They Had Had Too Much

The day the women had had enough will be remembered. 

I believe, after the dust settles and the men get over themselves, we will come to revere the anniversary of the Women’s Rebellion.  For years people have spouted that famous proverb  “When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”

We have awakened.  We are woke.   And we have had quite enough thank you very much.

Photo by Gayatri Malhotra on Unsplash

I was proud to be with the women of my town on what began as a sleepy Saturday, August afternoon.  Congress made their announcement, timed for the weekend so as to escape the news cycle.  During the dog days of summer when they thought we were sleeping.  It was my birthday and I thought,, “How dare they!”  HOW fucking DARE THEY.  And I don’t use that word.  But I used it a lot that Saturday. 

On my birthday.  To make such an announcement.  I was not surprised, but I was outraged.  I hadn’t considered that all of womanhood would be as incensed. 

My ire knew no bounds and my grandmother noted my Irish eyes were flashing.  Hers were as well.  She’d been outraged for a good 80 of her 92 years.  “We are going backwards,” she said.  How dare they.  My heartbeat rocked at a frenetic pace with the flashing of my eyes.  A strobe light of rage.

We felt the need to get out of the house and so we did.   Headed to town in my car, dusty from our dirt road.  I vowed to wash it.  I tend to clean when angered.  Rage cleaning, I called it.

But a funny thing happened on the way to town.  I began noticing cars full of old women and young women and girls.  All headed in the same direction.  Some of them began honking.  Rolling down their windows and waving their fists. 

We formed a line.  One by one, the cars fell into formation.  Horns blaring.  As we passed houses, women saw us, grabbed their keys, and joined us.  Word was spreading fast.  We reached the downtown area. The riverfront park where concerts and festivals were held.  Convenient parking.

Oh yeah, we parked, and then we marched.

I don’t remember who began the chant.

We are women!  We are mad!   We are women!  And won’t be had.

Now one would think that the men would have had the forethought to get out of the way.  But, oh no.  the majority of them lined the streets waving their fists and chanting Back to the Kitchen.  Back to the Bedroom.  Back to  Where You Belong.

Some men joined us.  Precious few.  But they were there.

My husband was not one of them.  He had disappeared.  But I knew.  He was somewhere chanting the loathsome words.

It was the death knell of our marriage.  It was the death knell of society as we knew it.

Gasoline had been poured on smoldering cinders and then the men had foolishly tossed in fresh wood.

Yes, we will revere this day.  Every year we will remember the Women’s Rebellion and the changes the revolt provoked.  Our daughters and granddaughters and their daughters will hold memorial marches – victorious.  And the little ones will be taught the history.  All of it, so it never happens again.

When all it took was a cupcake. . .




What does it take to feel those.  They came naturally when I was younger, but not so much now.  Have I seen too much?  Done too much?  Am I jaded?

There are still some experiences guaranteed to bring it on. Bliss is found in the first warm day in the garden, muddy hands, muddy knees, crystalline blue skies, and the soft air of an Appalachian spring. 

Joy.  To be joyous may require a light heart.  Perhaps I have too many worries for joy.  But no, my grandson brought me joy.  Holding him, time stopped and it was just me and Julien.  Time stopped.  The moment.

And Ecstasy…the birth of my son.  Perhaps the only time of my life that I was truly ecstatic.  It’s a state of being that suffuses the whole body and the whole mind.  Nothing else in that moment but the sensation of unfettered happiness at the cellular level.  The moment stretching on and on.

But remember when something simple could provoke these states?  Perhaps they are side effects of youth – states of being easy to slide into before the world beat us down.

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I love…

I love puppies.  I call all dogs, regardless of their age, puppies, but in this instance, I am talking about newborn puppies.  I love their glossy fur, round bellies, and milk smell.  I love the little noises they make when they suckle.  I positively chortle with delight when they try to walk or jockey for position to reach one of mama’s nipples.

The Creator was in a good mood the day puppies were made.

I love coffee first thing in the morning.  Fresh and piping hot.  I wrap my hands around the mug and hold it like it is the Holy Grail leading me to redemption.  I love the aroma and will breathe it in with the steam.  Once in a while, I will pour heavy cream into it until it is the color of dark caramel.  The richness of the cream coating my tongue.

Morning coffee is my daily ritual – my must for starting the day.

I love the beach in summertime.  I have a low chair that allows me to dig my feet into the sand as I stretch out, my mug of coffee with me in the morning, and a ridiculous umbrella drink in my right hand in the afternoon.  I sit there and I watch people and I watch the ocean and I meditate on the sand.  I do not read.  I do not write.  I do not think.  I just sit and let negative ions from the crashing surf pour over me until my skin begins to redden -the signal that I need to get out of the sun. 

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My intentions are good.

I like writing unless I have a formal project to work on and then I procrastinate it.  I do a lot of head-writing but don’t put it on paper.  Fear of failure?  Needing an adrenaline surge to produce?  Right now, I have hanging over my head, an article that I need to write from an interview of one of my all-time favorite people.

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

I think this piece will get a reasonably large readership.  Everyone knows her and everyone loves her.  She’s more fun than a box of puppies. 

I like having an audience.  I do write to know what I think, but I also write to be read.  Of course, I have some pieces that will never see an editor’s pen, but others I want out there for anyone to read at will. 

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