A Grandmother's Tale

Over this past weekend, Sam and I wandered our way to Flagstaff, Arizona. Sam was participating in a mountain bike race, and there will be a report coming on that, but spending a few days in Arizona reminded me of some things that prompted a need to get some other thoughts out of my system. So, while this post is not in regard to bicycles, it was sparked by them in a manner of speaking, and I hope to find some relief or maybe comfort by getting it out of my mind and into a more tangible state. I never cease to be amazed by the small details which can bring about the most interesting of memories.

The last time I was in Arizona I was fourteen years old and visiting my aging grandparents in their respite-from-the-cold-Pennsylvania-winter home, located between Tempe and Mesa. It's incredible that despite the fact that both my grandparents passed away well over two decades ago, there are just certain memories that have stuck with me.

My grandmother pictured in a newspaper, illustrating how she made a "cookie tree."

My recollections of Arizona center mostly on the aforementioned region, including frequent trips into Phoenix to see the "big city" that wasn't all that large at the time.

I laugh when I think about my grandfather driving my younger brother and I into the city.  As he'd drive, his turn signal would click rhythmically through the entire trip, as he could never seem to remember it was on. He always drove at 35 mph, regardless of the sort of road he was traveling, which incensed drivers nearly as much as it does today.  He was always unfazed by what surrounded him on the roads, and I'm honestly not even certain he heard all of the honking and commotion around him on our drives. The car was a bubble of sorts, and he spoke to my younger brother and I as though we were sitting casually in the living room. He would ask us about our futures, how school was going and our grades, and he'd tell us stories of the farm back in Pennsylvania. We'd try to tell him that other people were honking, but he'd always respond with a "What?" or a "Hmm?" To this day, I don't know if he just had the greatest powers to ignore, or if he had no idea what was taking place all around him.

Their home, nestled in the southwestern part of the U.S., was my grandmothers' domain. Time spent with her was full of playing board or tile games and watching Wheel of Fortune. At the time, it was a somewhat newer game show on television, but it was one of my grandmother's favorites. She was so great at solving the puzzles long before the contestants were able to begin to form a possible answer. To this day, I cannot watch the show without thinking of her.

I remember the peach and turquoise southwestern prints that hung on the walls of their home. It was decorated so differently than their "real" home. Back in Pennsylvania, their farm house was decorated with turn-of-the-century pieces and items they'd picked up during their many travels abroad. My grandmother spoke four languages, not including English, and this skill had served them well on their many adventures overseas.

I recall the absence of the super-green, lush foliage I'd grown up with on the coast of California, and an abundance of rocks and desert/cactus plants in hers and the surrounding yards in Arizona.

I also have memories of her rising at 4am to start cooking meals for the day. A hot pot of oatmeal was inevitably sitting on the stove waiting for me when I woke, regardless of the home we were visiting. Mrs. Fields had nothing on my grandmother, and I'm convinced she was, without a doubt, the greatest cookie-maker ever to grace this earth.

She also taught me to crochet, despite my desperate attempts to escape such a task. She always told me that it was a good activity to learn for any young lady; It would keep my hands busy and my mind active.

I sent her letters regularly when we couldn't see each other. My entire youth I wrote to her at least a couple of times each month. Without fail, in the weeks that followed, I'd receive my letters back in the mail with her spelling and grammar corrections in red ink. I took offense to this for a long time, believing that she didn't appreciate that I wanted her to have something of me, something hand-written and from the heart. I often believed her "corrections" were her way of telling me I wasn't good enough. As years went by, I came to understand that this was simply her way of interacting with me and trying to help me learn something from her years of experience as an English teacher.

A portion of one of the very few letters I have left from my grandmother.

She wrote me letters too, even though I sometimes forget that part. She enjoyed updating me on all that was happening in her life, and I loved reading about the things that brought her joy or amusement.

