17 March 2015

17 March 1985 --- one Sunday afternoon

Crossing the footbridge inside Ames’ Brookside Park for the first time Tuesday, 10 March 2015, since late last Autumn, I was reminded by all of the Creek’s ice floes thawing and smashingly crashing down its stretch … … of a time inside the North Fork of the Ozarks’ White River.  Actually, every single March month every single year I have this very same flashback when strolling then over this bridge and into my work.

I am told that Child does not remember the year 1985.  He, Brothers and I were living in Columbia, Missouri, first in the summer of y1982, at 2308 Iris Drive, and at that time the last home on a dead – ended street.  When my parents were no longer able just a year and a half later to meet the requested payments on its mortgage, we were moved to 2412 Braemore Road, a rental duplex, miles away from that first Columbia neighborhood.  Child was wee, only 5½ years old one particular 17 March 1985, when it was decided that there should be a roadtrip taken to the south central – to – western part of Missouri, a stark and remote journey that took us right through very bible – ly belted countryside.  The beside – the – road signs were all about churchiness, and there were soooo, so many of them.  Every few miles, there seemed to be yet another one or more, all about hell and damnation and then, of course, salvation –– and to where you and yours could go in order to seek out that:  these sign messages’ ideas for your salvation.

I have no idea as to what to entitle this story.  Perhaps my writing about ‘it’ will help for me to dissipate the horridness of its memory and to finally release my brain from it –– although I genuinely doubt that ‘it’ will ever go completely away.  I may have mentioned this in earlier communiqués:  I do not swim.  In a pool, in a calm lake, in a hole, in any body of water.  In fact in my lifetime so far, I have had by lifeguards out of different pools to be saved three times.  With the nearest (outdoors only) pool miles’ distance and hours’ time away and with a blinded mother unable to chauffeur children anywhere, my father had no ability to take us four for any such lessons when I was a farm kiddo.  

The vehicle in which we were traversing was a Dodge Diplomat wagon, beige and rather nondescript but boxy, sturdy, reliable and capable of hosting three car seats on its back bench.  Other Child was dropped off at the first of our stop at an acquaintance’s property near the River’s North Fork.  He was eight years old and interested in raptors then, and the man there whom I did not know seemed to have a lot to do with such birds so Other Child went there to engage with them and him and to enjoy that afternoon studying these animals.

Child and Another Child and I, all three of us inside juvenile – sized life jackets (including me using Other Child’s upon my person), were then put into the water of the White River at its North Fork.  Within less than four minutes’ time only, the waters were that ragingly rapid and roiling, the canoe slammed upside, parallel to a downed and very large, lodged log lying crosswise from the shoreline into the stream and, while brought to a sudden halt and thus stationary in the river’s churning, entirely flipped over onto its top.  

Child was originally sitting behind me in the canoe, and Another Child had been in front of me.  I can remember holding onto one of the crossbars of the flipped canoe while simultaneously, of course, holding my breath.  I was unable to see or to hear anything or anyone else for all of its muddiness and rushing noises underneath the waters, the canoe held in its overturned place by that log. The life jackets had had mesh stringiness to their exteriors –– I have no idea as to why thus.  I remember thinking to myself three things:  i) I cannot hold my breath much longer, ii) if the jacket’s mesh behind me is hung up on branches or other underwater debris (of which there had been just a huge passel) sticking through its netting – like strings, I shall not be able to reach the entanglements and free myself and iii) I have no idea which end is up … … up to the water’s surface because of the murkiness, once I let go.

Of course, I did let go.  And just waited, flaccid, cold.  So cold.  In the rage, I did surface.  Child?  Child was nowhere within my sight.  Nowhere.  What I could see?  I saw Another Child.  Another Child was surfaced and off to my right … … but.  His head, his neck and only his upper chest were up in the air;  the entire rest of him was inside a tornadic whirlpool headed completely in the middle of the river and down it.  Swirling, swirling, twirling, whirling.  Around and around and around with both of his arms flailing up skyward above his shoulders; he had at six years of age absolutely no control inside that liquid blender.  Instinctively, I took off my own arms flailing about and churning one after the other –– I so would not at all call it ‘swimming’ –– in Another Child’s direction:  downriver and him in its very midst so swiftly getting away from me.

