who look forward to your very honest writing and never think "holier than thou"? For me your writings usually strike a chord that was there in me, but not articulated until you gave your thoughts. So thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.
Posted by Indigo at August 25, 2004 11:57 PM

Visit Random Fate and read this and this for recent samples of Jack's depth of thoughts and how he channels them. Leave a comment of your opinion. Is he "holier" or "clearer"? I have always enjoyed Random Fate, but it's possible an open mind is a prerequisite for getting into Jack's space. No archives, but a little scrolling will turn up some interesting articles.




posted by HCL at 9:11 PM

 
INTERESTING PARALLELISM?

In the past weeks of computer confusion and personal chaos, I have fallen far behind in clearing my Inbox. Yesterday I began the long ordeal of scanning, reading, and/or deleting backed up emails. Do you believe there are only coincidences? Well, you can call it a coincidence that I came upon the following from John Two-Hawks' July newsletter, but it struck a special chord in me, considering some bloggers' trials and tribulations over the last couple of weeks. It's been really tough on some of them. I hope they read this excerpt and it sparks something in them, as it did in me. ~B. Indigo

Let us give thanks....
Many of you are likely familiar with the 'Traditions' CD, in which I collaborated with premier Celtic composer and musician, Manach. Manach, who is also known as Seamus Byrne, lives a contemplative, monastic life in the Wicklow Mountains of Ireland. To put it simply, he is a monk. His community has a creed which is the focus for their lives and spiritual contemplation. It is - "To see the goodness of God in all things." Anyone who has spent any time with Manach will tell you that the man embodies this creed. Many times in life, it can be difficult to find a blessing. Clouds of despair or trouble can hang over us, overshadowing our hopes and even our happiness. Yes, that's right, sometimes life can just plain suck! I can tell you that after having been on tour with Manach for a few weeks, I often find myself wanting to be a better person. It seems that little irritations don't bother me as much, and I find myself wanting to be kind even to people who drive me bananas! Manach is truly a special human being. Without really trying, a friend like Manach can open your eyes to a blessing you didn't see before.
I have a painting in my home which is entitled "Entering the Spirit World". In the painting, a plains Indian man is crossing the river that divides the physical world from the Spirit World. Throughout this piece of art, there are several images which are hidden deeply, so deeply that if I didn't tell you there were hidden images, you would never know. It amazes me to watch someone look right at a hidden image and still not see it. Life is the same. Often the answer to a problem, or a beautiful blessing is right before our eyes, yet we can't see it. Then someone like Manach comes along, and provides a hint and suddenly it comes into view. So when the dark clouds roll in, and life just plain sucks, seek a friend who can help reveal the silver lining in those gray clouds. It will be good medicine for your soul to find the hidden blessings which show us 'the goodness of God in all things'....

In the spirit of mending the sacred hoop of the nations of the world,
Your Oglala Lakota brother & friend,
John Two-Hawks
http://www.nativecircle.com
http://www.johntwohawks.com




BEN STEIN WRITES HIS LAST E! ONLINE
Perhaps his best yet

I no longer think Hollywood stars are terribly important. They are uniformly pleasant, friendly people, and they treat me better than I deserve to be treated. But a man or woman who makes a huge wage for memorizing lines and reciting them in front of a camera is no longer my idea of a shining star we should all look up to.

A real star is the soldier of the 4th Infantry Division who poked his head into a hole on a farm near Tikrit, Iraq. He could have been met by a bomb or a hail of AK-47 bullets. Instead, he faced an abject Saddam Hussein and the gratitude of all of the decent people of the world.

A real star, the kind who haunts my memory night and day, is the U.S. soldier in Baghdad who saw a little girl playing with a piece of unexploded ordnance on a street near where he was guarding a station. He pushed her aside and threw himself on it just as it exploded. He left a family desolate in California and a little girl alive in Baghdad.

The stars who deserve media attention are not the ones who have lavish weddings on TV but the ones who patrol the streets of Mosul even after two of their buddies were murdered and their bodies battered and stripped for the sin of trying to protect Iraqis from terrorists.

