Saturday, October 27, 2018

Elizabeth Cady Stanton: Crusader for Votes and Rights

Recently I was reading about the remarkable Elizabeth Cady Stanton (whose journalist husband Henry co-founded the Republican party).

Born in New York on November 12, 1815, Ol' Liz was a supporter of racial and gender equality, speaking up for women on everything from access to contraception, to property ownership, to voting rights.

Liz was a good friend of Susan B. Anthony. Because of their passionate commitment to women's causes, both refrained from supporting the 14th and 15th Amendments, arguing that, while the Amendments offered protection to African-American men, they neglected to include women.

In 1848, Stanton wrote The Declaration of Sentiments, a gender-equal document presented at one of the first Women's Rights conventions and signed by 100 men and women.

Predictably, not everyone was a supporter of allowing all humans to enjoy the same rights. (The very idea!) Detractors called it "the most shocking and unnatural event ever recorded in the history of womanity."

In the 1890s, Stanton wrote and published "The Woman's Bible," which challenged the belief that women should be subservient to men. The views in the book divided supporters of the women's rights movement, who were afraid it was too controversial and would harm their cause.


Liz was in favor of equal rights for with regards to both race and gender -- she supported interracial marriage at a time when very few shared this view. However, she suffered from her own prejudices: she supported the Spanish-American War and had a deep and abiding dislike of all things Spanish.

Dear ol' Liz had a keen legal mind and a way with words.

When the 14th and 15th Amendments were passed, she argued that their language applied to women as well, but the male-controlled government did not agree.

Though her popularity swung wildly between "influential icon" and "embarrassing zealot," she never let her other people dictate her views. She never sold out. She never gave up.

Elizabeth lectured and published widely throughout her life. She died in 1902, 18 years before women could vote, yet still she persisted and never let her fire burn out.

Sunday, October 21, 2018

Grandma's Recipes

I recently spent some time sorting through my late Grandma's recipes. (I was the only one in the family who wanted them. When she died, they were the only thing of hers I wanted... A true treasure!)

Some are over 100 years old. The vast majority of them are for cakes, cookies, pies, puddings, or something else vaguely dessert-like. Many use creative measuring techniques and require leaps of culinary faith.

For instance:
Dutch Cake recipe: choose your own ending!

Exhibit A:  DUTCH CAKE 
2 C flour
1 C sugar
2 tsp. B.P.
pinch salt
1 tbsp. melted butter
1 C milk

That's it. What you see is what you get. No mixing or baking instructions. B.P. is baking powder, obviously. I assume you just stick it in a 350 oven & watch till it's done?

Whoever thought this was a thing the world needed?
Exhibit B: TOMATO SOUP BARS 
1 can tomato soup
1/2 can water
1/2 C melted shortening or cooking oil
1 box mincemeat or 1 C raisins
1 tsp allspice
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp soda
1 C sugar
2 1/4 C flour

This one has mixing and baking instructions, but... SOUNDS SO YUCK!

One of my faves, titled "Sun Cooked," is written in prose like flash fiction:

"Take 2 lbs of strawberries and 2 lbs of sugar. Put 1/2 C of hot water in a kettle. Add sugar & stir until boiling. Then add cleaned & hulled strawberries & simmer slowly for 5 min."

After boiling, you put the berries on a large platter, cover with cheesecloth "to keep out insects and let stand in the sun for 3 days, taking them in at night." (!!!) "The 3rd day they will plump up and be firm."

Me: Fermented is more like it...

"Sun Cooked" ends with a little editorial: "Place in sterilized jars without heating. Do only two pounds at a time. These are super-duper."

Me: Riiiiiiight...

Orange Pudding started me down this recipe rabbit hole. Dad was reminiscing about an Orange Pudding his mother made. I don't have her recipes, but looked and -- lo and behold! My other grandma had that one too...

ORANGE PUDDING ("Elva's") 
1 C Sugar
2 oranges (juice)
1 1/2 C water
Butter the size of an egg

Boil first four ingredients while mixing batter

1/2 C sugar
1 T. Butter 1
/2 C milk
1 C flour
1 tsp BP

Drop in juice by spoonfuls and bake. Don't grease pan. As with "Dutch Cake," time and temperature not given.

