Tag Archives: history

Why Women Should Vote

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My response to an e-mail message.

The other day, I got an e-mail message from a cousin of mine back east. The title of the e-mail was “Why Women Should Vote.” It was one of those typical “forward this” e-mails that tries to fire people up about one thing or another. It included the usual bold and UPPERCASE text and images. (I guess folks think that pictures can help make their case.)

I need to say here that my cousin did not write this e-mail. She just forwarded it. She often forwards messages about topics of interest to women.

I get a few of these forwarded e-mail messages each day. I agree with and enjoy reading about half of them. Some of them don’t even get read — I just delete them. And some of them — like this one — get under my skin and prompt me to respond and blog about it. Regular readers may recall “The Star Spangled Banner, In Spanish?”

suffragettes.jpgThe message was a combination history lesson and call for action. It began with the sentence, “This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.” I knew I was in for it when I saw a series of sepia-tinted photos of suffragettes on the march. I fully admit that I didn’t read the whole thing.

Instead, I thought about the idea that women should need a special reason to vote. And frankly, it made me angry. I wrote a response:

Women should vote for the same reason men should vote: it’s our RESPONSIBILITY as part of a democratic society. It has nothing to do with women’s rights or anything else that’s specific to women. We vote to have our say. Anyone who is eligible to vote and doesn’t is an IDIOT, plain and simple. They’re giving up their right to have a say in the future of our country.

Use it or lose it — that can apply to the democratic process, too.

And don’t you think this “battle of the sexes” nonsense has gone on too long? If we we acted like PEOPLE rather than WOMEN we’d be treated like people. That’s how I’ve always worked in male-dominated fields — finance, computers, and now aviation — and I’ve never had any problems.

Thanks for including me in your distribution lists, but you really don’t need to. I get an awful lot of e-mail and really don’t have time to wade through it all. I guarantee that I already THINK about things like this far more than most of the people in this country — people who care more about American Idol and Paris Hilton than how their congressman voted or what the votes were about. I don’t need e-mails that spell everything out for me with pictures, clip art, historical trivia, or angry words directed against one group or another.

Don’t be offended, please.

I didn’t get a response and honestly don’t expect to. There are far too many women who are quick to make us into some sort of special case. While I hope she understands my point, I don’t think this e-mail will change her point of view.

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Ginkgo Petrified Forest

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Petrified logs, petroglyphs, and more.

On Saturday, I treated myself to an afternoon outing. My intended destination was the Wild Horse Wind Facility in Kittitas County. But I made a few stops along the way. One of them was the Interpretive Center for the Ginkgo Petrified Forest State Park near Vantage, WA, on the Columbia River.

I’m familiar with petrified wood. Arizona is home of the Petrified Forest National Monument (on I-40, east of Winslow) and I’ve been there a few times. But this forest was different. In Arizona, the wood was petrified as it became part of sedimentary rock. Here, the wood was encased in lava. But the results are similar: wood that’s been turned to rock.

I’ll admit I did the lazy tourist routine. I didn’t take a hike on the 3 miles of trails. It was hot and the trails were hilly. And I did have another destination. Instead, I stopped at the Interpretive Center about a mile north of Vantage. The small building offered sweeping views of the Columbia River from a cliffside perch, as well as many samples of polished petrified wood, scientific exhibits for all ages, and a small movie theater with visitor’s choice of informational movies about the area.

Petrified WoodAfter studying the various displays, I went outside. There we numerous petrified logs between the building and the parking area. I had my good camera with me and tried to get some shots of the textures of these logs. Here’s one of them. What I find most interesting about petrified wood is the colors. While I’m sure there’s a good chemical and geological explanation for all the colors, it would probably be lost on me. I don’t really care how they got the colors. I just like the colors.

Ginkgo PetroglyphsAround the side of the building is a display, behind an iron fence, of some petroglyphs that were rescued from floodwaters when the Wanapum dam was completed downriver in 1963. But to understand why the rocks these drawing appear on look so uniform, I need to discuss the geology of the area a bit.

