Wednesday, November 27, 2013

To Grandmother's House We Go



“Over the river and through the woods to Grandfather’s house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow.”

When was the last time I sang that song? I can’t remember. I had to Google the rest of the words. The song ends with “Hurrah for the pumpkin pie,” in case you forgot as well.

Thanksgiving used to be so special. It was second only to Christmas on my list of favorite days of the year. The four of us would pile into our white station wagon and ride through the fields to my Grandparents’ house. With aunts, uncles and cousins there were never less than 12 people at the two large tables pushed together in the dining room of the 19th century house where my father was born. The home-cooked meal was delicious, and after dinner the men snored to the sound of a football game while the women cleaned up and we kids played games on the living room floor. Dessert was always pumpkin or minced meat pie. It was another world.

Thanksgiving was the teaser for Christmas, but there were no decorations out, no Christmas ads, no Black Friday appellations. There was Buck Monday. The hunting season would open, and the men would depart for the woods. At some point that became a shopping tradition for women on the day after Thanksgiving. The men were leaving so women were released from the obligations of taking care of their husbands and they could go shopping instead! Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Well, it did in 1965. For many years the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend was a day off as well. Most of the boys would be hunting with their dads.

A bit more emphasis was placed on the original Thanksgiving as well. Or perhaps that is just my grade school memory. There were Indians and Pilgrims and that sense of Blessed Destiny. Today there is a slightly better sense of equality between the two cultures, but we are far from getting the story straight. And I don’t mean small pox and broken treaties. Research is still necessary for some of the facts.

When the first settlers stepped off the Mayflower and into their New World, they encountered a larger cultural difference than they realized in the native Wampanoag people – or the People of the Dawn. The women who might have served the pilgrims the “three sisters” – corn, squash and beans – were landholders. They were the heads of their families. They gave shelter to the men who married their daughters. And they were able to become sachems – the political leaders of their communities.

What might have happened if  Eleanor Billington, Elizabeth Hopkins, Mary Brewster, and Susanna Winslow had been permitted to sit down and eat with the Wampanoag women who might have decided to attend the Harvest Feast of 1621? If Weetamoo, Awashonks, Wunnatuckquannumou, and Askamaboo had regaled the four white women with their history and customs, how might our history have changed? Suppose Mary had told Weetamoo she should be helping to serve, and Weetamoo had said, “I’m the big Kahuna and you shouldn’t be waiting on those men.” And what if, upon hearing this, Elizabeth had proposed a toast: “Thanks be to God, we have arrived in a truly New World. Stephen, bring me a turkey leg.”

In 1965, my last name might have been my Grandmother’s maiden name. Dad might have taken me hunting that year, and my uncle might have joined my aunt to wash the dishes after our turkey dinner. Half the signers of the Declaration of Independence might have been women, so when I was learning about the Indians in 3rd grade, I might have also learned about our Foremothers. I might be a nuclear physicist instead of an English teacher!

On an educational website I found this interesting tidbit.
What were men and women's roles in the Wampanoag tribe?
Wampanoag men were hunters and sometimes went to war to protect their families. Wampanoag women were farmers and also did most of the child care and cooking. Both genders took part in storytelling, artwork and music, and traditional medicine. In the past, Wampanoag chiefs were always men, but today a Wampanoag woman can participate in government too.
Revisionist history is alive and well. Evidently 3rd grade children are still learning that Indian women were drudges, just like the Pilgrim women.

We have come a long way in 50 years. Many women work outside the home. A very few even make lots of money. Men are becoming nurses, and women can be Nurse Practitioners. Women are serving in the military, and my husband does the dishes. We just have to resist the temptation to be satisfied with where we are. The Daughters of the Dawn remind us that we have a long, long way to go – to Grandma’s house.

"Indians of Southern New England and Long Island, early period" Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 15. Ed.Bruce G. Trigger. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1978. 171f. Wikipedia. 27 November 2013.

“Wampanoag Indian Fact Sheet.” Native Languages of the Americas. 1998-2013. Web. 27 November 2013.



