Erasing History

 

These are among the plaques to be removed from the Bunker Hill Monument as part of President Trump's desire to make sure nothing negative appears about the United States.  The removal was triggered by a woman who complained that a statement about women's suffrage was woke. 

The quotes refer to slavery, war, women's suffrage, etc.

Not knowing the truth about the past is dangerous for a democracy. A recent example is the alleged reason for the Iran War. Trump wants Iran to agree to comply to things that they already agreed to and were in a treaty that he annulled. Statements that Iranians hate Americans never include the reasons why. 

A friend who moved to Mexico had a son who studied the Spanish-American War in the US and Mexico. He came home to tell his mother, "Mom, they were two different wars."

In Texas where my visitor husband was heard calling January 6th an insurrection belligerently challenged him calling it a demonstration. I must have watched the insurrection on news stations from Switzerland, France, England and Germany news. That was no demonstration. Nor was it a tour as some have claimed.

At University, a Brit taught the causes of the American Revolution from England's perspective. Like my friend's son said, it was a different revolution.

Massachusetts leaders did not react well to the removal. Governor Maura Healey said, "It is a disgrace that President Trump is attempting to erase voices and perspectives from one of our nation's most important historic sites. . . That's not preserving history. That's censoring it. President Trump doesn't get to decide which parts of our history are worth remembering."

I find many Americans are not aware of some of the most important events in their history. Maybe they don't even know about Bunker Hill. Probably most of them will not go to Bunker Hill in Boston, but if they do, thanks to President Trump they will be denied a part of their history. That's just plain wrong.

Try an experiment. Ask your friends, colleagues about Bunker Hill. Pick some other things from America's past like the Jay Treaty. What was a Democrat-Republican Party and who founded it. Or pick any other brick in the wall of American history and see if they know.

Erasing history verbally doesn't make it go away. The events still happened. 

 

 

Daisy and Mabel

 

No this isn't a Thelma and Louise type story.

Daisy Hodges and Mabel Fairclough were two women who lived on Grove Street in Reading, Massachusetts from the 1920s until the 1960s in their same homes. They married, bought a house and made it a home until they died. A house was a home, not an investment.

I suspect I'm the only person on the planet who remembers them. Very few people who ever lived on the planet are remembered once their families and friends die and are also are forgotten.

Both women were typical of their time and social class: Republicans, Daughters of the American Revolution, professional housewives, "good" Christians, prohibitionists, proper and most importantly wives and mothers. 

Daisy's house was on a slope. I would never have called her Daisy. All my grandmother's friends were called Mrs. (Fill in the blank) . If I ever used their first name it was preceded by "aunt" even without a drop of DNA between us. No one knew about DNA then.

Daisy Hodges was fat at a time when very few people were: chubby yes, well padded yes - but not fat. She had huge breasts. Is my memory clouded by time, but was she able to stick pins in her left breast? As a little girl I tried to avoid being too near her, for she always seemed to be one day too late for a bath.  

Ben Hodges, Daisy's husband, was a thin man who loved photography. He came to my house to take my picture. He sat me on our piano bench covered with an itchy multi-colored throw. He put my legs on the bench so it wasn't a full-on photo, rare for the day. I was four. I still have the photo.

The Faircloughs lived on top of a pine-tree covered hill where Grove Street crossed with Forest Street.

They had one daughter whose framed wedding picture was proudly displayed in the living room. The same living room had window sills covered with wooden planks. Nails stuck out to prevent the cat from jumping up. Outside sills had planks with nails too to prevent birds from landing.

Mabel was in a terrible car accident and fought back to recover when no one thought she would. Many years later she died in another car accident.

My grandmother did not spend a lot of time with them although, they belonged to the same groups. When they met at meetings, they would wear hats and gloves. 

My grandmother was happy to be at home most of the time. Another professional housewife she had much to do keeping her home in top order and her family well fed. In her free time there were books to read and my brother and I to love and play with. 

Sometimes Mabel would visit as a solo drop in. I don't remember Daisy in our house at all. My memories are of being at her house, but I can't think why.

When I think back to these women from my childhood, it is almost like watching a period film or TV show, an Agatha Christie set in Massachusetts rather than the UK and without a murder. 

A sociologist would notice the details of their lives, how they were like other middle class women of their time.They make up the history of the period but without fame. 

 

 

Dar's Recipe Box

I called my Grandmother Dar and soon her whole world followed even friends from her school days.

She was a good, old-fashioned cook with a treasure trove of recipes gleaned from friends, family, publications and her own imagination.

