Rosie, I Salute You!

This story presented it's "spark" to me today by means of an e-mail. The latest Sampler from Dover Publications hit my in-box. Dover is a publications website which also deals in books, many of the educational nature, which are ideal clip-art sources. I've seen quite a few credits to Dover on scrapbook websites. Their images, particularly thier "vintage" offerings, are not only realistic, but, they are the best of their genre that there is offered on the net. Having explained all of this, leading in to this story, is relevant, because of one of the featured "samples" in today's Sampler.

Rosey the Riveter
Pro World War II Propaganda Poster

I have this on a "Smithsonian" magazine cover, framed on my bedroom wall. This image, this iconic woman, has considerable significance to me. For one thing, it's meaning carried over to my growing up years, when "women's" rights and issues were right in the thick of all the other unrest and the demonstrations of the '60's. At a time when I was coming of age, it affected me strongly and helped form me in to the adult I am today.

But, other than providing inspiration, there is another connection that I have with Rosie.

My mother did work in the shipyard in Jacksonville, Florida, during WWII. She didn't do riveting, rather, she made the holes for the rivets. My mother is the second from right.

This might explain why I have always been such an advocate of women's equality when it comes, not just to rights, but, to the entire attitude towards women. We didn't need a world war to prove that women can hold their own.

Here's to you, Momma! And, to all the other "pioneers", I salute you!

Peanut Butter Does Not Make Good Paste

Growing up with a brother who is 2 years older than I am, for a while, we shared a room. Around fourth grade I moved in to a room of my own. Before that, though, my brother and I shared a room with two twin beds. We got along pretty well for siblings. We were never very affectionate, as affection was not often exhibited in our family. We had our ways of showing what we meant to each other. By way of compliments, encouragement and, well, friendship, my brother let me know he loved me often, as I did him. I have always looked up to my brother.

That is not to say we never had sibling quarrels and petty arguments. I remember sitting in the back seat of the family car outside the grocery store one time. Our dad was sitting in the front as we were waiting for mom to do a little shopping. Bored, as two young kids would be to have to sit still for over five minutes, we began picking at each other. One thing led to another and, though I am not real sure if either of us really did hit the other, one of us cried out to dad that the other "hit me".

Dad, the doler of discipline in the family, without skipping a beat, ordered us to take turns hitting each other until our mom came back to the car. When dad said jump, you didn't ask how high - you did it. So, my brother and I sat there, trading 'slaps' until our mom returned. You would have thought we had just been told the Easter Bunny wasn't real, or something. Obviously, we didn't like having to hit each other. I mean, that is one of those things you just do. It isn't the same when you are told you have to do it and be hit back in the process.

By the second round of hitting, we were both bawling our eyes out. I can only imagine what my mom thought when she came walking up to the car to see dad just sitting there and my brother and I slapping each other silly in the back seat, yowling our disapproval. Dad gave us the word and we were allowed to stop.

Needless to say, we didn't tell on each other any more. Not unless it was really bad or we just wanted to be a brat to the other, which wasn't very often. I do remember that, right after that back seat incident, my brother and I made a pact that we would try to handle things between us rather than have dad do that to us again. We were comrades after that. The two of us would stick together and be just fine.

One evening, after we were tucked in to bed, my brother told me he had made something for me. Wanting to see it then and there, he had to sneak to avoid detection from mom and dad. He rustled through some papers on the table by his bed and produced a picture he had colored, a card, if you will. It was a heart with his name and my name, showing me that he loved me and that we were a team.



It was so special to me. I quietly expressed my glee and, caught up in the moment, my brother asked if I wanted him to hang it up so I could see it all the time. I agreed, joyfully. In the absence of a roll of tape or a tack, my brother braved a clandestine trip to the kitchen and returned with a jar of peanut butter. I just remember not knowing what he was up to until I saw that he was spreading a heaping amount of the butter on to the back of the picture he made me. After all, it was sticky, much like paste. With that done, he decided on a spot right over the head of my bed and stuck it to the wall. That picture, crayon on notebook paper, stuck up with peanut butter, was a trillion, gazillion times better than any old Mona Lisa. That was an original, made just for me, by the best friend and comrade a girl could have ever asked for - my brother. I laid there that night, staring up at that masterpiece, happy as I could be, as I slipped off to sleep.

The next day, when our mom saw the picture on the wall and the peanut butter sticking it to the wall, she nearly had a cow. Peanut butter is oily. Oil seeps in to plaster. When she removed the picture and we all saw the huge oil stain left on the wall, my masterpiece was no more. Both of us had to get soapy water and scrub as best we could 'before our father got home'. Of course, it didn't all come out and dad saw it and we got in to some trouble. Oddly, though, when we told our parents about the picture and they took a look at it, all oily and yucky, now, they were obviously touched by the intent.

Dad had our bedroom painted shortly thereafter.

This is the first story that jumped out at me:

Poor Pitiful Pearl
By: Su

I was about 8 when my oldest brother, Donald, and his wife, gave me a little doll for my birthday. Her name was Poor Pitiful Pearl. Pearl was a ragamuffin. She had patches on her little jumper dress and stick-straight hair. A generous sprinkling of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks. Her nose was a little button which was small, but, bulbous-shaped. Looking at the times, now, Pearl was everything that the women of the times did not want to be. Women, then, were all about curling their hair, covering freckles and definitely,dressing well. Poor Pitiful Pearl.

When I opened the present that Donald gave me, I had pulled out Pearl and was kind of taken back. She was not like the other dolls - pretty and cute. She was homely looking. I remember the adults laughing about how pathetic-looking Pearl was. That was the first time in my life that I felt strong compassion for something, even if it was a doll. Dolls are important to little girls. They give us a constant friend in our ever-changing, life-evolving existence. When my brother and his wife, Barbara, started laughing at Pearl, I almost cried. I felt so sorry for the little waif.

My love for Pearl was my first experience in loving and caring for a "child" or another person outside of my family. I would dress Pearl in my other doll's clothes and brush her straggling hair. She never left my side, unless it was to go to school. My expensive doll, Maribelle, sat on the shelf while I toted Pearl with me everywhere I went. She was a good friend, as well as, my charge.

Maribelle still lives on a shelf in my room. Her hair is still neatly combed and tied back. Her clothes, though a bit spotted with age, still adorn her smooth surface. Pearl didn't fare so well. Pearl was a doll you played with, not one to set on a shelf. We played hard, too. One day, my other brother, Howard, was digging a hole to bury a time capsule, of sorts. It was actually a shoe box with some plastic figures from Fort Apache, a couple of trading cards and a few other miscellaneous objects.

Howard convinced me, that day, that Pearl would be forever enshrined in that place if we buried her with the time capsule. He pointed out that, no matter what may happen, I could always come back there and Pearl would be there. So, I buried Pearl. I don't know if Pearl is still buried there, or not. We moved from that house and the years have brought so much change. There is not any way for me to go find out. It would not sit well for the current resident, my digging up their yard for a doll. So, in a way, Pearl is still there, to me. I had her for a little while, and had fun. Then, I placed her in the hole where time stood still. She's there waiting for me. She'll be there when I go back.

"Stories in Hand"

This blog site is dedicated to this course from Jessica Sprague, "Stories in Hand". Here is where I post the stories that I come up with.