Thursday, October 10, 2013

The Great Snake Hike of 1972



        
          The three of us climbed steadily up the side of a “Pennsylvania mountain,” or hill in more realistic terminology. Forested by trees and laurel bushes, it was beautifully green and dappled by sunlight. I was in the lead. At 12 or 13 years of age, I was impatience in sneakers. Dad was right behind me and Bobbi Jean, my younger sister, brought up the rear. Dad had warned me to watch where I stepped, there were rattle snakes in the woods. I knew Dad was very knowledgeable about all things outdoors, so I took him very seriously. Which was good.
         As I started to step around a curve in the trail, I saw the snake and the pattern on its skin. I stopped short, I think out of shock that Dad was right and there really was a snake. The thought of danger came later. Dad stopped too. I whispered over my shoulder, “Dad, I think there’s a rattle snake here!”
         I forget what Dad said exactly, but I know he thought I was being overly dramatic and looking at a stick. He crept up to look over my shoulder and said, “I’ll be darned. That’s a rattle snake, all right! See the rattles?” His tone was one of surprise, admiration, and joy.
          My sister didn’t see the entertainment value in this and started running directly down the hill. She was making a bee-line. The idea of a trail was not in the sphere of her consciousness. Dad said, “she could run over 20 snakes on her way home.” He gave it some thought. “Well, there’s no point following her. She’ll be back to the cabin by the time we catch up with her.” He turned his attention back to the snake.
         I hadn’t moved. I had an agreement with that snake. “I won’t move if you don’t,” was the gist of it.
         “That’s a good sized snake,” Dad said, “let’s just back up slowly.” So we did.
         I was still game for our hike, so I asked if we could go around it somehow. Dad had other plans.
        “I wish I had my revolver. I don’t think we should just walk away and leave it there. Someone else could come up here and get bit.”
         “Then can we scare it off the trail?” It seemed a little tricky, but a reasonable solution if Dad agreed it could be done.
         “No… I think we’d better kill it.”
         The lack of logic in this answer wasn’t lost on me. But my Dad was an expert, so he must be right. He was still Dad, the answer man! So he started picking up rocks. He told me to get some too, as large as possible but not too big or too heavy to throw. This was getting exciting. We were bonding in the great outdoors.
        He said, “Move back down the trail, and if it starts coming at you throw a rock at it.”
        I began to have my doubts.
        When Dad picked the rock up over his head, and hurled it down at the snake with both hands, I got my first clue. Dad had just turned into a caveman. Maybe a gorilla. The snake started rattling and moving off into the woods. I thought it might be game over.
        “Did you hit it, Dad?”
        “I’m not sure. I think I might have stunned it.”
        “That’s good then. Let’s just walk by it.”
        “No…it’s mad now. We really can’t leave it here.” He hurled another rock – louder hissing from snake height. The third rock – thrown harder than the first two - sent the snake swirling out of the leaves and down the trail toward me.
        I didn’t run. Some part of me figured the snake and I could return to our earlier agreement. "I’m not moving, so don’t you…" and the snake stopped. I started thinking again. Here I am, a rock in each hand, and a poisonous serpent is watching me, sniffing around with his tongue. How the hell was I supposed to kill it with a rock? It wasn’t a slow snake. It could come at me and bite me before the rock left my hand! Then it turned and headed off into the leaves.
        Smart snake. Nice snake!
        I was smart enough to back a little further down the trail, and look at my Dad, who was scaring me more than the snake. His recklessness and desire to kill something was completely out of character. Worse yet, he was creating a dangerous situation. And I began to think the snake and I were smarter than him at that point.
        I don’t know how he felt about my next move. I told him I was done with this, dropped the rocks, and walked carefully down the trail. I stopped about 40 yards downhill and waited to see if he was going to be bitten. He told me to go back to the cabin and tell Uncle Peter to bring a hoe. So I did. Uncle Peter was nearly as excited as my Dad, when he trotted up the trail with a shovel and a broom and a gleeful smile on his face.   
        The lessons about testosterone and manhood, snakes and the cultural symbology of serpenthood, were a few years into my future. At the time I was just mystified by these adults’ transformation from peaceful, logical authority figures into Tarzan wanna-be’s. But I did feel the excitement of seeing a wild and lethal creature in its own world. And I was proud of myself for not being scared and having seen the rattler first. I could be a hunter, too. Right up to the moment I had to kill something.
        Today it is a fond memory. I always wished I could have met my Dad when he was a young man, hunting with his father and uncles in the Pennsylvania woods. That was as close as I ever got. I really wish I could have seen him firing off a revolver at a man-killing snake. But I am satisfied with this picture of my father and the sound of his voice over my shoulder.
        “That’s a rattle snake all right. See the rattles? That's a good sized snake!”
        Thanks, Dad. I found it all by myself.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Cat Faces and Hairless Chihuahuas