I managed to reach him, grabbed up to one hand of his and about 20 more feet of flailings’ and splashings’ later, as well as perpendicular to the debris – laden whirlpool inside of which Another Child had been spinning, dragged him out of it and myself up onto the river’s muddy embankment.

I looked around.  I do not know if Child, if the mesh – netting strings of Child's life jacket had been caught up on debris – protuberances or not; I have never known this.  Child was –– all of him / his body –– out of the water, soaked through and up onto the riverbank’s other side.  Shivering.  

I only know how I, and not how anyone else party to this particular day, feels about sniggering, about snickering, about giggling ... ... over such a matter.  That is not an appropriate response; it happened I know.  Nevertheless, those are not appropriate aftermaths to this specific event that, quite literally, outrageously threatened My and Two of My Children’s lives. We Three just sat there, each on our solid places, just so, so cold and, truly, quite stunned.  At what had just happened.  It was horrid.  We, any one or all of us, could have died that day:  17 March 1985. 

08 March 2015


MY story, too, including of the sperm donor to the three sons I grew in to their first selves and bulldozed out of me --- ONLY, apparently for him out of his vengeance upon me, to be taken BY HIM and hidden away from me --- UNTIL, and after, ALL OF THEIR ADULTHOODS:  On International Women's Day today, Ms Dworkin's "My Last Leftist Meeting," pages 100 - 103 of her Heartbreak;  the Political Memoir of a Militant Feminist, y2006.  The ONLY "good man" to challenge the sperm donor, pillared as a doctor in the community and monied, and to try to stop him from destroying my Boys and me?  Not my only one brother.  Not any of my men "friends," ALL of them thinking of themselves as liberal, even "feminist."  ONLY my own daddy did, Willard Maas.  He ( and I and my three Boys ), of course, lost.

Here in its entirety:  My Last Leftist Meeting

There were only seven of us. I was the menial, a part-time

office worker. The movie director Emile D’Antonio seemed to

lead the meeting by sheer force of personality. There were

three women, including myself. That translated into six

eminents, two of whom were women. Our goal was to find

the next project for celebrities organized against the war in a

group called Redress. The idea of the group was 100 percent

Amerikan: famous people organized to fight the war, their

names having more pull than those of professional politicians

or ordinary citizens. It was a time when fame was not disso­

ciated from accomplishment: most of our members had

earned through achievement whatever fame they had. But the

hierarchy of fame always favored those in the movies; intellec­

tuals per se were low on the list. As an office worker, I was not

expected to have ideas, but I had them anyway. In the larger

meetings when we had a whole roomful of the famous or

somewhat famous, I would be cut in two for putting an idea

forward. I remember being torn to pieces by some famous

divinity professor. Whoever he is, I hate him now as much as

I did then. Another noneminent and I apparently called his

moral purity into question. I have no idea how or why; I

didn’t then and I don’t now.

In this smaller meeting in a tiny room around a nondescript

table there was more congeniality. Cora Weiss was there, I

remember - her family owns or owned Revlon. A man named

Carl from Vietnam Veterans Against the War headed the

meeting in the official sense; he was famous in the antiwar

movement, prominent, in no way a servant, instead a rather

cunning leader. The women’s movement was going full tilt but

never seemed to penetrate the antiwar movement (and hasn’t,

in my opinion, to this day). No one appeared willing to

rethink the status quo. In fact, no one was prepared to under­

stand that the women’s movement had outclassed the peace

movement with both its originality and its vision of equality.

I had once been at a meeting at Carl’s apartment, shared with

a woman. He proudly showed me the self-hating graffiti her

consciousness-raising group had etched and drawn and painted

onto a canvas on the wall. He enjoyed it a lot and especially,

as he made clear to me, that the women had done it themselves.