The entire area sits on layers of basalt from repeated lava flows in prehistoric times. With each flow, the land rose. Then, 15,000 to 13,000 years ago, a huge lake, Glacial Lake Missoula, formed in what is now Montana. It broke through the “dam” created by a finger of ice age glacier and quickly carved through the area. It did this at least 25 times over a period of 2,000 years, carving out canyons known as coulees. You can read more about the Missoula Floods on Wikipedia.

Because the basalt from lava flows forms as columns of rock — think Devils Tower (of Close Encounters of the Third Kind fame), which is similar — the force of the floodwaters carved away complete columns of rock, leaving behind other columns. The Columbia River flows in one of these canyons from Crescent Bar (west of Quincy and south of Wenatchee) to Vantage and beyond.

Ginkgo PetroglyphsFrom 1000 to 300 years ago, native people drew on these columns of dark rock near the river’s edge. There’s actually an impressive variety of petroglyph drawings. About 300 of them were physically moved from what would soon be Lake Wanapum to the side of the Interpretive Center at the park. That’s what I saw and what is pictured here. (And no, the building isn’t curved. I was using my silly fisheye lens in an effort to capture more petroglyphs in a tight space.)

I highly recommend a visit to the park, even if you’re just passing through the area. It’s not far from the Vantage exit on I-90, just west of the Columbia River. Vantage has fuel and a handful of restaurants. (I recommend a “Logger burger” at the burger joint on the corner closest to the highway.) There’s also camping in the area for RVs and tents. If you want to make it a quick stop, you can visit the Interpretive Center in less than an hour. But if you want a more in-depth look at the petrified logs and aren’t too lazy to walk, continue up the road to the park’s hiking trails. Be sure to bring plenty of water; I don’t think there’s much there.

For more info, check out the Ginkgo Petrified Forest/Wanapum Recreational Area Web site or give them a call at (509) 856-2700.

And the Rockets’ Red Glare…

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…the bombs bursting in air…

Over the years, I’ve forgotten what the Independence Day celebration is all about. Or maybe I never knew. Sure, it’s a day off and sales at the stores. It’s picnics in the park and a fireworks display. It’s time with your family or friends doing fun things.

But that’s not what it really means.

Independence Day is a celebration of the birth of our country and our freedom from a tyrannical ruler.

Want to really understand Independence Day? Read or listen to a reading of the Declaration of Independence. I listen to NPR’s reading every year and it brings tears to my eyes. (This year, it was worse, since I realize that President George really has committed several of the same offenses as King George III.) The Declaration is a document that simply declares that the people have had enough abuse and want independence.

“Church bells rang in Philadelphia,” NPR reminds us at the end of the reading. The people were celebrating the adoption of this document 232 years ago. What would follow was a war to achieve the independence we had declared. A war we very nearly lost.

On Friday, July 4, 2008, I had the pleasure of watching the fireworks display hosted by the town of Brewster, WA. Brewster is a small town at the confluence of the Okanogan and Columbia Rivers at Lake Pateros. It’s filled with fruit orchards growing cherries, apples, pears, apricots, plums, and more. The majority of residents are farm workers and, this time of year, many are migrants who have come to Washington to pick fruit. They’ve brought along their children, who are likely to follow in their footsteps as migrant workers in years to come.

Mike and I made our way to a park along the edge of the lake. A huge crowd was gathered and there were lawn chairs and blankets all over the grass. Kids ran and played, carrying or wearing glowing toys. In the open areas, people were shooting off their own fireworks; unlike every other place I’ve lived — New York, New Jersey, and Arizona — fireworks are both legal and easily obtained here in Washington. These little fireworks shows added to the party atmosphere. Rather than putting on fireworks displays at their own homes, these people were sharing their fireworks with everyone.

It was a real community event. The air was thick with celebration.

Fireworks in BrewsterAnd then the main fireworks display began. It started at 10 PM sharp with a continuous display of large fireworks over the lake. Somehow, we’d managed to get a perfect spot in the park. We were both comfortable in our chairs and had unobstructed views. I’d brought along my camera and tripod in an attempt to capture some of the fireworks in pixels. This shot, taken with my fisheye lens, isn’t very good, but it gives you an idea of our surroundings: the people around us in the park, the water of the lake, a high tension powerline tower all illuminated by the rocket’s red glare.

