V is for the VOTE for Women

Alice Paul was a women’s rights activist and a key figure of the 20th century women’s suffrage movement.

From 1848 to 1920, thousands of women in the United States fought to attain the same civil and political status as men, including the all-important right to vote. They had a lot working against them: Victorian-era scientists argued that women were by nature inferior to men, even claiming that the shape and size of female skulls were evidence of their weaker brainpower.

One of the largest protests of the suffrage movement happened the day before Woodrow Wilson was to be inaugurated as President in 1913. Between 5,000 to 8,000 suffragists marched down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House — and hundreds of thousands of onlookers.

Organizers Alice Paul and Lucy Burns had secured a permit to march, however, many protesters were assaulted by those in the crowd who opposed the women’s right-to-vote campaign. Attacks ranged from spitting and throwing of objects to all-out physical assaults. While many women were injured, public outrage at the violence translated to wider support for the suffrage movement.

Alice Paul and her friend, Lucy Burns, formed the National Woman’s Party (NWP) in 1916. The group aimed at bringing about a change in the way the government viewed women’s suffrage.

In January 1917, Paul organized the ‘Silent Sentinels’, a group of women who supported the suffrage movement and protested in front of the White House during the presidency of Woodrow Wilson. For over two years, thousands of women picketed on every weekday and held banners demanding the right to vote. The protests were non-violent. The women simply carried signs, deliberately remaining peaceful and silent.

Between June and November 1917, police arrested 218 protesters on the trumped up charge of “obstructing traffic.” Several of the picketers were also mercilessly beaten up by the police. Most of these women were imprisoned in the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia.

Usually, after three days in prison, the women were released. But they returned to the White House to continue picketing. The battle between the police and the protesters escalated. Inside the prison, the women faced harsh living conditions, rancid food and the denial of medical care when they were ill. They were denied visitors. Their jailers beat them and confined them to cold, unsanitary, rat-infested cells. Some were placed in solitary confinement.

Alice Paul was arrested October 22, 1917.  In late November, still in prison, she went on a hunger strike to protest.  She was forcibly fed raw eggs to make her relent.

None of the government’s atrocities could make the women relent and they continued with their demands. Their demonstrations also received widespread media coverage and  forced the president’s hand.  In the past he claimed the “time is not right”, but  on September 30, 1918, Wilson gave a speech to Congress in support of granting women the right to vote.



On August 26, 1920, the 19th Amendment to the Constitution was finally ratified, enfranchising all American women and declaring for the first time that we, like men, deserve all the rights and responsibilities of citizenship.



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U is for Uncle Harry Rogers

Harry Rogers was my Mother’s brother.  He was a good man and very well loved by his six older sisters.  My grandfather William Riley Rogers probably considered Harry an unexpected miracle when he was born June 1, 1919.

The family gathered in front of a crop of giant sunflowers the following summer for a family portrait.

That’s Harry in the little white dress (all babies wore dresses – boys and girls) sitting on his Mother’s lap, surrounded by his sisters.  Later, another boy, Fred, was born, and then one more sister. Seven girls and two boys. Harry and Fred must have felt they had a house full of mothers.

 Harry attended a country school.

As soon as he was old enough, he started working in the fields with his father. He worked in the woods, too, and learned to cut staves for the railroad.






When World War II began, he enlisted in the United States Navy.

This is Harry Rogers with his nephew, Jim Kemp. Because Harry was so much younger than his sister, Lenora, her oldest sons were almost the same age as Harry, and they grew up together like brothers.

Harry made it through World War II. He got married and bought a garage in Mokane. I talked recently to one of the men who sold the garage to Harry Rogers.  He said they left all the parts they had on hand in the garage, with the verbal understanding that when a part was sold, Harry would pay for it.  Harry was scrupulously honest: at the end of every day he walked to their home, told them what parts had sold, and delivered the money.

Men who came into Harry’s garage talked about how strong and athletic he was. There was an old anvil left in the garage, too heavy for most men to lift. Harry could pick it up and throw it. He was a good car mechanic and could fix anything.

Harry and his wife, Marie, had two little boys, Tommy and Gary. Harry built a house for his family.

On May 4, 1957, he was digging a well for his home. He was working in the bottom of the well, with hand tools, when he suffered a fatal heart attack. Harry Rogers was only 38 years old.

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T is for Television

Mama and the new TV is probably my most requested story. I told it at the historical society once and the video ended up on YouTube and was used as part of a Smithsonian Exhibit.  This is a chapter from my memoir and is all 100 percent true.