See, he seemed to be saying, this is what they think of them­

selves so I don’t have to think more of them. I remember

being very troubled - why was this woman-hating graffiti what

they thought of themselves? I remember noting in my mind

that this was part of the problem, not part of the solution.

We took a break in the middle of our little meeting - some­

one had to make a phone call - but returned to the table well

before the break was over. None of the women, including

myself, talked. Our colleagues of the male persuasion did talk:

about Marilyn Chambers, the pornography star who had

sold Ivory soap in television commercials until she was booted

out by a morals clause in her Ivory contract. The conversation

came from out of nowhere; nothing logically led to it and

nothing explained the fact that the men all liked the conversa­

tion and participated happily. They talked in particular about

how much they would like to fuck her in the ass. This seemed

to derive from her most famous movie, Behind the Green Door,

which they all seemed to have seen.

I sat there in dismay and confusion. Weren’t we trying to

stop exploitation? Weren’t we the love children, not the hate

children? Didn’t we believe in the dignity of all persons?

Wasn’t it clear - surely it didn’t have to be pointed out - that

pornography defamed women? Even if Carl’s woman friend

and her friends debased themselves, commercial pornography

required male consumption and brought the defamation to

a new level. What the men said was so vile that I was really

wounded by it. I seemed unable to learn the lesson that porno­

graphy trumped political principle and honor. (I may have

learned it by now) I found myself nauseated and in my mind debated whether

or not I would give a little exit speech or simply get up and

leave. The exit speech would have the advantage of letting

them know how they had let down me and mine, others

like me, women. Were these men worth it - were they worth

fighting for the right words, which was always so hard? Were

they worth overcoming the nausea, or should I just puke on

the table (and I was damned close to it)? I noted that the men

were having a good time and that the women not only did not

raise their eyes but had their heads lowered as if trying to

pretend they didn’t hear or weren’t there.

I noticed that the men did not notice that the women had suddenly become

absent, at the table yes but not present, not verbal - there was

a quiet resembling social or political death; in effect, the women

were erased. I got up and walked out.

I never went back to the group and stopped getting my $75-a-week paycheck, which

was the mainstay of my existence. Everything else I earned was chump change.

21 February 2015

for us who relish a porterhouse, know this

“Another Day at the Office:”  photograph of South Dakotan and Cattleman Scott Edmondson and Friends (Bovina and Deere) posted late February 2015, on fb by American Cattlemen, at where it is stated that missing – out – in – blizzard mama is just fine now --- first calf – downer heifer.  Downing happens all the time.  Eventually getting up after obturator nerve – birthing damage ?  NOT always so often are these mamas actually saved = can take, literally, weeks.  Neuropathy may occur with humans’ birthings as well.

19 February 2015

A Pogrom of Another Genus

This day, a Friday 55 years ago in 1960, Willard Albert William Maas and Annabelle Mae Holden Maas hosted and backed a certain, conducted event.  This matter was in preparation for Willard’s reenrolling as an Iowa State University undergraduate; Willard had had to drop out of ISU in 1939, after his contracting the poliomyelitis virus back at his age of 19 then.  He was to begin again with its Spring Quarter of 1960, this term commencing in March; and his going there to Ames then with their eldest of four children, 16 – year – old Sydra, only the two of them alone, to reside at its 840 Pammel Court.  Exactly similar metal / quonset housing units are here https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506655026805533841  and https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506655026805533809 –– with another one (some years later, of course) as well Zachary Adam’s actual very first home @ 697 Pammel Court commencing 22 hours after I, wholly uninsured, had birthed him [Tuesday, 24 August 1976] with the help of Jan Sterbenz and Dr Frank Sterbenz over in Nevada, Iowa’s Story County Hospital.  Absolutely ALL of these housing units are now long – demolished and – built over with other ISU structures. 