Dar died in her late 80s, 56 years ago. I have her recipe box chock full of culinary wisdom, most of it in her own handwriting. I doubt that she ever dreamed it would be handed down through the decades and would travel the world.

I was looking through it the other day to figure out what to take to a Canadian supper. (Swiss for pot luck) It will be part of a house concert (violin and piano). The hostess assigned types of food by alphabet group. I could go with A for Adams or N for Nelson. I'll do the N category, a main dish.

Maybe I'll make Dar's Scalloped Corn. I should do a dry run to make sure I've got it right. 

 Scalloped Corn

• 1 pound of creamed canned corn.
• 1 box Uneda* crackers.
• 1/4 pound butter.
• Real pepper. 
• Put rolled crackers not too fine in a bowl. Add enough milk until like a cream roll and add 1/2 butter and mix.
• Put butter on bottom of casserole.
• Add mixture and dot with pieces of butter.  
• Let stand till all milk absorbed.
• Bake one hour at 350°F (190°C).   
• Center will rise.  
• To check if done put knife in middle and it should come out clean. 
• Don't forget the pepper. 

                                            

* Not made since 2009. Will try Ritz as a substitute which I can get here or maybe another. I remember what Uneeda biscuits taste like.

Lucille's Oatmeal Bread - one loaf

• 1 cup reg. Quaker Oats
• 1 teaspoon shortening
• 1/2 cup molasses
• 1 teaspoon salt
• One yeast cake.

• Scald oatmeal with two cups boiling water.
• Add shortening, salt and yeast cake dissolved in luke warm water and mix well.
• Add four cups of flour more or less bit by bit until dough is stiff.

• Knead on floured cloth making a smooth ball.
• But in well-greased bowl in a warm place until twice the size.
• Punch down. 
• Fill a loaf pan 3/4 full and let rise again.
• Bake in pre-heated 375° (190°C) oven. 
• Make rolls of left-over dough.

Dar didn't say how long to let the bread bake. I checked several bread recipes to get an idea. After half hour and regularly thereafter I opened the oven and knocked on the center. It will sound right, a bit hollow. Like Dar, I became a gut cook.

Because she was writing the cards for herself the directions would not pass the muster of a cookbook editor. For me there's joy in touching what she touched, trying to duplicate childhood favorites.

My mother Dorothy Sargent Boudreau had a food column in The Lawrence Eagle Tribune called Stove Stories. https://stovestories.blogspot.com/  A couple of those columns are in the recipe box. Well after my mother's death, I came across other columns and put them in a blog. Blogs did not exist when she was alive, but if they did I'm sure she would have written one. 

Maybe there was a cave family in prehistoric times, sitting around the fire talking about the time grandmother burned the mammoth meat.

These recipes reinforce my belief that food comes with a human history and a personal history, something reinforced when my I touch Dar's handwriting. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Floating Petals

 

Two champagne glasses. A petal in each.  

It was the 11th anniversary celebration of our official marriage. Since Bartavelle is our favorite all time, all places restaurant, a meal there has meaning besides incredible food.

I say our official marriage for a reason. In Switzerland and many other countries only the ceremony performed by a city official is valid. A couple can marry 1000 times in a church, but it has no legal standing. Rick and I had exchanged vows 13 years before in a commitment ceremony attended by 40 friends from seven countries. It counted the most for us.

Bartavelle had served a meal for our out-of-country guests the night before the commitment ceremony. One friend mentions it whenever we eat together. "It's good, but it isn't Bartavelle."

The owners of the restaurant are artists. Thibault, the award-winning chef, is an artist in food. His wife Stephanie is an artist not just in all-things restaurant, but in painting as well. We have several of her works in both France and Switzerland. One of our patio walls, features a mural.

Our celebration meal was no exception to the fantastic food. Except there was an exception to the exception.

As Rick and I chatted, I looked at the champagne glasses, the petals made their way to the top and down and up and down, swimming gracefully among the bubbles. 

Stephanie may not have known it, but the petals in champagne was a symbol of our marriage. Even with ups and downs our relationship has been like a fine champagne. 

 

 

Free Write: The Empty Garage (almost)

Julia's Free Write

Empty!

Her head was empty.

It had been a bit of a struggle the past few weeks: her little boy ending up in emergency; followed by her husband’s mild stroke, never mind her best friend’s heart-breaking diagnosis.

Then there was the world situation.

Yes, there had been good times – and would be again. She’d weather the medical crises, she’d ignore the world for a while.

What she could no longer ignore was the empty refrigerator, the ever-diminishing supplies in both freezer and cupboards.

A shopping trip was no longer something to be put off so she started the list (she was good on making lists, then forgetting them and so ending up with items lacking every time), ready the bags.