Mama and the new TV

July, 1955

I know it was late afternoon when the television salesman came because Daddy was at home and Mama was at work. Daddy worked days at the shoe factory and Mama worked evenings at the State Hospital.  My best friend, Femi Adams, and I were playing in the road ditch making mud birthday cakes. We decorated them with orange trumpet flower candles picked off the vines that grew along the railroad track on the other side of the road. We were wearing our usual summer outfits of ragged white panties, but when the stranger in his starched white shirt stepped out of his truck, Sissy ran out of the house and dropped a cotton dress down over my head. I was already on my way to that panel truck and she chased me down the sidewalk trying to tie the sash. She didn’t get it tied until Daddy stopped my momentum with a hand dropped absently down to stroke my hair, as he asked the salesman, “Westerns? You can watch western movies?”

The salesman had thrown open the doors of his panel truck to reveal rows of television sets. And not just any televisions! These were huge, with beautiful dark wood cabinets and 25 inch glass screens. The pied-piper magic of this vision had drawn in every kid on the street and most of the adults.

The salesman’s pitch was simple. A free television for every house. Absolutely free! No obligation to buy anything. Ever! Free entertainment for one full week until the panel truck came back around. “We’ll talk about the details then, Sir, if you should happen to decide you want to keep it. If not, I’ll just load it back in the truck. No questions asked.”

Within the hour every television had been unloaded. The truck was gone and even though the late afternoon sun still lingered, the streets were empty. Mud pies, bicycles, marble games, and front porch swings were abandoned. Every family was inside watching television.

At our house the first show we watched was a cartoon called “Crusader Rabbit”.  A little later Daddy was leaning forward in his chair, captivated by the adventures of the Cisco Kid. We didn’t mind that the picture was a little snowy. Even the commercials were new and exciting to us and we enjoyed everything the box had to offer. We were still gathered in front of the television when Mama came home at 10:30. That’s when all hell broke loose.

Her first questions, “Why are the kids still up?” and “Where did that come from?” led quickly into a loud, fast-paced argument with Daddy that seemed to have more to do with our icebox than it did with the television. My older brothers, at 8 and 10, were smart enough to quickly and quietly take themselves off to bed. I wanted to stay and see how the fight turned out, but my sister grabbed my hand and insisted I go to the outhouse with her.  As she dragged me through the kitchen, I stopped in front of our big wooden icebox, with its many brass handled doors and asked Sissy what seemed to me to be an obvious question. “Why does Mama want a new icebox? We already have an icebox.”

“She means an electric icebox, silly! We’re about the only family left in Mokane that doesn’t already have one.”

As we headed down the path past the garden,  the sound of the argument faded. But even after we were settled in the outhouse, me on the little hole, Sissy on the big one, with the door firmly closed, we could still catch an occasional outburst. We waited until it was completely quiet before we cleaned up with pages torn from the Montgomery Ward catalog and headed back to the house.

The next day after Daddy and Sissy had gone to work and the boys had taken their fishing poles and headed for the creek, I talked Mama into letting me turn the television on. I was hoping for Crusader Rabbit, but the first thing we saw was a picture of a lighthouse with its beam searching out across the darkness. Mama gasped as the house filled with the familiar theme music of the “Guiding Light,” her favorite radio soap opera.

She took in ironing to make a little extra money in the mornings and usually went through two or three baskets at a time, but that morning she barely finished one.  Dr. Nichols’ shirts narrowly escaped scorching as Mama marveled at actually seeing the faces of people she had only imagined before.

When the television salesman came back the next week, both Mama and Daddy were at home. They both signed the finance papers and the television was ours to keep.

Mama said it was because ‘you can’t bring something like that in here and let the kids have a taste of it, and then just take it away from them.’

It was another full year before we got that electric icebox.

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S is for Snakes in the kitchen

The first chapter of my memoir –

All hell broke loose and kept on coming when Mama found the snakes in the oven. The first time was bad enough. She was just pulling the bread pans out of the oven where she had set the loaves to rise. When she reached in for the pan, there was that big old blacksnake coiled up right beside it.

Mama screamed, threw the bread pan across the kitchen, slammed the oven door shut, and ran on out the back door hollering at the top of her lungs.  I was sitting under the kitchen table playing with my doll. The oilcloth hanging down over the old round oak pedestal table made a neat kind of hideaway playhouse for me and I spent quite a bit of time down there. Mama must have forgotten I was there; else she never would have left me to be eaten up by that big snake.