My grandparents were quite old even when I was young. They were in their mid-40s when they had my father, and my parents were in their 30s when they had me, so the generation gap was palpable. Most grandparents are "old," but mine were of the age that I was never sure how long I'd have them around. Even without it being said, I knew they wouldn't be grandparents I'd have into adulthood, or that would be alive to see my children (if I'd had them). I tried to soak up every moment I was with them because I didn't see them as often as one would hope. Living most of the year almost 3,000 miles apart didn't allow for the kind of frequent visits kids enjoy with grandparents who live in the same region.

It didn't matter to me though. They were my grandparents and I loved being with them, particularly in my very young years.

Both grandparents were on the quiet side, my grandfather more so, or at least when it came to conversing with me. Generally, when he spoke to me it was a criticism of something I had done, was about to do, or was contemplating doing.

Neither understood my clothing choices or the fact that I had pierced ears (which was a huge issue to my grandfather in particular). How could they possibly have identified with anything I was doing or wearing or saying? God only knows how they'd react today after seeing my many tattoos.

They had lived through the Great Depression (with 4 children - my father wouldn't come along until later) and were accustomed to subdued, reasonable, and practical choices. They reused everything in a time long before recycling/reusing was part of anyone's vocabulary. It was just what they did, not something that was special, or "in," or "hip."

I was a coming-up-teenager who was struggling to have her own voice and identity recognized, and much as my parents attempted to convince me to "tone it down" around my grandparents, I was a quietly rebellious youth and chose to behave and wear what I would any other time. Some things don't change, I suppose.

Each of my grandparents had stories that fascinated me as a child, and that I hold on to dearly to this day. Most of the stories I recall though came from my grandmother. She was a fabulous story teller, weaving together thoughts that seemed incongruous, but that made her tales so much more memorable.

Despite her introverted demeanor, she would speak at various events, narrating allegories that she'd likely told more times than she could count. I still have newspaper clippings from some of her speeches, as she'd often make local news for her ability to provide motivation through her words. Long before the days of TED talks, motivational speakers, or other speaker's bureaus, grandma was the lady to hear. She was entertaining to young and old alike, and she could morph her tales to a specific audience like no other.

As I grew into more of a teenager and was nearing the end of high school, my grandfather passed away. He had been arguing with my father about financial matters (that seem so insignificant now) when we received news that he passed in his sleep during a hospital stay.

At the time, we couldn't afford to have our entire family travel to the funeral, so my father went alone. I was saddened by the news, and hoped that my grandmother would be able to make it on her own. Soon, we heard that she was moving in with one of her daughters, who also happens to be my favorite aunt. She lived just across the street from their home in Pennsylvania, so it would make for a fairly easy transition.

A few months later, my parents thought it wise for me to pay my grandmother a visit. She was not getting any younger and they wanted me to a spend a bit of time with her. I was reluctant to go as I was in my last year of high school and had so many activities taking place that seemed far more pressing. I had a job and didn't want to ask for time off either.

Begrudgingly, I made the trip back east. When I arrived, I found my grandmother to be physically in a similar state to the last time I'd seen her, but I could tell something was different. She was having difficulty moving around due to a broken hip, but my aunt was always gracious in doing whatever she could to help get her mother healed. My aunt would enter the room, smile on her face and words of encouragement dripping from her lips. I always appreciated that she was such a positive person.

As I sat with my grandmother one afternoon, she started to cry. She had never been particularly emotional, and I always thought of her as quite a tough individual, so to see her well up with emotion was odd. I, however, have never done well with crying people in that I am extremely sensitive to others emotions. Even in my selfish, teenage state, when her tears started to fall, my heart broke. She started to reminisce about the times she'd had with my grandfather and would trail off as she'd just get into a story. I wondered if she was losing her capacity to form sentences, or if she just didn't want to share times that had been so special between her and the person she'd loved for so many decades.

The last story she would ever share with me was not like the ones she'd told me in my younger years. This one was completely non-fiction, and as I sat wanting to be anywhere but where I was, she began her saga.

"I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you," she began. I'm sure I stared a bit in response, expecting that there was some sort of comical line impending. "I am serious," she reiterated.