The rest of us of the family were to join Willard and Sydra then when Williamsburg, Iowa’s school year ended; we –– all six of us –– would move in 1960’s June to 1377 Hawthorn Court (https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506655026805534514) directly across from ISU’s horse pastures on the north end of the one entry from Hawthorn then to the undertrack tunnel leading walking commuters into ISU, soon to be Willard’s portal always over to its Heady Hall, Agricultural Economics.  Hawthorn Court, Unit #1401, became (some years later, of course) Zachary Adam’s second home, also in a Quite Cold – February with a fuel oil – truckers’ strike occurring for ISU’s Pammel Court residents and at when the temperature that moving day was a -10 F and his blue baby bathtub fell from the packed – to – its – hilt Chevrolet van to the ice below --- and shattered into elebenty gazillion pieces thereby thoroughly and altogether ending its existence.

The event orchestrated by an agricultural business for the Maas Clan that Friday, 19 February 1960?  That was known as the epic and notorious auctioning one of that era and, actually, even unto this y2015 age … … the Farm Sale.  I know it that specific day thereof … … to have been in the middle -20
Fahrenheit – range for its temperature, it likely The Coldest of all of those 1959 – 1960 Iowa wintertime days.

The sale itself ?  Even with vendored comestibles including hot chocolate and even hotter, soooo sugared and true cows’ creamed (barn – style lattés ! then) coffee available for purchase ?  
It was an entire and utter ... ... bust.

As witnessed silently by me, then a 12 – year – old schoolgirl – kiddo, within the ancient farmhouse’s enclosed front  porch with its turn – of – the – century classically industrial gray – painted plank – flooring.  Just him and me alone together with this particular and quiet vista of ours directly down to and upon the East Barn lot’s sale arena, I peered over at my 40 – year – old father surveilling it all from afar.  And thereupon was burnt a memory in to my brain which has never left it:  One tear tracked down my Daddy’s left cheek.

                                                       - fin -

12 February 2015

Darwin Day: Mama TRULY wins but the patriarchs canNOT "permit" this ... ...


Majority rules: restore FULL custody back to mama:
2 to 1 ( Iowa Court of Appeals justices Sackett and Huitink OVER Donielson ) = MAMA PREVAILS!  Dr. Maas WINS back full custody of HER three Boys: .J., .M. and .Z. !

                                          = TRUE THIS = Tuesday, 07 June 1994

Only when that Appeals’ Chief Don___, similarly pillared in the eyes of the Iowa community as the Good and Wonderful Dr. W considers himself to be so statured, … … only when Dastard Don___, because he daMan HAS the corrupting, aprovechar–taking and blindingly absolute power in his little “justice” – system keystrokes to do so, HOOKS IN TWO MORE ADDITIONAL BUT DIFFERENT judges --- patriarchs who had had NOTHING AT ALL to do w THIS appeal and had heard of it NO arguments whatsoever --- is vengeance – TAKING and Hypocrite .G. actually “legally” capable of causing THREE KIDDOS now by an androcentric “verdict” of 3 to 2 AGAINST mama --- TO BE LOST TO MAMA / causing their mother, the DEhuman, to be FOR ALL OF THEIR YOUTHS INVISIBLE, THEN NEVER EXISTENT TO ... ... HER THREE BOYS:  M, J, Z.

on Darwin Day, an UNevolved sperm donor

My closest friend in the World –– you, Jury, know of her from back within Chapter Five / Friends and from within Chapter Thirteen / Finishing School (her Listening College) for Fathers –– told me when she, Ms Grace Portia, read Hypocrite Herry’s chatty hooking blather exactly one month after it was published, “I guess Herod needs to profess what he’s done ‘to protect’ children.”

Friend Grace is referring to not only that one OUTRAGE of Patriarch Edinsmaier’s androcentric, asinine and criminal entitlement of himself near Chapter Twenty – Nine’s conclusion whereat he, an adult male modeling an allegedly accountable fathering role, literally leads Dr. Legion True’s two minor Boys, Jesse then just labeled with bipolar brain, and Mirzah, right into, onto and throughout another woman’s property, not only without her permission but also without the DEhuman even being present at her own residence, for his and the teenage Boys’ motherfucking, dissing – of – all – women’s and mocking purpose of home invasion, stealing and subsequently absconding with my (from AmTaham True’s) guns kept and stored there in Friend Linda’s basement –––– but Grace also refers in that one wee profundity of hers regarding King Herod and his ‘fatherly protection’ … … to absolutely all.all.all of The Opera: We Were Mothers Once, and Young, that is, to what Smug Thuggish, Elitist, Terrorist and Savage Herod Edinsmaier has unconstitutionally and criminally perpetrated upon me and upon my Three Boys within, and outside of, the states’ custody court system throughout all of the many decades’ worth of Hypocrite Herry’s comings and goings and thinkings and doings.

