Much to celebrate but …

Last Sunday was International Women’s Day.  To slightly tweak an old Virginia Slims cigarette ad, “we’ve come a long way baby” but let’s not rest on our laurels just yet.  We still have a way to go.

In many parts of the world women are still seen, and treated, as chattel.  In some parts of the world they’re considered so worthless, such a burden they’re killed as soon as they’re born.  In some parts of the world they still have to suffer through genital mutilation, to ensure they get no pleasure from sex.

In some parts of the world they’re not allowed to even look at a man, they’re forced to be covered up from head to toe with slits only for their eyes.  In some parts of the world if they dare to commit adultery and get caught they’re stoned to death.  They have

The end of an era …

About three weeks ago, I wrote about my aunt, Leatrice, the last of my mother’s sisters. In my heart I knew, that day, she was not doing very well. I spoke with her every week and when I got off the phone after we talked for what turned out to be the last time, I was really concerned about her. What I didn’t know, was just how rapidly she would decline. Unfortunately she passed away eight days ago.

She’s the one in the middle in the photograph. My mother is on the left and her twin sister, on the right. The twins were seven years older than my aunt. She looks about six or seven, I’m guessing — the smocked dress is a give-away, don’t you think? So they would have been thirteen or fourteen. Teenagers, although to me, they look older — more sophisticated. It’s probably the lipstick that was added to the photograph later. And the rouge, as it was called in those days.

I love this photo. The first time I saw it was at my cousin’s house, after my aunt’s funeral. Obviously in those days there were no colour photographs, so this was tinted. The three of them look like they’re in a

Day 239. The Battle

It’s okay. You can put the history books away. This isn’t going to be a post about Custer’s Last Stand, otherwise known as the Battle of 1876. No, this is a story of men and women. A story that hasn’t changed in generations. A story I’m not sure will ever change.

I overheard a conversation yesterday. That’s what sent me down this road. But before you accuse me of being nosy, let me just say, I couldn’t help it. The two girls in question were sitting right next to me. And they were not speaking in hushed tones. The only way to avoid listening was to leave. And why should I have left? They chose to talk about a personal matter in a public place. In loud voices.

What more could a writer ask for?

Anyway, I figure they were both in their early twenties. What do you think they were talking about? I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t the economy, or the new Pope. Boys. They were talking about boys. One was being neurotic, as only a female can be.

She’d recently met a new guy. She liked him. They went out twice. She hadn’t heard from him in four days. He said he’d call and he hadn’t. Now before you pass judgement and accuse him of being a dick, he had told her he