If you're wondering why all of Grandma's recipes are typewritten: my Grandma came from a long line of teachers. She typed instructions for *everything.* Some of the recipes are handwritten - in her spidery cursive; often in pencil. Deciphering them takes... patience and luck.


Going through her recipes makes me miss her terribly. She was a fantastic baker and cook. I've made many of her recipes -- but not these recipes. Since Dad has a hankering for Orange Pudding. I may have to try my hand at making it soon... Further bulletins as events warrant.


Monday, October 01, 2018

Ponies From Heaven

I'm the choir director for a tiny rural church. This summer, a member of the church, and my strongest tenor, graduated from the Salvation Army Adult Recovery Center, clean and sober after 6 months. Everyone celebrated. So the church threw a big potluck, complete with bounce house and pony rides for the kids.

I agree to bring the pony. Meet Randy, a 20-something Haflinger gelding who loves carrots and tummy rubs:


I don't have a trailer, so I ride there -- a little over six and a half miles one way. I give pony rides to all the kiddos, give Randy a little breather, and head for home.

It's hot. About 2 miles of road has recently been tarred and chipped, which doesn't do any favors for Randy's bare feet, poor guy. We mosey along, taking our time, but I find myself wondering, Was it worth it? It was a long ride. Took up most of my day. My butt hurts. Blah blah blah...

A few miles from home, Randy whinnies.

No one is outside. There are no other horses for miles. He just stops still on the side of the road and blasts the air with a full WHEEEE-eeeee-heee-heee.

At the noise, a dog starts barking and a woman comes outside. She asks if it's OK to introduce her dog, a recent rescue, to the horse.

Randy is cool with dogs, so I say, "Sure."

The woman and I chat a bit while the dog grapples with the reality of this new creature.

"My mom would love to see him," the woman says. "She misses her horses so much."

Turns out, Mom and Dad live nearby. Dad is on hospice with advanced liver cancer. He cannot get out of bed. Mom takes care of him, but is quite unwell herself. Both are, essentially, housebound.

I know about having someone you love on hospice. The days all run together as you watch them die by degrees. So we wander over so Mom can see Randy through the kitchen window.

Well.

Mom is stunned. Stunned. Suddenly--

Mom heads outside.

She ditches her oxygen tank at the door.

When I meet her, she's yanking the tubing from her nose. Nothing will stop her from meeting Randy. She holds his muzzle in her hands and leans her forehead on his. For a moment, she is just a girl with a horse.


I try to pretend this is totally normal: Randy loves having people pet him. No big deal. But I'm a mess because it is so precious and pure and perfect.

We exchange phone numbers. I promise to text the next time I ride over there, so Mom (who used to have a gorgeous American Saddle Horse back in the day) can have some horse time. And I will. I totally will. But here's the thing...

I've lived here almost 30 years. I have never ridden on that road. And Randy isn't a chatty boy. He never just whinnies for no reason.

That day, though...

On that day all norms were off. I believe Randy and I were pawns in a little divine intervention. When things like that happen, they happen so fast, often you don't recognize the moment for what it is until it has passed. That day there was a woman who needed some sunshine in her soul. She needed to have some horse time, to reconnect with one of her first, best loves. I'm just glad I went along for the ride.


Friday, September 21, 2018

Juliet Brier: The Reluctant Heroine of the Death Valley 49ers

Last year for my birthday, my feisty friend and neighbor gave me a first edition of Women's Diaries of the Westward Journey, edited by Lillian Schleissel. It's a fascinating read that deftly treads the line between scholarly writing and narrative non-fiction.

One of the prevailing truths of the book is that the vast majority of women who traveled West in the mid-19th century did so unwillingly. The ones who signed up to make the trip on their own accord were rarer than easy river crossings.