Within the scathing dissent of Appellate Judge Pansy Shawshank’s first page’s first half and immediately succeeding Legion’s second appeal (Act Three, Part Five of The Opera !) completely written, all of it printed off in to its mandated ! 21 total copies ! with Dr. True’s never missing in the appeal’s unfolding sequence even one correct document’s file – stamping nor even one deadline therefor and orally argued by herself –– ! pro se ! –– before the three – judge panel of Tuesday, 07 June 1994’s Iowa Court of Appeals, Judge Shawshank states thus: “LOOKING AT THE RECORD BEFORE US IN THIS APPEAL,


Ms Pansy here, of course, writes of the “verdict,” the decisioning about children’s parenting and their well - being by three men of the State, only one of whom had heard Legion True’s second appeal. Yes, you, Jury, guessed him: Allen Donnellson. Donnellson, the dirty dude who had perped That Very B I I I I G, Big Mistake from The Opera’s First Appeal (Act Two Part Three) wherein all three of those men had unconstitutionally decided that Hypocrite Herry actually be the Truemaier Boys’ custodial, read that, ‘protecting’ … … daddee.

Know this especially though, Jury: that of those three appellate judges’ verdict after Legion True’s second appeal? TWO of those three, Judge Pansy Shawshank and the quite newly appointed Judge Barry L. Crowrook, rule in favor of restoring full custody back to Dr. True. 2 to 1 the Truemaier Boys’ mama prevails!

Dr. Legion True WINS back full custody of her three Truemaier Boys: Jesse, Mirzah and Zane !

Only when that Court of Appeals’ Chief Donnellson, similarly pillared in the eyes of the Iowa community as the Good and Wonderful Dr. Edinsmaier considers himself to be so statured, … … only when Dastard Donnellson, because he as daMan possesses the corrupting, aprovechar – taking and blindingly absolute power in his little “justice” – system keystrokes to do so, invokes and hooks in to this second appellate decisioning two more additional but different judges, also patriarchs and who previously had had nothing at all to do with the True appeal and who had heard of it no arguments whatsoever and because, primarily, To The Cuntly DEhuman, Dr. Legion True, There Is No Mother – Fucking Way, Ever, That Judge Donnellson of the First Appeal Is Going To Admit Having Committed Such a Carnage – Wrecking Mistake as His Declaring Herod Edinsmaier Any Kind of An Actual Father, … … is Vengeance – Taking and Hypocrite Herry through years and years’ worth of his trying to hoodwink and hook You, the Operatic Audience – Jury, in ––– actually “legally” capable of causing the children who are the three Truemaier Boys and all of their lives ––– now by an androcentric “verdict” of 3 to 2 against Legion True ––– to be lost to the mother and causing their mother, the DEhuman, to be for all of their youths invisible, then never existent to Mirzah, Zane and Jesse.

Daddee Herry Edinsmaier’s Gutting – of – the – Bitch Butchery, Jury.

The bones of this Displaced Wartime Refugee’s True Father who is Righteous Ancestor AmTaham … … rest.

But only because, now, they are of osseous ash and carbonaceous dust.

Not because, Jury, of any justice at any time anywhere done to or for this matter, My Case: The Opera, of the True Father’s Child: the Ancestor – in – Training and, now, One Woman Well Put Together, Legion True.