During the short drive she emptied her head, enjoyed the beautiful fall day and arrived five minutes later at her favorite mini department store.

Miracle of miracles, the car park was almost empty!

D-L's Free Write

Marilyn clutched her note and text book to her chest as she entered the parking garage. 

Only one car. 

Hers.

It was after 10 p.m. 

She was exhausted. Her alarm had gone of at 5:30. She'd worked all day, then gone to her statistics class. God, she hated statistics. 

Afterwards she went to the university library to research her psych class paper.

She thought of all the Midsomer Murder shows where women were killed in empty places like this garage.

Three rats ran under her car. Yuck!

She forced herself to unlock her car door. Although not religious, she prayed the rats would stay away from her. 

Before she could start her car, another car rushed into the garage, slammed on its brakes, opened its door and shoved a body, a bloodied body out and sped off.

She didn't move until he was gone. She grabbed her phone and dialed 911. 

Rick's Free Write 

 "I’ve staked out the dad’s car but I think I may have been made,” Jacob said, reporting in on the hour. “No one came back to the car, and the magasin has been closed for more than 30 minutes, and there are no other vehicles in the garage, not even an employee scooter.”

“Hang there awhile longer, Jacob,” his handler said. “They may be monitoring the garage exit to see if you leave.”

“I’m concerned about the cameras in the garage. I’m going to have to ditch this car soon.”

“You shouldn’t have been so obvious. You should have left when the last car took off. Didn’t I teach you anything?”

They had been watching the parents’ house in the Geneva suburbs for a month. They were certain Garrett and Melanie were hiding out in the region and would try to make contact.

They had lost their trail in Argelés after the fire. But they had picked them up from facial recognition in Grenoble. So they were confident Switzerland was their destination.

“H-h-hold on,” stuttered Jacob,” I see a shadow moving.”

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the airline industry  top stories . He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

Sunday Morning

 

 

A photo of Mille et Une (1001), a tea room two street corners from our front door. The 13th century church bells are ringing. The church is where we turn the first corner.

After buying our freshly baked bread and veggies from the friendly green grocer and baker, we sit at 1001.

We are greeted by the owner. 

Normally I'd have tea, but it's hot so I select local apple juice. Rick sticks with his normal hot chocolate.  

There's breeze countering the heat. 

We people and puppy watch walking by.

My husband and I chat. 

True luxury is this. 

Happiness is this.

  

Coat Hangers-A Death Becomes a Symbol

 

Joannie told about hearing her mother’s screams from the bedroom and

when she went in to help, she saw her father with his hands around her mother’s neck.

 

During the Vietnam War on 8 June 1972, an iconic photo was taken. It showed naked nine-year old Phan Thi Kim Phuc running away from napalm bombs.

A picture is worth a thousand words. The anti-abortion movement uses photos of fetuses to make the point that babies are being killed. 

Not used as often, but still seen on posters at pro-choice protests, is an equally discomforting if not shocking photo of Gerri Santoro on the floor, next to the bed in a Norwich, Connecticut, motel. She is naked, in the position of a frog, blood coming out of her vagina. Her head is turned to the right. Her right hand is covered with what might be a pair of underpants. Her purse is in the lower right-hand corner of the photo.

She is dead.

She bled to death after her boyfriend failed to abort her 8 June 1964. The medical examiner ruled her death was caused by an air embolism from an unskilled surgical procedure. 

Why Gerri Needed an Abortion

Gerri Santoro was 28, married, the mother of two daughters, Joannie and Judy.

She might have passed into oblivion if Ms. Magazine had not printed that photo in April 1973 along with a story about abortion. According to Roberta Brandes Gratz at Ms., they thought the woman was anonymous.

Leona, Gerri’s sister and a Ms. subscriber, recognized her sister. Her first reaction was horror at her sister’s exploitation.

Over the years her opinion changed.

In 1993 she participated in a pro-choice march carrying a sign with that photo and the words, “This was my sister.” Gerri’s photo, when she was a smiling, healthy woman, was on the other side of the sign.

Leona participated in a documentary called Leona’s Sister Gerri, made by Jane Gillooy (See my post in a few days) in 1995. Her daughters, brother and best friend, Joyce Garboni, also appeared.

Gerri was one of five girls in a 15-child family of Ukrainian descent. They lived on a Connecticut farm.

Leona described her sister as a kid who loved to climb trees. A brother remembered Gerri rushed through morning chores to be able to get to the bathroom first to have enough hot water.