It didn't matter whether they were healthy, pregnant, nursing, or tending toddlers. They left behind their friends, family, and familiarity because their husbands decided they needed to go West. When the man of the house decided they were going to go, they spent all of their time and resources amassing the equipment for the trip. Then, as soon as spring arrived, they hit the trail, in order to make it to their western destination before winter made the way impassable.
Mrs. Juliet Brier

Intrigued by the book, I did some more reading on the westward pioneers, and ran across the story of
the amazing Mrs. Juliet Brier, by most accounts the first non-native woman to survive traversing Death Valley. Though most records say she was born Sept 26, 1813, her tombstone puts her birthday as April 8, 1814.

Married to the sickly, self-centered Rev. John Wells Brier, Juliet was tiny: she stood no more than 5' tall and weighed less than 100 lbs. The Brier's and their 3 children -- all under 8 years old -- took the Santa Fe Trail toward the gold in CA in 1849.

When they set out from Utah, their company had 100 wagons, 250 people, and a thousand head of horses  and oxen.

Soon, though, the men started arguing over the best route, which quickly split them into smaller parties.

Reverend Briar, who was notoriously judgmental, verbose, lazy, and self-absorbed, was especially struck with gold fever. Their party met up with the "Jayhawkers" of Illinois, a small train of about 20 wagons. When they learned that the Jayhawkers were following a sketchy new route that veered south, Juliet's husband and a handful of others insisted on joining them.

It was November. Snow clouds were common. Juliet advised against striking off into the unknown. But she was overrulled.

So, their little band of about 27 wagons turned off the fairly well-traveled and well-marked Santa Fe Trail...

...into a desert they would soon name "Death Valley".

Almost immediately, they became hopelessly lost. The "map" they had was incorrect. Several in their party turned back to rejoin the Santa Fe Trail. Not the insufferably stubborn Rev. Briar, though. So, of course, his family had little choice but to continue on with him.

Within days, they ran low on water. Rev. Brier and the other men went ahead to look for water, leaving Juliet behind with the kids, the wagon, and the cattle.

Hours went by.

Brier did not return. Nor did any of the other men.

Darkness fell; the complete, utter darkness of the desert. The oxen picked up the scent of a watering hole and hurried on ahead.

Still, Brier did not return.

Juliet Brier and her boys.
So Juliet parked her 4 year old boy on her back, then crawled on the ground, relying on starlight to help her look for tracks from the oxen. Around three in the morning, she discovered her husband and the rest of the men camped by a spring.

The men of camp decreed Juliette was too small and weak. They told her and the kids to stay behind and wait for the men to send for them once they found a way out. She delivered a sermon of her own, full of enough brimstone to nix any idea of them leaving her behind.

Accounts of surviving Jayhawkers unanimously agree that tiny Juliet was the one who kept the family alive. She yoked and cared for the oxen. She attended to her husband, who became quite ill as time went on. And the mothered her three little boys, keeping them alive and safe in dire circumstances.

Not one mention is ever made of her complaining. In fact, the only incident of her raising her voice involves an ox that got caught in muddy quicksand and sank chest deep. Juliet jumped in beside it and began shoveling the muck away with her hands. She essentially shamed the men into helping her get the creature to safety.

Provisions ran out, and still the desert stretched before them. Their Christmas "dinner" -- and most other meals -- consisted of bones boiled in blood. Juliet's husband lost over 100 pounds. Juliet herself was reduced to 75 pounds.

At what is now a Historical Landmark, they burned their wagons for fuel, cooked their animals & made jerky. Four people in their party died during the journey. But Juliet was relentless in her determination to survive.

Several eyewitness accounts speak of little Juliet walking over 100 miles through the Mojave desert with a child on her back, another under an arm, holding the hand of the third, and helping her ailing husband.

Thanks to Juliet, the entire Brier family survived. She and the self-absorbed Reverend had three more children (all girls). Juliet outlived all but one of her children.

She died a few months shy of her 100th birthday. She often hosted Jayhawker reunions, but loathed the taste of jerky and refused to eat or serve it after the Death Valley experience.



*  For those interested in more details: Here's a fascinating narrative non-fiction longread about the Jayhawkers.

