And More Awareness

Today’s political climate is scary in that so many seem to have forgotten the fights that have already been fought. Seeing so many attempts to return women to a marginalized group (I can’t bring myself to say “minority”) reminds me of a story from not-really-so-long ago. The original title was “Being a Woman”. Here it is, courtesy of Grandma Daisy. 

I almost posted a quiz – a list of feminist slogans and quotes along with a list of years, with an opportunity for readers to match the two. Instead, I offer you an chance to reminisce about creativity in the feminist movement. Remember the Barbie Liberation League? In the 1990s….Grandma Daisy does this sort of storytelling best, so here she is.

Oh, children, your world is different, thank goodness. I lived through a fascinating and yet difficult time we called the Women’s Movement, or Women’s Liberation, Women’s Lib for short. We reminded lawmakers and voters that we are people, endowed with basic human rights along with our, ahem, voluptuous figures. To put it bluntly, we didn’t need balls to make good decisions about …. oh, your mother is listening. I can’t say that in front of you young ones., so back to the history behind the story. We had rallies, we held demonstrations. We ran for office ourselves instead of waiting for men to take care of our needs. We worked to pass laws that protected our right to make health care decisions.We built awareness of the importance of birth control and how much that birth control meant for our freedom, our liberation. We fought for equal pay for equal work. Laws passed, medications improved, but attitudes were harder to change. 

Sometimes women got creative to make a point. The Barbie Liberation League was one such example. We females were determined to be good students and make it “cool” to be smart. Math and science were supposedly men’s territory, so girls had some catching up to do. Adult role models like teachers and nurses pushed us young ones to go farther, higher, faster into the world of advanced math and sciences. 

Barbie dolls. You know the doll, right? Of course. They’re at the bottom of your sister’s closet with the rubber ducky and the worn out blankie she won’t throw away. Barbie, the doll with the unrealistic figure (39-21-33 at 6 feet tall were the proportional measurements, if you’re into trivia) was a favorite of many young girls. Girls knew she wasn’t realistic, but some tried too hard to look like her and became anorexic. A doll for a role model? Well, it happens.

When the Talking Teen Barbie came out, she had a limited vocabulary. Unfortunately, the people who programmed and recorded Barbie’s phrases had been in a fog throughout the entire women’s movement. Take a look at these examples.

Will we ever have enough clothes?

I love shopping!

Math class is tough.

Wanna have a pizza party?

In the old toy store aisles, G.I. Joe was a parallel type of doll, er, action figure, on the little boy side. His vocabulary was macho and tough – what they called “all male” back then. 

This is going to be rough. Can you handle it?

I’ve got a tough assignment for you!

Mission accomplished. Good work, men!

The Barbie Liberation League took action. They bought Talking Barbie and Talking G.I. Joe from toy stores, swapped out the voice boxes, and then repackaged the dolls and returned them to the stores. Little boys and little girls got Barbies that said, “Vengeance is mine!” and G.I. Joes that suggested, “Let’s plan our dream wedding.” When Joe proclaimed “Math class is tough”, it sounded ludicrous.

Well, darlings, that was the point. If a man couldn’t say it without sounding idiotic, why should a woman repeat that phrase and internalize that philosophy? Talking Barbie wasn’t pulled off the market, but the feminists and the Barbie Liberation League had made their point. Being female didn’t mean being less intelligent. It still doesn’t. 

Anyway , my grand-precious ones, some day I’ll tell you what we did when the guys at our college claimed that women couldn’t play jazz. Hah! We showed them, all right. Now go practice your trombone, and I’ll tell you that story later. 

 

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Reviving Poetry

I added a few Book Spine Poems to A Mother’s Garden of Verses. I contributed a post to my corporate employer’s national blog. In that contribution, I created examples of my own and recruited a student to contribute another.

Meanwhile, I read posts and editorials and commentary about Autism Awareness month. Awareness Months bug me. The concept of raising awareness, of shouting “We are here! We are here!” just doesn’t cut it any more.

Instead of posting for Autism Awareness Month, I’ll stick to celebrating poetry.

Most of my examples were winter poems because I wrote them for a lesson I taught at the end of March. The month of March in Wisconsin managed to come in and go out like a lion this year with cold, colder, and coldest followed by snow mixed with rain and sleet. We were still wearing our fingerless gloves and pulling out our cubicle blankets on windy days. When the social media folks wondered why the sample poems were all about winter, I reminded them that we had just exited (and might still see signs) a long, long season.

The student had offered ideas in class, so I asked her to revisit that poem and complete it for me. My favorite part comes in the last two line. What do you think?