As the main fireworks display ended at 10:30 with a 2-minute finale and the crowd began to break up as people walked back to their cars, the smaller fireworks displays all around the park started up again.

And that’s when it hit me — that’s when I felt what Independence Day was all about.

Marie Antoinette, the Movie

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Don’t waste your time.

Marie AntoinetteOn Saturday, after a long day on my feet as a volunteer for the Land of the Sun Endurance Ride here in Wickenburg, I found myself in front of the television. I flipped to one of the movie channels just as Marie Antoinette was beginning and decided to give it a try.

I like movies with historical value. I feel as if I can learn while being entertained. And I don’t think anyone can argue that the costumes and sets in the movie were magnificent and probably true to life.

Unfortunately, that’s where the movie’s appeal to me ended.

The movie is long and rambling and takes forever to make and complete a point. For example, the movie suggests that Marie and Louis did not consummate their marriage for more than 4 years — until after he became King, in fact. While this might be an interesting point, it dominated the plot for at least 45 minutes of the movie. One soon gets tired of seeing Marie in bed alone as the signal to viewers that she went yet another night without getting any.

Throughout the movie, I kept waiting to see when the political unrest of the people would make itself known to Marie or the ill-fated members of the French nobility. Is it possible that these people really had no clue about what was going on outside their palaces?

A serious problem with the movie was its soundtrack. While the director and composer are true to the time with the classical music played during Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s wedding dance, for example, the rest of the movie is a mix of classical and what I can only describe as European pop. Watching dancers at an 18th century masked ball, wearing period costumes and dancing period dances while modern pop music blared was weird, to say the least. It also took away from the seriousness of the movie, making it seem as if the Director was making light of the whole thing. The soundtrack was inappropriate for the subject matter.

I can’t comment on the acting because although the characters were somewhat believable, I don’t think any of the actors were outstanding. There was very little dialog. One cornball scene shows Marie, fully attired in one of her beautiful dresses, stretched out in happiness in a field of grass and flowers. It’s the scene right after she’s finally had sex with her husband. She’s happy. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the scene in Caddyshack where the girlfriend (Maggie) is dancing on the golf course at night because she knows she’s not pregnant.

While the director, Sofia Coppola, may have wanted to paint a more human picture of Marie, she certainly didn’t do much to create audience sympathy for her character. Coppola’s Marie was a party girl who ate and drank and shopped and played almost non-stop. History tells us that the people of France were being taxed to the point of starvation in many cases, yet the French nobility were living it up in sheltered isolation. Yet no where in the movie — at least not up to the point where I gave up on it after 90 minutes of boredom — is any of that shown. It’s a truly one-sided view of that time in history, a view through the eyes of an immature and spoiled woman.

I admit that I didn’t see the end. Mike joined me about halfway through and he’d already seen it. At one point, I asked him if anything interesting happens. He said no, just more of the same until the screen goes black. I’d seen enough, so I turned it off.

What got me to watch it at all was the rating in the Dish Network info box: three out of four stars. If I’d rated it, it probably would have gotten 1-1/2 stars.

New Year’s Eve Reminisces

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Tales of New Year’s Eves gone by.

I remember when I was a kid, thinking about the turn of the century, which would also usher in a new millennium. I remember calculating how old I’d be when that day came: 39. Wow! That was old! But here it is, eight years later, and I’m well past that. Yes, 40-something — you do the math — is old to an 8-year-old, but it isn’t very old when you’re 40-something.

Back in those days, we spent our New Year’s Eves at our neighbor’s house. The Merrifields were a family of 8 who lived in a big house on the hill across the street. Their 2+ acres was surrounded by trees and shrubs, making their house impossible to see from ours during the summer months. But in the winter, when the trees were bare, you could see it through the gray branches: a huge wooden structure with a big front porch, with white paint in desperate need of refreshing.

Mr. Merrifield was not a handyman. He was a scientist. I didn’t know where he worked or exactly what he did. But I do know that years later, after we’d moved away, he won the Nobel Prize for chemistry. So you really can’t fault him if his house needed a paint job.