She would start her story by telling me about the birth of her first daughter and how happy she was to have her. Soon thereafter she had two more children and they had their happy family of five. As the Great Depression was well underway, she found out that she was pregnant with child number four.

Knowing that they were struggling financially without the burden of an extra mouth, she was unsure she wanted to tell my grandfather about this new child that would be coming to their family soon. As she continued, she repeated that she didn't want to tell my grandfather that she was "with child." She feared that he wouldn't be able to handle the stress of such things, so she decided she was going to do everything in her power to lose the pregnancy.

At this point, she started to cry again. She relived to me all of the things she attempted to do to lose this child that she knew they couldn't afford. She would run up and down stairs as fast and hard as she could, she would punch herself in the stomach, hoping that it would cause a miscarriage, and, in short, she shared many things she had done that today would likely result in her being committed, jailed, or at bare minimum that would receive wide eyes and gasps from anyone hearing what she'd done.

I have to admit, I was in shock hearing such a story. This woman, who I believed to be one of the greatest people on earth, was telling me that she had tried to kill my aunt before she was even born.

I tried to fathom what life would've been like without my favorite aunt. She had always been the fun one at otherwise often boring family functions or reunions. She was one of the very few relatives of the 90-some-odd on my father's side of the family who would actually come to visit us. She was spunky and full of life.

My grandmother continued to speak with tears streaming down her cheeks. "I... I don't know how I could've done it." It was a statement, not a question. "I tried everything in my power to not have her come into this world, and now, as I sit here nearing the end of my own life, she is the one taking care of me. The one child I could not imagine having is the one here for me now. She is the strongest, kindest, and most understanding person I have known."

Now I was crying. To come to that realization that the very child she hadn't wanted, the one that she'd attempted to abort, the one that was now nursing her back to health in a most loving and caring manner, must have come as quite an ironic twist. How many years had she carried this story with her? How many sleepless nights must she have had while she mulled it over in her own mind? The sort of self-loathing ideas that must have run through her at times when she'd relive that span of time.

I both despise and love that this is the last story my grandmother would tell me. I don't particularly love that my final memory of her is one of a reenactment (of sorts) of her attempts to abort my aunt, but I appreciate the realness and perspective it gave me of her as a person. It also gave me an appreciation for humans and a capacity to understand that making mistakes is part of existence. No one gets to escape errors in judgment or behavior.  Last moments are no ones entire life, and no matter what we do, we really can't know when those final minutes will be on this earth. We have all done things we wish we could go back and change or revise or completely erase from time, but they are done and gone and already in the annals of history. We hope to learn our lessons, and we hope not to hurt anyone along the way, but not one of us is perfect. Maybe we take from those not-so-great moments an opportunity to learn something about ourselves or the future, or perhaps we can only view those instances as a part of the past.

I really miss my grandmother. I wish I could talk to her today and get her perspective on life and ideas in general. She lived nearly a century and saw so many things that I'm sure society is repeating now. I think she'd appreciate my love of bicycles, and she'd probably find it entirely amusing that I have a blog - full of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in my haste to get thoughts out of my head. I may have driven her crazy with the way I worded things, but I would think she'd see that her love of writing carried through a bit to me (and I can even make a decent cookie), so I'd hope she would know that a little piece of her lives on - even if it's in a package she didn't always approve of or believe to be the most proper of beings.

Graduation Gift? The VW Beetle Saga

A few weeks ago I got on a kick about finding a classic VW Beetle. Why? Well, that requires some back story. When I was almost 16, I wanted a convertible Beetle so badly. Despite the fact that my parents kept telling me I wasn't going to have a car for my 16th birthday, I was convinced they were trying to keep it a secret and had actually bought me the turquoise convertible I'd been eyeing. My birthday came and went, and I didn't have the convertible. Determined to get my way, I decided that I would get that Beetle, regardless. A couple of months later my parents decided they'd go in "halvsies" with me so that I could buy a regular sedan Beetle, but they weren't going to go for the convertible. Bummer.