Enter a world full of everlasting snow

Freezing the water, when you try to row

Giant blizzards coming, though very rare

Hills of snow beyond compare

Ice falls in mounds at my feet

Jabbing at my body, the cold stings my cheek

Knowing how endless we may seek

Lies spring around the corner, waiting to astonish me?

May the snow melt soon, much to my glee

Nevermore, calls Mother Nature

O’er the hills and through the forest in her nurture

 

Me? I know she’s brilliant. Maybe we’ll see her work published some day.

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Decisions, decisions.

  • Should I make a single batch of banana bread or a double?
  • Double, of course. We have enough bananas. Do you even need to ask?

 

  • It’s raining outside. Can I accomplish any garden tasks in the rain?
  • No, silly. Get the laundry done and play in the kitchen, instead. Did I hear someone say banana bread?

 

  •  Big headline in the newspaper about a state level politician reaching his tipping point. What’s the book I’m currently reading?
  • The Tipping Point, of course. It’s on my table in the den.

 

  • “Mom, you have banana bread in the oven. Why are you making bread in the bread machine?”
  • Why not? That wasn’t a good enough answer, apparently. The real answer came from Chuck: “It’s raining outside, so Mom can’t work in the garden. She needs to use her energy in the kitchen instead.” ‘Tis true. Very true.

 

  • I had a message from the Clinic That Shall Not Be Named with a subject line How Are you Doing? and the name of my family doc listed as “from”. How am I doing?
  • Well, Clinic, I was misled for a moment and thought someone actually cared to follow up with me. But when a message is extremely generic and is signed “The Clinic Physicians”? Somehow, I don’t feel obligated to answer.
  • So, Daisy, what was this generic message from the Clinic That Shall Not Be Named?
  • Here’s the actual text:

Thank you for your recent visit. Because we care about you, please take a moment to tell us how you are doing. If you were prescribed any medications, please let us know how they are working or if you have any financial issues affording them.

Do you have any other questions since your last visit?

Thank you for your time.

 

  • How tacky can this clinic get?
  • Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.

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Unusual Answers to Random Questions

Readers, family, friends – I haven’t blogged in days. I’m fine, not ill, just busy. To get a taste of what’s been keeping my laptop off my lap and my mind off the blog, I offer a list – a Q&A session with (who else?) my self.

Q: Why is my schoolbag so heavy? What did I put in it?

A: Aha! I have a bag of coffee beans that I bought from a fundraiser and received today. That’s why my bag is heavier than usual.

Q: Why do I smell coffee? Is it on my sweater?

A: See above.

Q: How did I manage to schedule so much on one week? I have commitments after school every day except Friday.

A: Don’t ask. Seriously. Do not analyze this. Just survive it.

Q: When will I learn to say no?

A: When I stop enjoying what I’m doing. I revised a post for the national blog yesterday and offered a second to help fill a void later in the week. Here’s the first one, a discussion of the Naturalist in Howard Gardner’s Multiple Intelligences. Later, I’ll have a link for poetry month.

Q (while watching the national news): Ft. Hood, a high school stabbing in Pennsylvania — What’s the world coming to?

A: At least we’re not facing lengthy stories on how much of the ocean doesn’t yield clues to the missing jet.

Meanwhile, I will keep calm and garden on – after this week is over.

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Book Spine Poetry – the sequel

When stuck inside on a day that should be spring, books keep me busy. Reading, updating my account at paperback swap dot com, and my latest, book spine poetry.

All things green

All things green

wisdom and happiness in the garden

wisdom and happiness in the garden – adding a prop to the books

Powerful Words

Powerful Words  — Powerful thoughts

Maybe these should really post on A Mother’s Garden of Verses. I think I’ll double post a few book spine poems. Readers, it’s time to “write” your own. What kind of book titles can you assemble into a poem?

 

 

 

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The Varmints Return

I stockpiled cardboard boxes for use in my garden and under the rock garden.

I’ve been composting kitchen scraps all winter.

So what happens? A varmint slips into the O.K. Chorale’s backyard and explores (read: trashes) my resources.

Growl. That's me growling, not the critter.

Growl. That’s me growling, not the critter.

This one must have tiny hands, er, paws, to fit inside the holes in the compost bin and pull out strips of parchment paper. Given time, that parchment paper will decompose. Give it time, varmint!

The pizza boxes were easy to stack. The furry creature (I don’t think it’s feathered, really) just made a mess. It didn’t destroy anything. Maybe it doesn’t like cheese.

But anyway, back at the O.K. Chorale, temperatures have gone down to the level of Snow Flurries again. No outdoor work today! Growl.