True it is. O, so head – bangingly true it is ! “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” --- Patrick Swayze portraying the film role of Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing, 1987

                                                             - fin -

05 January 2015

how to word - whip a mama and her babe

True it was.  O, so true it was:  when I was 32 and myself already a seasoned labor, delivery, postpartum, postsurgical and emergency room nurse from having worked, nearly solo, at three small and very rural hospitals and who had furthered my formal education in to becoming as well a bona fide and practicing doctor of veterinary medicine, nothing –– at all –– quite frightened me more than when any one of my three wee sons became ill or sustained injuries.  From my belly’s growing them all into their first selves, then propelling each babe forth into society and on until the Boys were all gone from me, the worst –– by far, the very worst –– struck two of us on one quite late Thursday night in August 1980.

Returning home from my noon – to – 10:00pm office hours at Dr ____ ______’s ______ Animal Hospital eight miles off southwesterly in small – town _______, also then working there alone save for the clinic’s receptionist, my hand turned the knob of the unlocked front door to our ( Penn State ) University Manor apartment housing in Hershey.  I had always tried to be very quiet coming in at this hour so, easily, my one hearing ear right there just inside the foyer picked up a tell – tale sound.  I rushed right back to the Boys’ bedroom.  Things were bad.  There in his crib 11 – month – old Micah Abraham Zebulon, barely up on all fours, at 11:50pm –– at just minutes before midnight –– was struggling.

So as not to startle him nor wake up his two brothers, I whispered Micah’s name and touched his back.  Micah looked up but was panting so rapidly –– the nurse later told me 80 respirations per minute –– that he could not even acknowledge my presence, let alone, calm himself.  As swiftly as I could manage in the darkness, he was swaddled up inside layers of baby blankets; and I started –– with Micah cradled in my arms –– out the door walking.  The emergency room’s entrance at the University’s Hershey Medical Center was several housing units and one not – so – busy – now, two – way street’s distance away.  “He’s struggling to catch his breath; I think it’s croup,” I told the admitting agent at the Front.  “Please help.  He’s only 11 months old, at least, maybe over 22 pounds by now.  Please.  He needs oxygen.”

Within minutes, the night crew had Micah inside a tent of piped oxygen after initial whiffs from a blow – by mask.  He finally calmed although his respirations remained at a high but manageable rate for several more hours.  We put a warmed and dry sleeper onto Micah the sweating from his work at breathing had been so profuse.  And the rest of the night passed.  While fitful, Micah did sleep some.  Beside the plastic I vigiled. 

At 7:30am and from the pediatric ward’s pay telephone just outside Micah’s room in the hallway this frightening Friday morning, I phoned my boss and the clinic’s only owner, Dr ______.  “I need to take a day today for my littlest one; my baby was hospitalized because of croup, Dr ______, in the middle of this last night.  We’ve been here all night.  They’re going to keep him here, too.”

There was no answering me back; it actually sounded for one long, very long moment like the line was dead.  Then the sound I did register in to that right ear and up in to my brain stated thus to me, “Well.  I have no idea how we are to get along today then.  How are we gonna get done today what needs doin’ ?!”

I swallowed.  I continued.  “Micah is still not at all out of the woods yet, Dr ______.  May I switch weekends with Dr ______?”  Not only had Dr ______, a father with two daughters in elementary school, not even bothered himself to inquire of me about the life of my child; but that language is the exact manipulation of power over women in the y1980 workplace and, in the fright and morbidity of my so – sick baby, to what guilt – ridden and veiled threat for my job I had had to listen.
The next day –– only Micah’s second one then of hospitalization for a babe’s life – threatening illness –– would be the start of the weekend, of course.  The scheduled coverage over at the _______ Animal Hospital for this particular upcoming one?  I was to work its emergency call –– through until Monday  –– on which day, then, I would return to beginning my regular hours at noontime.  At the practice with a total of the three of us veterinarians affiliated with it there, Dr ______, Dr _______, also a father of two schoolchildren, and me with three kiddos all under five years of age, each one of us was required to take such call every third weekend.  In the short few months of my work there as an employed veterinarian, the same status as was Dr _______, I had noted the two of them switching around such weekends’ scheduled – call nearly a dozen times already, certainly eight or nine weekends’ worth, that is.  And this one?  This was my very first request of the boss for one to be changed and substituted in his scheduling.