Never in my life have I had so much fun (at least in a car) as I had in that vehicle. I had more adventures than I can count, and always remember it fondly as my first car. As I was preparing to go away to college, my parents thought it was best that I sell it and get something more appropriate for long-distance driving. I remember protesting vehemently and all but begging to keep it...even as a stored car, but I didn't have the funds to own two cars and it seemed ridiculous to everyone for me to store a vehicle indefinitely. I literally cried the day I watched her drive away with her new owner. It was far too emotional for me, especially for something that I logically shouldn't have been so attached to.

Several years ago, I bought a new Beetle. It was a few years old, but it reminded me of the fun I once had as a teenager - you know, getting into trouble wherever I went. It wasn't quite the same though as that old VW - and how could it be? The new one had modern "conveniences" like operational windshield wipers, a warm heater (it even had heated seats), and the like. For anyone who's owned a classic Beetle, I'm sure you have similar stories, but I always remember some piece of it being inoperable - yet, I still loved having and driving it. The new Beetle just wasn't the same as the hunk of metal that I used to roll around in. I enjoyed it, but eventually it was sold and life moved forward.

On a whim a few weeks ago, I started looking at old VW's on Craigslist. Of course, I naturally went right to the convertibles; but I learned quickly that all of the old Beetles - whether convertible or not - have become quite pricey. I found several needing major repairs, an engine, body work, etc, and the owners wanted in the thousands (sometimes in the 10's of thousands) for these cars. Has everyone gone insane? Wasn't this the "car of the people?" The affordable option? Apparently, not any longer.

As I kept checking out ads and sending links to Sam with titles such as "the perfect graduation/Christmas gift," I couldn't help but giggle knowing full well that we can't afford this sort of thing with my school loan payments beginning the day after I finish classes (in just a couple of days - yay!). No amount of pleading or wishing was going to make money suddenly appear.

A few days later, Sam came home from work and paid me a visit out in the studio. He asks what I'm working on, I ask him how the day went at work, and he responds with a half-hearted, inaudible response. He then informs me that he left work early in the morning, and then hands me a piece of paper. I ask what it is that he's handing me, and he tells me it's the title to my new car. Huh? I look at it - it says it's a VW Beetle. As I'm perplexed by all of this, Sam proceeds to fill in the blanks telling me that he left work this morning to go and check out this Beetle and that it's now sitting at his dad's house. The next piece of paper handed to me helped me understand why it wasn't sitting out in front of the house with a shiny new bow.

My "graduation gift" - a lovely, rusty, hunk of metal

Yeah. Um, I don't think that's exactly drive-able, is it? I see the photo and am informed soon thereafter that it's going to be a project for us to work on together. Scratching my head, I can't help but wonder what would possess my husband of nearly ten years to suddenly think I have some sort of mechanical/automotive aptitude or capability. I can barely handle changing the tube on my bike tire - what would make him think I'd want to engage in such a project?

But alas, I knew that this was the only type of car we can afford for the time being... and during the winter months, there are days (sometimes weeks) when having transportation other than a bicycle is going to be an imperative (for me - as I'm not skilled in the winter commute by bike). We have actually set about work on the beast. This past weekend we spent a good 8-10 hours sanding and grinding, trying to get the pieces to a point that they can be prepped for painting. Who knew so much work went in to a paint job, let alone all the mechanical work that still needs to be completed?

The weekend past was absolutely freezing, so I had about four layers on as Sam's dad "instructs"
me on how to remove paint from the car parts that still had some small bit of paint left on them.

We've also started sourcing parts for the project. An engine was secured (running even, surprisingly) and various other parts are slowly being picked up as we find the right pieces to the puzzle. As odd as it sounds, I'm actually excited about this project (more excited about it being over, but excited nonetheless) and I'm anxious to see what it will end up being. I'm supposed to be picking a paint color, but my chosen color seems to change on a near-hourly basis. Because I didn't get the convertible I wanted, I still think we need to install a ragtop as well... but, fighting with the "boys" about this will be my biggest battle, I'm sure.