          I have discovered Jigsaw World on Facebook. I used to love to do jigsaw puzzles, when life was slower and simpler. Now they require too much space and use up valuable time – unless they are on Facebook where I waste most of my valuable time anyway. They are my addiction of choice right now, and it is easy to access new ones. The puzzle I did just a little while ago was a collage of cat faces, just their faces – no ears or paws or tails. Just a set of 36 cat faces.
          It was hard, but not impossible to do because I could line up the eyes and the lines between pictures. It got a little creepy fitting together all those eyes, but they were all pretty cats. There were no hairless cats or those Siamese cats with the heads like anvils. Those kinds of cats are just simply ugly. Like mole rats and hairless Chihuahuas.
          The word ‘ugly’ is no longer politically correct, I’ve noticed. Whenever I say, “That is ugly!” I either get no response or the ameliorating “Oh, noooo. I think they’re cute.” Pardon me, Polyanna; some things are just plain butt-ugly. I don’t care how much they cost or how rare they are, hairless animals are ugly. And it seems to me that if we can have a culturally stipulated definition for beauty, we can damn well have one for ugly as well.
          My legs are ugly. They have cellulite and moles and wrinkles and I don’t care to bare them in public anymore. I even use a cover-up as soon as I get out of a swimming pool. Somehow, it doesn’t matter to me how ugly they are at the beach. I will never see any of those people again. If they observe my ugly legs and judge them, it really isn’t any of my business. At a neighborhood pool, it isn’t as okay. Someone might know me and tell my husband or my son that I have ugly legs, and my protectors might punch the bastard. That would be bad. On the other hand, my husband and my son might agree with the bastard, in which case they would be bastards, too. But my point is that there is such a thing as ugly legs, and I accept that.
          What I do not accept is the idea that I am not considered beautiful because of my legs, breasts, stomach, neck wrinkles, or hair style. Taken all together, I am not particularly sexually appealing; but I am still quite beautiful if you look at my eyes, hair color, and smile. True, you have to ignore my nose, but I should still be able to pass for beautiful. Therefore, my definition of beauty for people would be “Parts is parts, but people are beautiful somehow, so look for it.” My definition of ugliness would still be hairless animals. And I would add trashy streets, Hummers, puce, and television satellites. When you leave humans out of the equation, you should not be in danger of offending someone when you say, “Good God, that is ugly.”   
           And now I must return to Jigsaw World. I’ll try not to think so much this time. The next picture is some kind of big-eyed monkey-thing hanging in a tree. I don’t think I will have any comments on that.  

Friday, September 13, 2013

Porch Song: September


I Loooove My Porch.
        I love to sit on my screened-in porch and observe things. It is, by both chance and design, a sensory smorgasboard. I have several gardens and a bird feeder. A variety of birds and butterflies flit about. Squirrels and rabbits are numerous and even an occasional chipmunk races by at lightning speed. Many of my plants are grown for their scent – rose, lavender, lemon verbena. A small fountain blends its trickling with bird-calls and breezy leaves. An open vista of sky extends across the alley, over my neighbor’s back yard, and on to the tall, 50-something aged trees along her street.
        It is the third week of September in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. As is typical for the area, the first week was a perfect autumnal temperature in the upper 70’s. Last week we barely survived humid, oppressive 90’s. Today it is high 60’s, low 70’s again. Until today I had only one hour all week of tolerable discomfort on my porch. And, I told you, I love my porch. So perhaps that hour is exaggerated by its rarity, but it was memorable. A tree waved at me.         
          One of those trees – about 150 yards distant and 3 stories high – waved at me. I don’t mean the trunk or the limbs or a branch. I mean a hole appeared in the wall of green leaves, and the leaves waved at me.
There was nothing visible inside the hole that opened among the leaves. Just  the leaves waved at me.
           Now, there was nobody else on the porch or in the yard between me and that tree. I think it was therefore natural for me to assume that the tree was in fact signaling ME. What remained was to figure out what that meant – to me and potentially the tree. My first instinct was to wave back. So I did. The tree waved again.
          The tree is alive, it waved, and I thought we had satisfied the needs of the moment. I had been gazing at its beautiful green leaves, the tree interpreted it as a friendly stare, and waved. End of conversation. A second wave must have another meaning, I reasoned, but what?  Cross-species,  first encounter – a cultural exchange?  I flashed the peace sign. The tree waved again. I grinned at the tree, and winked. The tree waved a fourth time.
           At this point I thought things were getting a little weird.
           I am, by nature, a fairly eccentric individual. The outlandish and quixotic are very welcome in my mental landscape. In fact tweaking my curiosity makes me happy to be alive. When there is something new, different, worthy of further exploration – Whee! Fun! But there seemed no way to investigate the waving of a tree, and no chance to ascertain its meaning. I sure wouldn’t find anything on Google - or would I?After a few tries, some sites on the web informed me that trees communicate with each other using fungi,  they have large auras,  they  want to communicate with us but they do so very slowly (like the Ents in Lord of the Rings) and we must rely on mental images and intuition to understand them.
           Nothing about trees waving.
           I was clearing my mind and opening it to intuitive knowledge from the tree’s aura when the damn squirrel stuck its head out of the leaves. The little bastard snickered at me from behind his tiny claws. So you say you saw that coming? Well you need to develop a greater sense of mystery, I think.
           Besides, I hate squirrels. Now if it had been a crow… I love crows. I think they can talk…

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Citizen's Arrest #1



Did you know you have a little arsenic in your chicken?  How much is a little, how safe is that amount, and where can you have your chicken tested? Did you buy local, organic chicken? What feed do they use? What kind of feed is safe?