We put couples with incomes of $100 million a year on the covers of our magazines. The noncoms and officers who barely scrape by on military pay but stand on guard in Afghanistan and Iraq and on ships and in submarines and near the Arctic Circle are anonymous as they live and die.

Read Ben Stein's entire article here. It spotlights Americans who are the real stars of our nation and tells of his learning what the important things in life really are. According to Mr. Stein, having dinner in a Hollywood restaurant is not one of them. He ends his essay with a quote from the real JFK. A good one to remember. ~B. Indigo



Christ a Democrat? No Way!
Written by Kevin Stone
Sunday, August 22, 2004




posted by HCL at 8:32 AM

 
DAY OF THANKS

Our friend, the GOC of Winston Salem, may not have completely turned the corner yet, but thanks be that he is on the upswing today!!! Continue to soak up all the good vibes and prayers, GOC - even from the "mean-spirited Conservatives"!!


And on a totally unrelated matter FROM THE MAIL BOX:

THE BENEFITS OF AGING

Aging: Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.
------------------------------------------
The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.
------------------------------------------
Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me, I want people to know "why" I look this way. I've traveled a long way and some of the roads weren't paved.
--------------------------------------------
How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?
----------------------------------------------
When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra.
---------------------------------------------
You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks.
----------------------------------------------
I don't know how I got over the hill without getting to the top.
----------------------------------------------
One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it is such
a nice change from being young.
----------------------------------------------
Ah, being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable.
-----------------------------------------------
Old age is when former classmates are so gray and wrinkled and bald, they don't recognize you.
----------------------------------------------
If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to
laugh at when you are old.
--------------------------------------
First you forget names, then you forget faces. Then you forget to pull up your zipper. It's worse when you forget to pull it down.
-------------------------------------------
Long ago when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called Witchcraft. Today, it's called golf.

[via Kirsten, Greenville, NC]





posted by HCL at 2:38 PM

 
NOBODY DOES IT BETTER THAN - - -


Michael King and LaShawn Barber on separation of church and state

Michelle Malkin and SayUncle on gun control or Jeff Soyer on gun clubs

Rivrdog on Employment Applications

Chuck on dog running, snakes and apostrophes

GOC I and GOC II on current events and being Grouchy Old Cripples

The Cajun on Louisiana politicians.

The Straight White Guy on the law of the jungle

Random Fate on The Power of Words (scroll)

Wizbang on memorializing Elvis with his grocery list

Laserlefty on leaving a house in order for Reality Check's return

Spudlets on Weekend TidBits

Boudicca on getting three sons Back To School

Acidman on honoring his friends


Thanks to these bloggers (as well as others on my Secret Squirrel blogroll) who keep on keeping on. while I just give up with frustration at the off again, on again online situation here at the Indigo House. So even if I don't have anything here for you in case you drop in, I do so appreciate your faithful contributions. Just wanted you to know that. CU whenever.

posted by HCL at 12:02 AM

 
CHARLEY'S DAY

It's a night like any other night. Settling down time for the household after all have had their evening meals. The dogs have run and are sleeping. The cats have washed their faces and are snuggled down in their individual favorite spots on my bed. In a rare run of luck, the laptop is functional and is on the bed with the critters and me, ready for the nightly blog surfing. A typical evening at the Indigo house, but the quiet, tranquil ambiance of the bedroom belies the frenzy of the day. The Day of Charley.

There will be no sleep for me tonight in the foreseeable future hours, with the television images of Charley's path fresh in my mind. I am safe and comfortable, but in the wake of former hurricanes, I was not so fortunate. In a small way I am in tune with the suffering families in Florida tonight. I've seen my home in tatters, roof torn open, house half full of water, no power for a week in the hottest and most humid time of the year, trees lying over the property, other people's piers washed up in my yard and my own pier gone. The devastation following a direct hit of a hurricane is indescribable and neverending. The scars and damage to homes and property last for years. The financial ruin takes years to overcome as well. It's too horrible to imagine combining such shock and trauma with loss of life. In that horror I can not relate to Floridians tonight.