In the end, I'm excited to be re-living a bit of my own personal history, and having the opportunity to work on a project from the ground up. Perhaps it will help increase my confidence when it comes to mechanical projects? Or, it will turn into a giant disaster and a year from now I'll be wondering why we even started this endeavor in the first place. Until then, I'm trying to just live in the moment and get as much done as possible.

Women and Bicycles {throughout history}

I came across an article today that I found quite fascinating. It's actually an excerpt from a book that I think I may need to check out. Its topic centers on women and bicycles, and specifically, women throughout history and their attempts to master appropriate clothing while riding bicycles, so I couldn't help but stop and read. While I highly recommend popping over to read the entire article here, my favorite portion reads:

*Image from renekmueller.com
John Kemp Starley's "Safety Bicycle" 1885

     "Yet bicycles did not give women the vote. There was no miracle; no suffragettes freewheeled through the House of Commons or D-locked themselves to the Downing Street railings. By the time women were finally given the vote in 1928, bicycles were as much a fact of ordinary life as underground trains. But by offering women a chance to see themselves as free, to take possession of their own physical health and to claim their independence in the workplace, the bicycle had done something extraordinary. It had changed the world and made it a better place.
     In some ways, it’s still doing so. A century on, cycling’s impact on both fashion and politics continues. The huge rise in the numbers of commuter cyclists in the past few years has led to a corresponding rise in cycle-related clothing. Not all of it has been beneficial. No one could claim that hi-vis does much for a sensitive complexion.
     But in mainland Europe, where cycles have been part of the general cityscape for decades, people adapt their cycles and their speed to suit what they’re wearing rather than the other way round. Instead of racing to work on a road bike as many do in London, they ride in exactly what they put on that morning. Sites such as www.copenhagencyclechic.com make it plain that on a bike with a skirt-guard and a step-through frame, it’s perfectly possible to pedal across town with stilettos, two children and several large items of kitchen furniture.
     A bicycle still offers freedom, but this time from cars and queues, from oil, from rising prices and a life inside. It gives us back the landscape and makes us part of nature again. It belongs to everyone – every age, every class, every race and religion. And, most importantly of all, it’s fun. A century on, and bicycles are still liberating us all." -- from Bella Bathurst, Bicycles: The Chains that Set Women Free

**Note: It looks as though Bathurst's book, The Bicycle Book, can be purchased here. I can't seem to find a spot here in the U.S. quite yet to purchase, though I'm sure it could easily be shipped from the U.K.

115 Years Later

There's an interesting historical article this morning on the web. You can find the full story by clicking here, but I wanted to share the link because I thought it was interesting to read about the "bicycle craze" that hit the Southhampton area in 1896 with "reckless wheelmen terrorizing pedestrians."  Apparently, people were so into bicycles that the "craze" was blamed for lowered rates of international travel that year.

One of the things that struck me about the article was the mention that the "young people" were really into bicycles at the time. I'm wondering if it was just a fad that came and left, or if that area would've seen an array of people on bikes.  As I prepare to enter spring break time, I can't help but wonder if there are still people who feel terrorized by bicycles on sidewalks. It is legal to ride on them in my city (except as posted otherwise), and even though there are few places I actually ride on sidewalks in town, there are a couple of streets that I believe merit the use. Of course, I always ride incredibly slow through these areas, as I know I need to look for pedestrians.

Happy Hump Day!

1940s Photo

Just going through photos and was reminded that I really enjoyed the old photos I found several months ago. I think I enjoy more that there are more people walking or on bicycles than there were vehicles in the shot. It may not have represented an exact reality of life in England at the time, but the still shots are sometimes a nice ideal.