Of course, by the time Mama got back into the house with Daddy and he cautiously opened the oven door to see what she was hollering about, there was nothing to see.

The snake had skedaddled.

Daddy allowed as how he figured Mama had done scared it clear over into the next county.

“It’s still in there someplace! Down inside my stove! You got to find it and kill it!”

Mama was still pretty worked up and didn’t even seem to notice the bread dough flung all over the linoleum.  Daddy had stepped in some of it and got it all dirty. But a good sized blob had landed under the kitchen table right in front of me.  I picked it up and shaped it into a ball. It was still warm and yeasty smelling.  I watched Mama and Daddy’s shoes stomping back and forth and fed my rubber baby bits of dough. She couldn’t get much in the little round hole of her mouth, but she shared with me and after a while all the dough ball was gone.

Daddy pulled the stove out from the wall and looked in all the drawers and doors. No snake. He did figure out how it probably crawled in along the gas line that ran to the big propane tank outside. Mama said he needed to figure out some way to block that hole. Daddy just shoved the stove back against the wall and went back outside.

The next morning, after Daddy had gone to work, and the big kids were all gone to school, three of the neighbor women came over to have a cup of coffee with Mama. It was warm and peaceful under the table, the curtain of the oilcloth supplemented by a circle of flowered house dresses, white anklets and chair legs pulled up close.  The murmur of the women’s voices was a pleasant background to my play. Mama was telling her friends all about the snake in the oven. She got up to demonstrate, talking all the while.

“I opened the oven to get the bread, and there….”  This time there was a whole kitchen of women screaming. The snake was back, coiled up on the oven rack just like yesterday. But Mama was braver this time around. She grabbed a broom handle and pulled the snake out into the floor. It landed with a thump and a hiss, slithering away from the broom and under the table. With me.  The snake’s long black body was solid, heavy and warm as it moved across my bare foot. I was frozen in place, watching like it was happening to someone else.

Mama was down on her knees just in time to see the tail end of the snake disappear up inside the hollow pedestal. She grabbed my arm and yanked me out.

“Get back! Get back!”

Back up against the door, I watched as the four women flipped the heavy table over and fished the snake out. Once it was on the floor Mama attacked it with a garden hoe she had fetched from the back porch, jabbing, hacking and yelling until the smooth black body was slick with blood, the head completely separated from the faintly twitching tail.  She didn’t stop until Ida May grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

“Myrtie stop it, now! The dang snake is dead and you’re cutting up your own linoleum!”

She was right. Black slashes marched across the faded pink cabbage roses and light brown background of the worn linoleum.  Mama used the broom to push what was left of the snake out the back door and then flipped it into the dusty yard. I ran after her and watched the chickens pounce on the pieces, pecking the snake and each other viciously as they fought over the unexpected meal.

The next morning when Mama set a plate of two fried eggs down in front of me on the big round table, I thought about the snake and how desperately it had tried to hide. I thought about the white leghorns with their feathers spattered in blood and their orange beaks flinging around pieces of the snake, trying to get him swallowed before another greedy beak could grab him away.

I thought about it. But I was hungry. In a little while I ate the eggs.


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R is for Races

The summer of 1964, we went to the the dirt track, modified stock car races in Holts Summit nearly every week.  It was exciting because we knew some of the drivers and Richard’s cousin, Bill Caldwell, drove his old truck around, with a water tank on it, wetting down the track to keep the dust down.

We had an old ’51 Chevy that wouldn’t shift out of low gear that year, so we couldn’t drive ourselves to Holts Summit. That car was strictly for short trips in town, mainly to Richard’s job at the Missouri Hybrid Corn Company.  It was more fun to go with a bunch of friends and relatives, anyway, and somebody we knew was always willing to give us a ride.

On the evening of July 28, 1964, our friend, Buck Grimm, was going to the races, and he said we could go if we didn’t mind riding in the back.  David & Lela Boldwin, and their three kids were going along, too. Lela rode in the cab with Buck and Betty, while the rest of us relaxed on old car seats Buck had arranged around the edge of the pickup bed. We laughed and sang on the way over and got there early enough to snag seats down front right next to the track.  Bill spread the water pretty heavy that night, and the cars flung mud pellets all over us on the front row. We didn’t mind, everybody had a grand time.