Joyce Garboni was her best friend from the day they met on the school bus. During high school, they worked nights at a factory making condensers for radios, which gave Joyce enough money to buy a 1949 Dodge. The girls would cut classes and change in the car from the school dress code requiring skirts into jeans. Often, they went to the Windham Diner.

Joyce planned to marry in September, after graduation. Gerri kept saying that she would beat her friend to the altar even though she didn’t have a boyfriend.

Then Gerri met Sebastian (Sam) Santoro at a bus stop. They married 18 September 1954, one week before Joyce did.

The saying, “Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” applied to her marriage. What Gerri didn’t repent were her two daughters, Joannie and Judy.

Sam had been put in an orphanage along with his brother when his widowed mother could not cope with four children. His mother kept her daughters, which may have explained his treatment of women. The reason behind his actions did not make Gerri’s beatings any lighter. His daughters were not exempt: Joannie and Judy often had a belt applied to their behinds, far too much, according to Gerri’s brother.

Joyce told how negative Sam was about everything, liked by no one.

He worked in a meat room and was subject to terrible headaches, which Gerri used to explain his negative attitudes.

Sam believed if they moved to the better climate in California, it would help his headaches. Although Gerri was reluctant, she gave in, driving herself and her daughters across country after Sam had settled there. Joannie remembers how much fun her mother made the trip.

California did not improve her marital situation.

An Abused Wife Looks for Happiness

Joannie told about hearing her mother’s screams from the bedroom and when she went in to help, she saw her father with his hands around her mother’s neck. When Sam saw Joannie, he told her they were playing a game, an excuse that she heard more than once. Her mother seemed to go along with it, although Joannie wasn’t convinced.

Coming home from school in the spring of 1963, Joannie found their car packed. The two girls and Gerri returned to Connecticut without saying goodbye to their father.

This period was a happy time for Gerri’s daughters. Joanie remembers how much she loved the bedroom in her grandparents’ farm house where they lived without their father. She loved how her mother came in mornings and rolled up the shade, the flowers, the smell of the grass.

Judy’s memories of that time were how her mother always smelled of Juicy Fruit gum.

Gerri found work at the Mansfield Training School where she met Clyde Dixon. They became lovers.

Joyce said she understood why. He was everything Sam wasn’t, a talker, pleasant, except he was also married. 

Looking for an Abortion

Gerri found herself pregnant. She asked Joyce if her husband could get her some ergot, a fungus that grows on rye which had been used through the ages by midwives and doctors for abortions. She claimed it was for a friend.

Joyce believes that the ergot wasn’t for a pregnant “friend” but for Gerri. Over the next few weeks she debated confronting Gerri. The day she decided to do it, she went to Gerri’s house and found her friend not well. When Gerri told her that the “friend” was no longer pregnant, Joyce dropped the subject.

No one knows if Gerri was ill from the ergot or not. We know she did not abort the baby.

Time was running out. Sam had written a letter saying he was coming home and he wanted to take the girls to the beach for two weeks. Gerri expressed fear that if he found out she was pregnant by another man, he would kill her.

Clyde Dixon talked with Dr. Milton Morgan, who told him how to do an abortion and loaned Dixon the instruments. They decided that 8 June 1964 would be the day.

Joanie remembers her mother leaving that night. She begged to go with her. When her mother said “no” Joannie hid under a blanket in the backseat of the car. Her mother saw her and sent her back into the house.

No one knows where things went wrong. When did Dixon abandon Gerri? Was it when she started to bleed out of control? Was it after she died?

Leona, who had been at her brother’s that night, came home to be told that Gerri had called her and was crying, but said she would call back later.

She never did. 

The Children and Family Suffer Too

The girls remember being told that their mother had died in a car accident. Joannie said it didn’t make sense because the car was in perfect condition. The story changed to being hit while walking. Only later did they put it all together.

When the photo of Gerri on the floor of the hotel room became public, Joannie originally reacted negatively to the treatment of her “beautiful mom,” but later she became active in the pro-choice movement, marching in pro-choice events.v

Judy admits having an abortion as a teenager. She says she believes abortions are wrong and she will have to answer for what she did. At the same time, she is not willing to make the choice for any other woman.

The film shows Gerri as a loving mom. The girls talk about her always making their Halloween costumes. Joannie says she does the same thing today for her own children.

Clyde Dixon spent a year in prison and returned to his wife and family. He died in 1979. Sam Santoro died the year previous.

Note: This is a chapter from my non-fiction book Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, about abortion before Roe v. Wade. Over the next few weeks, I will publish all the chapters. Borrow freely if it will help reinforce anything that allows women to control their own bodies, a right that is systematically being taken from American women.