- RT @paulkrugman: Good point: GOP taught base to despise mainstream media, is stranded now that captive media have gone alt-right https://t.… 47 minutes ago
- RT @JamilSmith: My birthday twin and fellow political correspondent @anamariecox is an essential read. Here’s one of my faves. https://t.co… 15 hours ago
- RT @ngadc: Edward Burne-Jones was born #onthisday in 1833. ("Ariadne," 1863/1864) go.usa.gov/xDdMV https://t.co/tCWrSIPVdv 16 hours ago
- RT @repjohnlewis: I spoke number six, Dr. King spoke number ten, and out of everyone who spoke that day I'm the only one still around. http… 16 hours ago
- RT @owillis: When Clinton does a press conference they'll do like they do w Obama: complain she didn't call on the right outlets, spoke too… 16 hours ago
- RT @owillis: There's no satisfying this beast no matter the endgame. No Clinton -press interaction can ever assuage the media, ever. 16 hours ago
- RT @Shakestweetz: This is absolutely correct. The *obsessiveness* reserved for Hillary is about a gendered double standard. https://t.co/EN… 20 hours ago
- RT @radicalhoneybee: I love this wonderful poem and it is much needed by so many of us #poetry coyopa.wordpress.com/2010/03/22/bal… via @coyopa 1 day ago
hat tip: Susie Madrack
Pitch black, now, when the alarm went off at 5:30. Just a few weeks ago, it had been almost light, but the season was clearly shifting. Mid-August. It was hot as blazes during the day, often followed by a thunderstorm at night. She’d been caught in the downpour more than once, coming home from the bus stop at an almost-dark 7:45, still facing baths, and bedtimes, and packing lunches for tomorrow.
It started out as a joke. When her car broke down for the last time, and there was no money for repairs or even a used replacement, she’d joked with Tom that she’d take the bus to work if he’d take the kids to school and pick them up from practice. To her surprise, he’d said yes. So she’d dug her old running shoes out from the back of the closet — the ones she hadn’t had time to use ever since Dixie, her middle girl, had been born. She figured she’d walk/jog to the bus stop for a day or two before Tom threw up his hands and told her she could have his truck and he’d catch a ride to work with one of the guys. Maybe he was just too attached to his old truck, or, maybe, as he said, he actually liked the time with the kids, listening to them talk about school, and boys, and sports. And getting to interject a bit of fatherly advice every now and then.
Either way, she found herself enjoying the 20 minutes of solitude in the morning and again in the evening, even when she got caught in the rain. It gave her time to decompress from the morning hustle of finding homework, settling arguments, and dishing out oatmeal before she walked through the doors of the medical center and began taking temperatures and drawing blood. And, again in the evening, what had become a pretty serious jog gave her time to slip off the pressures of work before she turned back into a wife and mother. It had been a long time, she realized — at least eight years, because Shelby, her youngest, was eight years old — since she’d had any regular time to herself, time to just move and think.
By August, she was noticing that she had more stamina. When she and Virginia took each other’s blood pressure, as they did before their monthly Girls’ Night Out at The Shack, her numbers were as good as they’d ever been. She was sleeping better, too.
So it came as a complete surprise when, a week after the company-required physical, Dr. Landry touched her shoulder and said, “I’d like to have a chat with you about your results. Can you come into my office?”
She’d been a nurse too long not to recognize that carefully-neutral face and that soft, serious tone.
Picture found here.
You know the story, don’t you? How the Suffragettes and their supporters wore yellow roses and how the Patriarchs wore red ones? And how Harry Burn, a young Tennessee legislator wearing a red rose, got a letter from his mother, Phoebe Ensminger Burn? She wrote:
“Hurrah, and vote for suffrage! Don’t keep them in doubt. I notice some of the speeches against. They were bitter. I have been watching to see how you stood, but have not noticed anything yet.” She ended the missive with a rousing endorsement of the great suffragist leader Carrie Chapman Catt, imploring her son to “be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt put the ‘rat’ in ratification.”
And, you know how, don’t you, at the last minute, Harry did what his mother asked him to do, thereby changing the world?
Here’s to the woman known to her family and friends as Miss Feb. We should call her Miss Feb of House Ensminger, the First of Her Name, the Determined, Mother of Harry, Queen of the Letters and the Yellow Roses, Khaleesi of Tennessee, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Hillary.
OK, I made the last part up.
On this day in 1920, the 19th Amendment to the United States Constitution was:
ratified by Tennessee, giving it the two-thirds majority of state ratification necessary to make it the law of the land. The amendment was the culmination of more than 70 years of struggle by woman suffragists. Its two sections read simply: “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex” and “Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.”
Women were beaten, jailed, force fed, ridiculed, and constantly criticized for wanting the right to vote. We are the daughters of the women they couldn’t keep down. We are the daughters of the ones who never got to vote, but suffered and worked so that we could vote.
If you’re not already registered to vote, please do so NOW.
Maybe next we can work on passing the ERA.