Strange Experiences

I've been a bit absent for the last few days. Friday, my mother in-law came into town, and I left class quite early to pick her up from DIA. I had every intention of just leaving a tiny bit early, running out to the airport, picking her up and taking her back to our place. As usually happens, things didn't quite work out that way. I had two wet paintings in the back of my car, transporting them back and forth (as it was time for grading) and I intended to just flip them on their sides, gently lean them against each other with some kind of barrier in between so that my MIL could stick her luggage in the back as well. Well, the paintings had other plans as they continued to flop around in the back, spreading oil paints all over the back of the car, and I ended up driving the 35 miles home first to drop the paintings off before heading back down to the airport. On my way home, this giant semi pulling a long trailer pulls in front of me in the passing lane going about 90 mph (I really don't think this was an exaggeration as I was high tailing it at nearly 85 mph trying to beat the clock), and starts blowing all sorts of debris on my car. Everything from dirt and rocks to giant sheets of metal were being chucked at me like they were nothing. Needless to say, I ended up with some not so pretty paint-damaging dents on my new car that is less than one week old (the new car thing is another story for another time). I wasn't happy. I came home fussing and fuming about bad drivers and how even when I'm in a car I can't escape their idiocy. I got over it. Sort of. Picked up MIL with Sam who was now along for the ride since I'd come home and I needed some sanity for the 35 mile drive back down to Denver. All said and done though, the three of us spent a lovely weekend touring Denver, Boulder, and of course visiting the casinos in Central City and Black Hawk, as well as checking out my college's very own newly acquired gallery space for various fine art shows. In all of it, I took not one picture. Shocking, as I often take random pictures of next to nothing for no apparent reason at all.

One of our stops this weekend, however, was to visit the Molly Brown House/Museum in Capital Hill. If you've never visited, I highly recommend it as the house is fascinating, and the tour guides' stories to rectify often misunderstood supposedly historical information is utterly fascinating. Neither Sam nor I had visited prior to Saturday, and I have to say, it was really quite intriguing.

*Image from Mollybrown.org

One of the strangest parts of the day was our tour guide. Well, the tour guide herself was not strange so to speak, but the experience was odd. When I first saw her, I immediately felt as though I had seen her somewhere prior to the tour (Sam and MIL also had this same feeling, which I thought was a bit unsettling, as we later discussed after the tour). While on the tour of the house, I also felt some sort of weird connection to this woman, and I have no idea why. It's still odd to me now, and it's a good day and a half later as I type this. Sam started investigating to see if he could find out who the woman is. All we knew was her first name and that she was a volunteer at the Molly Brown House, and she mentioned briefly that she is part of the Colorado paranormal society. Hmm. Maybe we had seen her on television? While researching, he finds her first and last name, and discovers that she and her son have a haunted magazine in publication locally and that they do all sorts of paranormal type of things. She is a psychic and empath and her son has abilities as well. Still, none of this seems to explain why we all somehow seemed to recognize this woman as an individual we have met in the past (none of us are involved in anything paranormal, and have never seen the two shows she has appeared on on television), and why I seemed to be somehow connecting with her silently. As I just finished telling Sam, the whole thing is weirding me out. I have sort of strange urging to contact her and talk to her, and I literally don't know why. While I do believe in the paranormal, I'm certainly no fanatic, and I also hold on to a good amount of healthy skepticism when it relates to such matters, but I would really love to know what the draw is to this woman and why I, someone who often goes out of her way to avoid people, suddenly feels the need to seek out this person. Though I'm certain nothing will come of this, and I will very likely never again see this woman, I find the whole situation a bit perplexing. I can't help wondering if others have ever had such an experience and suddenly discovered someone who they didn't know, but instantly felt compelled to connect with.

All in all, it was a great time for all. Mother in-law has made it home safely (literally moments ago) to once again be with her hubby and two Jack Russel Terriers, and Sam and I will return to life as normal (whatever that may be). Whew! Now I feel as though I have lots of work to do to make up for the three days of gallivanting around the state.

Connecting to the Past

Over this past weekend, Sam and I were browsing a local thrift-swap-mercantile sort of store that has various booths within the establishment. Each booth sells their own wares of various sorts, but one in particular caught our eye as we strolled through the building. This particular booth had a basket full of old photographs.  As we browsed the photos, it became apparent that the photos were from a particular family or individual, but we were curious how they'd arrived here. We happened to catch the booth owner (which is not a typical happening here) who stated that the photos had come from an estate sale in Loveland, Colorado, and that many were from WWII. I think we saw just about every photo in the basket (which was no small feat), and even walked away with a handful for potential use in art projects. But, I thought I'd share a few of them here, as they were entirely interesting to see.