Yes, Micah Abraham Zebulon did respiratorily improve and was able on continued liquid antibiotics to be discharged out of that ward and into my arms and off to home across the Manor way that August’s next Monday morning.  But after that previous and entirely sleepless Friday off clinic work and my ministering all of its 24 hours to a very, very sick Micah at his cribside?  Dr _______, the other daddy, refused to switch his next weekend’s call with me right then.  After my asking Dr _______, the boss refused to take mine as well.  Instead and because of its cruelty causing a burnt memory in my brain which has never left me, Dr Maas, a mama who did not want to be forced to do that which she did do, left on that Saturday morning the side of Micah’s oxygen tent and worked call that very particular weekend.  Instead and against my will, I took and carried out a total of 22 hours’ worth of emergencies.  To keep my job.  True it was.  O, so true it was: I sacrificed the precious time at the bedside of my so–ill kiddo just to keep my job. I feared that loss –– more it seems.

A couple of new years’ weeks later  –– on one of the seven days between the 25th of December and the 01st of January when home in the evenings from the laboratory, I opened in Columbia, Missouri, an envelope addressed to me from Dr ____ _ ______.  It was  –– the substance and depth of it  –– an accounting / an accountability for his behavior that August 1980 weekend and at other worktimes.  It was an apology to me.  I never saw Dr ______ again.  I never heard from him again.

04 January 2015

it bears repeating --- Big Waters

“ For many seasons, the men had given away more of the people’s hunting grounds, their fishing places, their settlement lands, while singing and drinking with the white ones, while making fools of themselves, dancing with broomsticks and with tin buckets on their heads.  At each session, Big Waters and the other women were expected to stand off along the wall, to wait to carry the goods, and to be quiet.  They had been silent so often that many children had died from hunger.  The next season, Big Waters simply stepped forward among the men at the long table at the fort and said, ‘ I would like to read that paper before these fools put their marks on it. ’

That was the end of her time among her people.
Though she’d saved her people from giving away another parcel of place, from agreeing to remain confined in a bare space with no animals or water, she’d insulted the men, her husband in particular, and he had declared her banished.
The next day, he had a new wife.  In the same way her mother had disappeared all those years before, Big Waters then walked into the tall grasses. 
Her children were directed to turn their backs to her as she left.  Her own children did this.
The one Big Waters had nursed until he could ride a horse.  The one she had tended to night and day for many months while he lay crying and recovering from burns suffered in foolish play, in dares of manhood made by one child to another.  Had he forgotten how she had held him in the cold river water day and night?  Or how she held her hand over his mouth so the other boys would not hear his crying and think him a coward?  Even her only girl, the one who was betrothed to a Spanish brute with a withered arm until Big Waters begged on her behalf to her father, saving her from the bad marriage, even she turned her back to Big Waters.  She from whom Big Waters later pulled the upside–down baby after three days of pain and delirium, saving both their lives, also turned her back.  She who had been stolen by the enemies for a slave and whose return Big Waters had negotiated by trading her own fine beadwork and tunics, she turned her back.  Even the two she had taken into her own heart as her own after their mother succumbed to disease.  The all turned their backs to her.  Never to call her mother again.
These were the events Big Waters could not speak of to anyone except the small baby in her arms, the one whose little ear was so near her lips.  She would be a good mother to Clement, and he would be an obedient son.
Big Waters introduced Clement to the finicky horse, left her by the girl who had birthed the twins.  The beast snorted at the baby’s scent.  The baby sneezed at the horse’s.  Big Waters let the animal sniff the child again, then laid Clement in the straw while she worked; but she didn’t take her eyes off that horse.  He showed her his teeth but didn’t try to bite her this time.  The warm, stewy air of the barn entered Clement’s lungs.  He breathed deeply in a way that swelled his chest, like a river about to overflow.  He slept soundly and snored.  When he woke, Big Waters mixed milk with molasses and sugar and let him suck.  She tried to make peace with the horse and offered it a bit of sugar too, but it snapped at her finger, and she kicked its leg.
This horse had a bad spirit.  Big Waters called him Hole–in–the–Day, after her husband.  But Hole–in–the–Day’s spirit wasn’t as bad as her husband’s. Whereas his breath had smelled of throat fire and bile, the horse’s smelled mealy and grassy, and only occasionally of stomach odor.  Even then, its breath worked magic on Clement.  While the boy slept beneath the horse’s nose, he grew and strengthened.  The vapor healed whatever ailed the baby. ”    
                 ----- pp 136 – 137, Stillwater by Mz Nicole Helget, y2014