Friday, August 03, 2018

Women and Economics: from "Redlined" to "Screwnomics," the Impact of Economic Policy on Gender and Race

On Tuesday, I had the honor of being the emcee for "Women & Economics: Impact of Economic Policy on Gender & Race" at the Box Factory for the Arts in St. Joseph, MI.

This event, organized and produced by my dear friend and #Write2TheEnd co-founder, Kim Jorgensen Gane, featured authors Rickey Gard Diamond and Linda Gartz.

Gartz is an Emmy award-winning video producer whose documentaries and TV productions have been featured on ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS, and syndicated nationwide. She kicked off the evening with her new book Redlined.

Gartz' family lived in Chicago West Side at a time when racist lending rules allowed banks to refuse loans or mortgages to anyone in areas with even one black resident.

Set against the backdrop of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960's, Redlined tells the story of Gartz’s parents, Fred and Lil, who choose to stay in their integrating neighborhood, overcoming prejudices even as their community sinks into increasing poverty and their own relationship decays.

Diamond spoke next. She is a Berrien County native who lived in Benton Harbor, St. Joseph, and Coloma during her formative years. Now she hails from Vermont, where she was the founding editor of Vermont Woman and taught at Vermont College of Norwich University.

In 2014, she received a Hedgebrook fellowship to create a readable, relatable book on economics. And thus, Screwnomics was born.

Screwnomics introduces readers to EconoMan (not every man, thank heaven) and encourages those who have traditionally been encouraged to work for less -- or for nothing -- to think about their own economic memoir and confront our economic system’s hyper-masculine identity. Lest you fear it's full of man-bashing: it's not. However, some of its truths about the systematic erasure of women from economic discussion are rather uncomfortable. For instance, Diamond says:
"Around the world, women and their children remain the poorest of the poor, the most vulnerable, and the least noteworthy to most economists. For example, Thomas Piketty's recent and much celebrated 700-plus-page work, Capital in the Twenty-First Century, which so expertly describes growing inequality has exactly seven index listings for women or females."
Using humor, personal anecdotes, and history, Diamond's book is the most readable one on the subject of economics I have ever encountered.

After the author presentations, local attorney Elizabeth McCree joined us for a panel discussion on the realities of gender, race, poverty, and ways to combat the inequalities we see.

What can we do? Some suggestions from the evening:

1.) Educate yourself. Read. Familiarize yourself with the policies and practices that affect you.

2.) Recognize inequality when you see it. Even if you are not on the receiving end of the inequality, be prepared to identify it and -- most importantly -- to insist on equitable change.

3.) Vote. Seriously. Do this thing. Laws exist to serve the people and benefit society. Make your voice heard and make your vote count.

4.) Speak up. Many people told their personal stories on Tuesday evening. Our shared experiences pave the way toward greater empathy, in-depth dialogue, and a more informed community.

Monday, July 23, 2018

Handling the Hurricane: Dealing with the Words of the Well-Intentioned

Everybody is going through something.

Sometimes our crises are private. At other times -- such as when a loved one is fighting a losing battle with death -- others are well aware of our storms.

When WunderGuy was in hospice care, dying by degrees, one of the truths I discovered was: Most People Don't Have a Clue What to Say to Someone in Crisis.

Which led to the next truth: If My Life is Falling Apart, I Need Not Suffer Fools.

I hope you don't need the information in this post now. But you might want to bookmark it for future reference. I pray you'll never need it. But in case you do, here are some thoughts on handling those awkward conversations:

When tragedy strikes, people often say things they haven't run through a brain-to-mouth filter. Usually it's because they feel they should say something but they don't know what.

In case you need to hear this, I am giving you permission to tell these people to stop talking. When they start saying things like, "I can't imagine what you're going through" (which, of course, means "sucks to be you; you're living my worst nightmare"), you are perfectly entitled to shut them off and tell them, "no one's asking you to."

So many clichés fall into this category of Phrases People Speak Without Thinking:

"That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger." No. It bloody well doesn't.