One of the pictures I thought was kind of interesting, was one that showed a bustling city square kind of area with bicycles all around. It was as though they belonged there and everyone was going about their business.

This photo was taken somewhere in England, and was likely taken during the summer of 1944 (based on the other photos I've found in the bunch). There were others similar to this one, such as the one below, which shows a woman pushing a stroller through town and bicycles all about.

I love the black and white imagery and it's a shame that I've had to take photos of photos, but I think that, even despite my poor photography skills, it is easy to see how much fun these pictures are.

A few of my favorites of the group are of a few friends who were traveling about England on their day off from their Navy duties. This one shows three friends riding through town. They happened to stop by a store and peer into it. I couldn't help but giggle, as this is such a "girlfriends" kind of thing to do together.

There's something entirely Lucy and Ethel about the photograph, I think, but I absolutely adore it. There is also one of the three friends who had stopped for lunch in the physical training clothes one day on an adventure through town.

I cannot believe these are the clothes these women worked out in during their Navy years! At least they were able to wear shorts beneath their dresses, as you can see if you look closely under their legs.

Another adorable shot is of two friends standing in front of a bicycle. The caption on the back of the photo indicates that the woman on the right had her dress caught on the seat and was trying not to show it in the picture.

There were so many other pictures in the basket of this flea market booth that I had hoped to take them all, but because of the era and subject matter (WWII military, and women nonetheless), they weren't exactly giving them away. However, I was happy to take my little piece of history to share with others, and I look forward to possibly utilizing these for a final painting project.

A Voting Reminder

In honor of our day to vote, I thought I'd post a little history of women's right to vote. It's a story of our mothers and grandmothers who lived less than 100 years ago, and though some may have seen this particular information in the past, I think it's an excellent reminder of how we need not take advantage of our rights, and honor those who paved the way in the past.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.

The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.

Lucy Burns

And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of  'obstructing sidewalk traffic.' They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

Dora Lewis

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cell mate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women. Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

Alice Paul

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press. (see http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/collections/suffrage/nwp/prisoners.pdf)

So, refresh my memory. Some women won't vote this year because- why, exactly? We have carpool duties? We have to get to work? Our vote doesn't matter? It's raining?

Mrs. Pauline Adams in the prison garb she wore while serving a sixty-day sentence

HBO put out a movie Iron Jawed Angels and it shows a graphic depiction of the battle these women waged so that I could pull the curtain at the polling booth and have my say. It's shameful, but sometimes the reminder is needed.

Miss Edith Ainge, of Jamestown, New York

All these years later, voter registration is still so important. But the actual act of voting had become less personal, more rote. Frankly, voting often feels more like an obligation than a privilege. Sometimes it is inconvenient.

Berthe Arnold, CSU graduate

What would those women think of the way we use, or don't use, our right to vote? All of us take it for  granted now, not just younger women, but all of us. I wish all history, social studies and government teachers would include the HBO movie in their curriculum. It could be shown on Bunco night, too, and anywhere else women gather. I realize this isn't our usual idea of socializing, but we are not voting in the numbers that we should be, and I think a little shock therapy is in order.

Conferring over ratification [of the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution] at [National Woman's Party] headquarters, Jackson Pl [ace] [ Washington , D.C. ]. L-R Mrs. Lawrence Lewis, Mrs. Abby Scott Baker, Anita Pollitzer, Alice Paul, Florence Boeckel, Mabel Vernon (standing, right)

I'm sure it would be jarring to watch Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane, so that she could be permanently institutionalized. And it would be inspiring to watch the doctor refuse. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy. The doctor admonished the men: 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'

Whether you vote democratic, republican or independent party - remember to vote.

Helena Hill Weed, Norwalk, Connecticut, serving a three-day sentence in a D.C. prison for carrying a banner that read: "Governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed."

History is being made!

I'll be riding my bicycle to the polling place today to make my voice heard, and I hope you'll do the same.