Please hold the people in Florida close to your hearts in prayer, meditation, or whatever you do to invoke spiritual strength for yourself and others. They need so much help and support now and for a long time to come.


posted by HCL at 10:32 PM

 
THE ROBERT YEARS
My Black Brother


As the Great Depression wound down in the Thirties, it wasn't just the economy and life styles of Americans that needed help. Our spirits needed rejuvenated also. Today "the poor" have cars, TVs, cell phones, and government aid that enables them to live at a higher standard than most of the population of the earth. The poor of the 1930s knew what real poverty was.

Case in point was my black brother, Robert. When I was about 18 months old, he came to live with my family (Daddy, Mother and I) because his mother could no longer feed and clothe him. In doing the very best that she could for the seven-year old little boy, his mother found a home for him with good people who she knew would take on another mouth to feed: My family.

Unlike too many other Americans, Daddy was lucky enough to be employed with a regular "salary" of $5.00 per week, on which he supported a wife and toddler. Robert's mother, Annie, approached my parents about taking in her little boy. She said he was smart and strong and could do simple chores that would be helpful to my mother. Daddy and Mother let their hearts be their guide in making the decision to temporarily adopt Robert. They had known Annie for a long time and knew her to be a decent person down on her luck, just like most everybody else in those days. And that is how I acquired a seven-year old black brother.

We lived in an apartment with a combination living room-bedroom, a large kitchen, and a bathroom. I can't remember the day Robert came to live with us, but over my lifetime Mother shared stories of the two years he was with us. My personal memories of Robert during those two years are mostly of being entertained by a sweet, smiling little boy. I can remember us on the floor playing with toys and I can get a memory flash of all of us having meals together. The rest of The Robert Years with my big brother was told to me by Mother.

Daddy acquired a cot for Robert, and Mother improvised a corner of the kitchen, screened off for privacy, as his bedroom. Mother said Robert was so tickled to have a bed of his own and enough food to eat that he never seemed to go through a "homesick" period. He adjusted almost overnight and so did we. He was very mannerly and well-behaved, thanks to Annie, and Mother said she never regretted the decision to share our home with him.

Robert arrived barefoot, with a small paper bag of clothes, so the second order of business, after preparing his sleeping quarters, was to take him shopping for shoes. His little cherub face actually beamed when he showed off his new shoes to Daddy when he got home from work. In fact, every small milestone of progress elicited pure joy in Robert. And HE was a joy to us. He was treated as my ready-made big brother from the day he came to live with us. Mother supervised his activities just as carefully as she did mine. Food, clean clothes, personal hygiene, and educational activities were always available to me and my brother. Mother read to both of us and built self-reliance and self-esteem in both of us. She was lavish with praise when we did well. And just as quickly pointed out our mistakes so we could learn by them.

Robert attended school every day. It was a segregated school, as were all schools of the day, but Mother made sure he arrived on time, with a good breakfast under his belt. She helped him with his homework and he proudly brought home his report cards. He was a good student and a good son and brother.

Daddy was a great father figure for Robert. As they worked together on various home projects and chores, Robert learned proficiency and pride in his work. Many folks raised their own chickens for food for the table, and Daddy kept a pen in our back yard. Care and feeding of the chickens became Robert's daily chore. He took this responsibiity very seriously for such a young lad. With Daddy as his taskmaster, Robert also learned to mend the wire fence and make sure the chickens didn't get out. Sometimes Mother would remind him to feed the chickens if he had lost track of time in his play. The first thing Daddy would ask him when he got home from work would be "Did you give the chickens feed and fresh water?" Robert always wanted to be able to answer "Yes sir" with a big grin in order to bask in Daddy's praise and approval. Daddy never had a biological son, but he was proud of Robert for the rest of his life.