"Everything happens for a reason." Who are you, Thomas freaking Paine?

and my personal favorite, "God won't give us more than we can handle." My fist is aching to cauliflower your nose. Let's see how you handle it...

People will blurt out the most brain-dead things. "Aren't you glad he's finally dead?" "Now you can  get on with your life." "You've grieved long enough."

Nowhere is it written that you are required to listen to them.

Some well-meaning souls will look earnestly at you and ask, "How ARE you doing?" As if you are going to suddenly open up your deepest, darkest fears to them and include them in your private anguish.

You do not need to do this. It's okay to lie and tell them you are fine. They are not entitled to your pain.

And then there are those who will feel compelled to tell you their horrible story, as if it will somehow make what you are going through okay.

I believe this is their way of trying to let you know they sympathize with you; telling you that they, too, have Been There.  But the stories never help. They only indulge the teller and rarely enrich the hearer. (I found this especially true when the Storyteller was a member of the clergy. One visited, unannounced, a few months ago, shortly after my mother's passing. She talked endlessly about her mother, and how devastated she was when her mother died. Then she brought up my WunderGuy and began to pontificate on how she didn't know what she would do without her husband. Forgive me, Father: I showed her the door.)

It is okay to say that you do not want to hear the story a person is telling.

You probably already know this, but I'm going to say it anyway: when in crisis, you do not need to be anyone's Entertainer, anyone's Confidante, anyone's Sounding Board, or anyone's Confessor.

Perhaps your upbringing makes you feel constrained from saying the words you really feel like slinging. News flash -- It's okay to say them. Whatever God you believe in has heard them all and can handle them.

Don't feel that you need to be a beacon of strength.

Lean on those you love. Find strength and support in friends and family.

And trust the truth of this one cliché:

This, too, shall pass.

Sunday, March 04, 2018

Five Thoughtful Ways to Honor a Lifelong Reader

My mother passed away in December. She was a professor at Penn State University, an active member of American Association of University Women (AAUW), involved in several book clubs, and a lifelong scholar. One of her favorite sayings -- one I find myself repeating often because of its incontrovertible truth -- is "no education is ever wasted."

Several people who knew and loved Mom chose to honor her life in ways that supported her love of reading. All of them touched my heart far more than cards or flowers could have. If someone you love loves to read, here are some suggestions for passing that love on to others in their name:

1.) Make a donation in the Reader's name to First Book.

Every year, First Book provides books and educational resources to over 3 million kids who need them most. This non-profit organization is a leading voice in the quest for educational equality. In a little over 25 years, First Book has distributed over 170 million books and resources in 30 countries.


2.) Volunteer to teach someone else to read.
Contact your local library or school resource office to inquire about how you can get involved in local literacy programs. Yes, it's hands on. Yes, it will take some time. But you could literally save someone's life...

The link between illiteracy and incarceration is incontrovertible. In 2010, 85 percent of all juveniles caught up in the juvenile court system were functionally illiterate, as were 60 percent of all prison inmates. Inmates have a 16 percent chance of returning to prison if they receive literacy help. Those who receive no help have a 70 percent rate of recidivism.

Imagine the difference you could make if, in honor of the Dear Reader in your life, you gave someone the lifelong gift of literacy.

[Not up to the one-on-one interaction of teaching literacy? A donation to RIF, the United States' largest children's literacy non-profit, may be more up your alley.] 


3.) Donate a book to your local library. Or to the library closest to your Beloved Reader.
Everyone who knew Mom knew she believed in libraries. So it's fitting that her local library now has new books donated in Mom's name.

(Note, if you're involved with a local library and you're short on funding, consider holding an In Memoriam Book Drive. Books: the gift that keeps on giving.)

4.) Give beloved titles to hospitals. Or nursing homes. Or senior centers. Or Safe Shelters. Or homeless shelters...
Books love to be read. If you have to clear out a Beloved Reader's bookshelves, consider taking the titles to places where they will be able to gain a whole new audience.

5.) Start a book club in your Dear Reader's name. 
Make the Dear Reader's favorite book the first title you read and discuss.

What is your favorite way to keep the flame of literacy burning?