Mrs. Merrifield was heavily involved in a number of activities with her five girls and one boy. Like my mother, she was a Girl Scout leader. And every year, she’d host a New Year’s Eve party for all the neighborhood kids. We go over there in the evening and hang out in the back room — a sun porch that had been converted into a good-sized TV room. The TV would be on with various New Year’s Eve programming for us. Maybe a movie early in the evening. But always Dick Clark as midnight neared.

Then, at the golden hour, after counting down together, we’d take pots and pans and wooden spoons and run outside in the cold. We’d bang the pots and scream out “Happy New Year” for the next ten or fifteen minutes, making quite a racket in the neighborhood. No one seemed to mind in those days. It was just something people did. Afterwards, we’d go home to bed.

One year, my sister or I — I honestly can’t remember which — ruined one of my mother’s pots by banging dents into it.

Another year, my sister and I had a fight before the party. I grabbed something to throw at her, which just happened to be a glass of grape juice sitting on my night table. I missed her and hit her brand new bedspread. Boy, did I get into trouble for that one. My mother never got the stain out. We didn’t go to the party that year.

There’s a gap in my memory of New Year’s Eves after that. My parents split and we moved away to Long Island. No more neighborhood parties.

It wasn’t until I started dating that New Year’s Eve started getting special again. Then it was getting some kind of New Year’s “package” at a catering hall offering those kinds of things. Usually a buffet meal, cash bar, and warm, flat champagne (poured hours before) at midnight. Always a dress-up affair, sometimes involving a limo with another couple to and from the festivities. It was a big deal in those days, but it may have started my distaste for packaged and programmed entertainment.

Over the years, it’s been more of the same. Nothing very memorable — perhaps because of over-consumption of alcohol. (Can someone explain why you people to get shitfaced to ring in the new year?) The years rolled by.

As we matured, we switched to a New Year’s Eve routine that included a nice dinner out followed by an evening at home with a bottle of champagne. Television fell of the equation, replaced by conversation. I recall a particularly nice New Year’s Eve when we lived in New Jersey: dinner at our favorite Japanese restaurant where the staff somehow made its few customers feel special. And the champagne at home is always high-quality and ice cold.

When we moved to Wickenburg, we started having New Year’s Eve dinner at home. There simply wasn’t anything better in town to do, and, with all the animals we have, going down to Phoenix for an overnight was not an easy option.

Last year, we managed to get reservations at a local guest ranch. The food was good, but they placed us in a room with a party of 15 or 20 that included kids. Not exactly the quiet evening we’d envisioned, but the food was good and the service was quite acceptable.

This year, we returned to the ranch for New Year’s Eve dinner on the house. I’d done some work for the ranch, flying the manager and a photographer over the ranch to take photos from the air. Rather than get paid, I agreed to a trade — my flight time for New Year’s Eve dinner. The arrangements were made months ago, in the spring. Since then, the ranch manager moved on to other things. But I reminded the ranch owner a few months ago and, on Sunday, when I called to make reservations, learned that we’d already been put on the reservations list.

Although I do appreciate a free meal, I admit that I was deeply disappointed this year. Although the ranch is normally the best restaurant in town, they set up a buffet with a limited number of choices: a prime rib carving table, poached salmon, and a shrimp and chicken pasta dish. The place was full of people of all ages, walking back and forth from table to buffet line to get each course. Some of the folks were very old and needed help getting their plates back. And some of the kids were a bit rambunctious. It was loud, but not because of music — it was sheer voices. If you needed something that wasn’t at your table or on the buffet tables — like butter — you had to flag down a waiter or waitress. Certainly not the meal I was expecting.

I shouldn’t be so critical of the atmosphere. It’s supposed to be a party, a celebration of the new year. But I prefer to let the old year die quietly and the new year slip in to take its place. Each new year is another year gone. There are only a limited number of years in a person’s life.

Perhaps that’s why I think back to the days on Mezzine Drive — now Merrifield Way — in Cresskill, NJ and the New Year’s Eves banging pots out in the cold. Back then, each new year was a step closer to maturity and independence, a step closer to the day when I could step out into life on my own. Why not celebrate?