In the small village of about 2,000 population, with everything within walking distance, everyone walked everywhere they went. The grocery store was a little over two blocks from where we lived and Robert would often run to the store to pick something up that Mother needed to finish cooking a meal. One day, right after Christmas, Mother asked him to go to the store and get a quart of milk. Robert had gotten a new pair of skates for Christmas and he wanted to skate to the grocery store, but Mother vetoed the idea. He begged to go to the store on his new skates. Mother told him no. Milk was only available in glass containers back then and Mother told him he may fall with the milk, cut himself, plus spill the milk. Robert pleaded. "I'll be real careful. I won't fall. I won't break the glass. Please. Please." Of course, Mother finally gave in and away he skated. It was only a little while before he was back, holding up the glass bottle of milk with pride, although his little knees and elbows were scraped and bloody. "Oh, Robert," she said, "how in the world did you get so badly hurt yet not break the milk?" Grinning through his tears, Robert replied "I didn't break the milk because I knew I was falling and I held it up high in the air." Whenever Mother would tell that story, and she remembered it forever, a wistfully sad smile would come to her lips as she recalled what a thoughtful and good son Robert was. She was proud of him too.

Robert lived with us for about two years. Although I was only three and a half when he went back to Annie, I have loving memories of my own in addition to all the "Robert stories" I heard for years and years to come.

When he graduated from high school he left our little village and went to Brooklyn to live with an older brother. There he was able to get a very good job (for the time) as an orderly in a hospital, where he worked and earned promotions until he retired. Sadly, he didn't live very long after retirement and did not get to "come back home" as he had planned.

During my growing up years, Robert would come to visit us from time to time and always called me "Little Sis." After I was married and had children of my own, when he came to town for a visit with his relatives he would stop by to see my parents and me too. On those visits he addressed my children as his "nephew and neice." He was a good, kind man and a wonderful big brother. The Robert Years was an inspiring chapter in my life.