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Three Minutes a Day: The Garden will Grow!

I heard the philosophy, the technique, the time management suggestion, and said, “Okay. I can do this.”

Maybe.

When you have a project that seems to be impossible, one that inspires you to say, “I don’t have time! I just don’t have time! There aren’t enough hours in the day!” You know, readers, the type of project. I’m sure you have several on your to-do list.

This is the philosophy that will get the garden started this year. Due to a multitude of major health issues (and more pending, dear readers, I’ve been sparing you the boring details), my stamina for digging and raking and bending and lifting is – okay, I’ll put it simply and in a sentence that doesn’t run on. I have very little strength. I tire easily.

I’ve promised myself that I will accomplish one small goal each day. That goal might be small or it might take more than three minutes. No matter what, steadily accomplishing these little tasks will take me up to planting time. Meanwhile, I’ll watch the perennials come up.

I can count on the daylilies.

I can count on the daylilies and their buddies, the stray tulips.

Garlic! It's new this year, and it's growing!

Garlic!

Chives, green onions, and weeds return.

Chives, green onions, and weeds return.

My early pictures always underplay the excitement of watching the ground grow green again. At three minutes a day, one task at a time, we’ll have vegetables. Eventually.

 

 

 

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Knowing my Limits

In the last election cycle, I mentioned that lacking money to donate, I would donate time to help elect my chosen candidates. Five days before election day, I found myself in the Emergency room of the nearest hospital, hooked up to many machines, unable to move or control my left side.  I thought to myself, “Thank goodness I voted early!” 

My episode resembling a stroke kept me from volunteering during the weekend of action, a big one. I’d already given many hours of time to prepare volunteer packets for the day. I managed to stop by the office downtown and donate chocolate to keep people happy during their full day.

I have regained control over the left side of my body, but I’ve had other problems since fall of 2012. With all of that in mind, I need to set myself some definite boundaries for this fall election cycle.

To maintain my physical and mental health, I will NOT:

  • forward candidates’ posts on Facebook: as hard as it is, I aim to keep my FB page personal in nature. Maybe. This will be the hardest point on my list.
  • sign online petitions. It’s too easy, and therefore often meaningless to those in power.
  • forward emails that call themselves Memes. It’s a chain letter, people, don’t kid yourselves.

To further maintain my physical and mental health, I WILL:

  • learn about the candidates and become an informed voter
  • vote and encourage my family members to vote, too
  • remind friends and coworkers to vote (even on FB)
  • donate small amounts of money to candidates I support
  • for good vibrations, wear my Team Obama t-shirt from fall 2012
  • blog!
  • keep calm, and garden on. It’s cheaper than therapy, and in the end I’ll have tomatoes.

 

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Signs of Spring – really?

Actual email, sent out by Chuck to his coworkers:

Hello All,

Spring is truly here.  The snow piles are melting.  A chunk of somebody’s front bumper has been found in one of these piles and it has the license plate still attached.  I think it is from a pickup or an SUV.

If your truck is WI plate XX0000, then please come back to the workshop and pick it up.

I admit it; the license plate number has been changed to protect — oh, who knows? 

And then I went to yet another appointment with a doctor and saw what looked like the turn signal from a small car sitting on the “lawn” next to the parking lot.

And I thought uncovering pizza boxes was strange!

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Intellectually Vulnerable

Intellectually Vulnerable — I saw the term on Facebook, of all places. The complete phrase read, “…trying to sell his snake oil to the intellectually vulnerable.” Intellectual snake oil — that’s another interesting term, combining the two in the sentence.

Snake oil, according to Merriam-Webster, is “any of various substances or mixtures sold as medicine usually without regard to their medical worth or properties.” A vulnerable buyer might pay for this snake oil and get stuck with a worthless product.

The snake oil on the market today doesn’t come in a bottle. Today’s snake oil is more a collection of misinformation, often talk with no action or talk that has no basis in fact.

Back to Merriam-Webster. Intellectual snake oil, ideas without merit, sound wonderful because they sound simple. The vulnerable might think, “Yeah! I like this! It’ll solve all the world’s ills in one shot!” But no. Nothing is ever that simple. And those that are vulnerable might also be those that are hurt by the simplistic faux solution.

Where is this heading? Tuesday, it’s headed to the polls – at least I am. We have a school board to elect and a new City Council member for our ward, too. I can’t quite bring myself to use the term “alderperson.” It sounds so impersonal.

I think I’ll make a bumper sticker that says, “I’m NOT intellectually vulnerable; and I vote!”

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