22 December 2014

22 December 2014

22 December 1947 = me:  a Monday's Child then, too




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDHmmoJ_lOc = ! my main mountain man Mr Joe Cocker !

     mighty finest – ever air – piano piece, Bird on a Wire
                    … … with the lushest of (Leonard Cohen) lyrics … … done justice by
                    … … the Most Perfect of … … The Gravel – y / Raspy Voices !

     R I P, Lovely Joe !     --Blue

21 December 2014

Winter Solstice 2014: re a War and Torture UNrecognized

re a War and Torture UNrecognized:
      .three children's custody, somewhere in the A m e r i c a n Midwest, 1990 - 1997.

     " From a distance, he looked like a somebody.  Up close ? there idn't much there. "

     " You don't even know what the T R U T H is ! "
                         --- Keen HAWKINS' ( 'Keane' ) Big Eyes

"It should never have been authorized, and even still it should not have been carried out. 'Just following orders.' is not an acceptable defense.

People must be held accountable at all levels."
  --- Mirzah Truemaier, 14 December 2014

26 November 2014

! Haaaappy, Happy 75th Birthday, Mz Tina !

And many, many more TO you ! and yours !

Here is a compilation of Diva Tina performing her most STUNNING song EVER: 

                        .RIVER DEEP     MOUNTAIN HIGH.

L O V E L Y Mz TINA TURNER !  tinyurl.com/k9ox2sj

16 November 2014

birth control: just the information ABOUT it !

  1. Yea, Rah, Rah, Science ! logical / reasonable: 
    the Greatest Invention .over All of Time over All the World.: 
    chemical BIRTH CONTROL = the birth control .P.I.L.L.  !
  2. Arrested today 16 November 1916:  Ms Margaret Sanger for opening a birth control INFORMATION clinic.  Police came and shut it down.  Sanger was jailed all thanks to Your Man: Anthony Comstock of this nefarious infamy:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cx6aEfseDbg and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgJqYOqgkNs and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Comstock

12 November 2014

an honoring, please, for Ms Elizabeth ... ... ... ... NOOOO forgetting

Happy Birthday today, ELIZABETH CADY Stanton!

The woman grew into their first selves and bulldozed 'em all out then ... ... !seven! kiddos.

No washing machines and no air conditioning and no furnaces and no refrigerators and no ranges.

And.and.and she still found time to get YOU past thus: and, although dead without casting a ballot herself, another 17,000,000 of you .f.i.n.a.l.l.y. into the voting booths by 1920.

11 November 2014

in y2014: life as a veterinarian when one is, ... ... instead, ... ... a woman

Still in y2014:  eg only this particular aspect ( out of many sexist ones ): 
USA salaries:  female $88,000 v male $112,000 … … sooo if hers is considered 100%, then his is 127%.   Wha’ ? !

[ And that isn’t even the one where the animal owner, knowing that she is the veterinary professor,
asks him, the student, for … …
… … The Medical Counsel. ]

From the time I graduated with my DVM in mid 1978, till now ?  36 years. 
IF I had been at practice at $24,000 LESS per year during 36 years’ time, then that would be $864,000 LESS ( gross ) that I have earned until now. 

[ And this is just in the United States. 
O.  O.no.no. … … no.no.no.  NOT worth it, is it ?  Is it ? … … Really ? ]
Sexism Straight From The Horse’s Mouth:
Life As A Female Veterinarian