posted by HCL at 12:42 PM

 
~~~~~ ATTENTION WOMEN VOTERS!!! ~~~~~
This piece will be posted at the beginning of each month until the November election.

My grandmother, "Mammy" to all who loved her, was one of the first women voters in the United States. She was married in 1898 and immediately became the property of her husband. Voting was the first right given to her as an American citizen. Within the seclusion and secrecy of the voting booth, she could make a decision without consulting her husband. She wasn't chattel in that booth, but a thinking being, choosing for herself. It's hard to believe that less than a hundred years ago in this country, American women were perceived and treated much as Arab women are today. When I was a child, young adult, and mother of my own children, I didn't understand why voting was such a big issue with Mammy. She never learned to drive, so every election day someone had to drive her to the polls to exercise her hard-earned right - basically her only freedom of choice. She lived to be 82 years old, but aches or pains, rain or shine, she made it to the polls every year to cast her vote, even if only a dog catcher was running. Voting was her only freedom and she exercised it to the utmost. I didn't get it then. I do now, after reading the story that Mammy lived.


Remembering How Women Got the Vote

The women were innocent and defenseless. And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 helpless women wrongly convicted of "obstructing sidewalk traffic."

They beat Lucy Burn, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air. They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the "Night of Terror" on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms. When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

So, refresh my memory. Some women won't vote this year because--why, exactly? We have carpool duties? We have to get to work? Our vote doesn't matter? It's raining?

Last week, I went to a sparsely attended screening of HBO's new movie "Iron Jawed Angels." It is a graphic depiction of the battle these women waged so that I could pull the curtain at the polling booth and have my say. I am ashamed to say I needed the reminder.

There was a time when I knew these women well. I met them in college--not in my required American history courses, which barely mentioned them, but in women's history class. That's where I found the irrepressibly brave Alice Paul. Her large, brooding eyes seemed fixed on my own as she stared out from the page. Remember, she silently beckoned. Remember.

I thought I always would. I registered voters throughout college and law school, worked on congressional and presidential campaigns until I started writing for newspapers. When Geraldine Ferraro ran for vice president, I took my 9-year-old son to meet her. "My knees are shaking," he whispered after shaking her hand. "I'm never going to wash this hand again."

All these years later, voter registration is still my passion. But the actual act of voting had become less personal for me, more rote. Frankly, voting often felt more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes, it was even inconvenient.

My friend Wendy, who is my age and studied women's history, saw the HBO movie, too. When she stopped by my desk to talk about it, she looked angry. She was. With herself . "One thought kept coming back to me as I watched that movie,"she said. "What would those women think of the way I use--or don't use--my right to vote? All of us take it for granted now, not just younger women, but those of us who did seek to learn." The right to vote, she said, had become valuable to her "all over again."

HBO will run the movie periodically before releasing it on video and DVD. I wish all history, social studies and government teachers would include the movie in their curriculum. I want it shown on Bunko night, too, and anywhere else women gather. I realize this isn't our usual idea of socializing, but we are not voting in the numbers that we should be, and I think a little shock therapy is in order. It is jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it is inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy. The doctor admonished the men: "Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity."

[profuse thanks to Christina, Swansboro, NC]




PUSSYFOOTIN'™

>^..^< Due to the cyber chaos here over the last few weeks, I missed wishing Happy Birthday to a unique blogging buddy. I had saved a neat little ditty for her special day, too. So, belatedly, here it is for my Half-Century-Old-Blogging-Girl-Friend: You're not 50. You're $49.95, plus tax! "Birthdays are good for you; the more you have, the longer you live."

>^..^< I have triplets, but not identical. One is liberal and two are conservative. Visit my three blogsons for incisive political comment here and here and here. See if you can figure out which is which! Bwahahahaha!

>^..^< "A computer lets you make more mistakes faster than any invention in human history - with the possible exceptions of handguns and tequila." - Mitch Ratliffe a Hyundai.



posted by HCL at 1:43 PM

 
Testing
posted by HCL at 10:42 PM

 
WHAT A DAY FOR A HURRICANE!

Have you ever needed a car repair done ASAP, and in an effort to circumvent the long delay at a reputable garage, allowed a "shade-tree mechanic" to work on your vehicle? Did it prove to be a huge mistake? It did for me on the one occasion I used this method of getting out of a jam. Eventually, I had to take the car in to a certified mechanic to get it fixed anyhow. IOW, I paid twice!!! Is hindsight wonderful, or what?

Reasoning would tell one that such a mistake would not be repeated, right? But noooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

When I made the decision in April to get a laptop to cut down on desk/chair time and relieve edema, resulting from too much sitting, I didn't do the smartest thing. I did the most expeditious thing, which was to call my friendly little neighborhood computer store, literally right around the corner from my house. It was one of those "seemed like a good idea at the time" moments. Close proximity would be a big plus to one who is housebound, I thought. On April 22 said laptop was delivered and installed. Cyber-hell began that day.

We won't go into all the sordid details of my near-nervous-breakdown over the last three months of intermittent internet connection; emailing material back and forth between the two computers in order to "share" files; incoming and outgoing E-mail dysfunction every day; triple time for blogging due to logistical fubars; etc., etc., plus a visit to the doctor for nervous exhaustion!! NK. (See here for the status as of last night. Scroll down to "Email From My Fairy Blogmother" and while you're there, leave a congrats to old GOC of Winston Salem. He deserves an Attaboy today.)

The "computer experts" from whom I purchased the laptop (right around the corner), and who installed the new equipment, came back to re-evaluate my problems twice, but they were unable to get the set-up working properly. Finally, last week, in a last desperate attempt to find a reason for the cyber insanity, I called Road Runner. The appointment for the repair tech was today. [aside: I didn't expect anyone to show up in the throws of a hurricane, but at promptly 9:00 he arrived. So much for hurricane scare. Many thanks to friends and bloggers who inquired today as to my safety. No worries. Alex was a wuss!]

End of story: The Time-Warner RR guy had diagnosed and fixed the problem in under 10 minutes and was on his way! He reconfigured the router, wiring it correctly, and VOILA! instant solution.

Moral of story: Stay away from Shade-Tree Experts.

(Oh, there's more! There's much more. But my genteel upbringing and Southern lady roots will not allow me to divulge anything further!)






posted by HCL at 7:50 PM