You probably are not accustomed to asking these questions. You probably thought that the God-blessed FDA was checking up on these things and keeping you safe.

You would be wrong.

In considering who to arrest for this crime, I checked on who is selling the poison. That would be Pfizer. However, for the time being, they are graciously not selling one form of the drug voluntarily in the United States. It might be that they are making enough profit on the drug overseas, where they can sell it with impunity. According to an article by Johns Hopkins, scientists measured the amount in commercial chicken from 2010 until 2011 before announcing there is too much arsenic in the chicken feed. Arsenic has been a legal additive to chicken feed for decades. So this is nothing new. How reassuring is that?

So where to cry “Foul” ?

Our health industry sure piddled around with this one. Pfizer is profiting from some unethical business practices. The FDA has failed to bring that to our attention. The conspiracy theorist in me has some heavy judgments to make on that score. But that is all common practice all over the place round here.

I have decided to blame the FDA. And the next time I’m in White Oak, Maryland with a boatload of time on my hands, I am going to find the office, march right in, and serve papers. I’m gonna go all Michael Moore on Dr. Margaret A. Hamburg’s butt.

Right after I save the money to get my own butt out of jail.
---------
“Poultry Drug Increases Levels of Toxic Arsenic in Chicken Meat.” Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health. Johns Hopkins University. 11 May 2013. Web. 7 September 2013.    


Friday, September 6, 2013

Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie and Divas in Tiaras?



I watch the Phillies for many reasons. I can goof around on my computer and never miss a play.  I feel a connection with the team, the announcers, the people in the crowd. I smile a lot when the Phillies are playing well. If they show a cute kid in the stands, I smile even when they’re losing! Baseball  has a wholesome, family-style orientation for me, and if that is naïve – let me keep it that way. I imagine that if I ran into one of the players at a restaurant, we could sit down and talk about the game. If I get on an elevator with someone wearing a Phillie’s cap or shirt, we can talk about how the season is going. It is just a very simple, down-home kind of thing.

Imagine my dismay when I turned on the game and there were Miss America contestants WITH CROWNS ON sitting in the stands. Nay, standing on the field to sing “Take me out to the ball game,” while wearing spiky gold crown-things on top of their heads. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I screamed.

There are many reasons why it is wrong to have Miss America Pageant Contestants be part of a Phillies baseball game. Women in Miss America contests are cheerleaders in disguise. Baseball does not have cheerleaders. This is a law. Women may not line up in front of the dugout and kick their skirts up (or model swim suits) for better at-bats. Picture the carnage.  Muffy’s shoe flies into the manager’s coffee while a line drive knocks Patty out cold. The team rushes onto the field, breaking each others’ legs to get to give Patty CPR. The manager heads for the locker room to put ice on his third degree burns. The umpire spits on home plate.

Hats are important to building team spirit or blocking the sun out at baseball games. These are the only reasons for wearing hats at Citizens Bank Park. Sun visors and ball caps are acceptable in other colors, but look best if they are red, white, or both. Phanatic hats make people happy. There is no purpose for crowns at baseball games. They might block the sun in spots, but the tan pattern would make people look like zebras. And crowns are dangerous. This could happen: a towering foul ball is dropping right over a crown-wearing fan. The catcher reaches for the ball, the fan jumps to get out of the way, and the crown pierces the player’s underarm. The catcher screams, the fan faints, and the ump spits on home plate.  

Finally, people who take part in beauty pageants are pretty much in la-la-land when it comes to competition. The closest they’ve come to a team effort is meeting with the seamstress and the hair dresser on the same day. Runs happen to hosiery, tags have prices on them, pitches are recorded for advertisers, and batting is done with one’s eyelashes. The person who doesn’t sweat, get dirty, or forget her other glove wins. Imagine that Janis, in a mauve sateen sheath, steps to the plate on her black leather pumps, waves to the pitcher and cries, “I want to help bring world peace to the world!” The pitcher falls off the mound laughing, the players wolf-whistle in relays, and the umpire yells, “You are OUTTA HERE” before he spits right next to Janis’s shoes on home plate.

Everything has its place, its season, its moment in the spotlight. Women in crowns and sashes should be nowhere near a baseball diamond on a game day. Lose the crowns ladies, or get back on the bus, I say.