It was late before we piled into the pickup for the ride home, and the night wind was a little cool. Eight-year-old Gary Boldwin and I shared a blanket and he fell asleep on my lap. When I hopped down out of the truck bed at home, I felt my first labor pain. Kenny was born the next day.  I never saw another race that summer.


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Q is for quarter horse

A quarter horse stallion named Prince was an important part of our courtship when I first got acquainted with my husband, Richard, back in 1963. Richard was boarding Prince with Jesse Howard, the Sign Painter, at his place on the old Jeff City Road in Fulton.  Richard lived in the last house on Nichols Street (near where the covered bridge is now.) And I was lucky enough to live on Second Street about half-way between those two places.

Every afternoon, after he got off work, Richard saddled Prince up and rode him down the hill past my house.  I managed to find chores to do in the front yard every afternoon, so he would see me outside and stop to visit.  Mama’s flowers got extra weeding that summer, but the climbing roses didn’t do well, because Prince munched on them while we talked.

I was tickled to death when Richard offered to take me for a ride. It was the first time I’d ever been on a horse and even though I hung on for dear life, Prince bounced me off on my butt when he got close enough to see Mr. Howard’s little barn, where he knew a scoop of corn was waiting. I walked the rest of the way, rubbing my behind, and complained to Mr. Howard that the horse threw me.

“Naw, Prince didn’t throw you, girl, you fell off!” He and Richard had a good laugh at my expense, and the old man made sure to remind me of that day every time I saw him.

Even though Prince was a stallion, he was a good, gentle horse. When Richard lived on AA, he sometimes rode him to the Bridge Drive-in in Jefferson City.

After we married, we moved to a farm in the Toledo neighborhood, where Prince had wide green pastures to run in.  Sometimes, Richard put one-year-old Kenny on the saddle in front of him, and rode the 8 miles to town to visit his folks.

We’ve had many quarter horses since then, but no other horse was as much a part of the family as Prince.


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Porch Sittin’

Do you ever sit out on your front porch and just watch the world go by? When I was growing up, porch sittin’ was an art almost everybody enjoyed.  It was a great “intergenerational” activity.  That’s a new buzz word we never heard of back then. It means the old folks sat on the porch right along with everybody else.

You hear a lot now days about how families should eat dinner together and talk. Well, of course, we ate dinner together. Where else would you eat? But I don’t remember much talking during meals, beyond “Pass the taters,” or “Quit playing with your food and Eat!” We did our talking on the front porch, especially during long summer evenings.  We talked to each other and to whoever came wandering by.

Daddy would lean forward in his old rocker and holler, “Hey, Bill, how’s it goin?” And Bill, recognizing the implied invitation, would cross the yard to lean on the porch railing, or sit on the steps.  He might stay thirty minutes, or an hour, swapping news and commiserations, maybe bumming a cigarette or a roll-your-own. Two men on a porch talking often attracted others, and the stories and laughter would last until deep twilight, when everybody went into their own house and got ready for bed.


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Opportunity and Overalls

All of the men I have cared about wore overalls and worked hard every day of their lives. My father wore overalls. Sadly, I don’t have a picture of him in his overalls, because in his day, nobody brought a camera out except on special occasions like graduations or weddings. So all my pictures of Daddy show him in a white shirt and dress pants, looking uncomfortable and miserable.

My husband didn’t wear overalls when we first got married. He wore jeans and cowboy shirts with pearl snaps back then.  He bought a pair of overalls to celebrate his early retirement at age 58. He said he wanted to “practice up” on being an old man. He found that first pair to be so comfortable and practical, he bought three more just like it.  He wears overalls every day, now, except, like Daddy, on those special occasions.





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New Novel – murder mystery set at FSH

My new novel begins with a murder that takes place in the Biggs Building, the only high security facility in Missouri for the treatment of the  criminally insane.  It’s set a few years in the past, during a sweltering summer. The murder victim is a  local boy, a native-born son scheduled for early release.   My fictional sheriff has a hard time investigating the crime, because nearly everyone in the building is a possible suspect.  Is it one of the other patients? After all, many of them have already killed. Or is it one of the overworked and poorly paid aides?  Most of them think  the victim got off too easy with with his “not guilty by reason of insanity” plea,  just because he’s a member of an old, well-respected and well-heeled Callaway family.   “If one of us done the same thing, we’d be over in Jeff on death-row.”

I’m half way through the A to Z April blogging challenge. And I should be working on my new novel.


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Maps – are they obsolete?

Do you have a folded paper highway map in your car? The kind that opens up to spread across the whole front seat and most of the windshield?  If you have one, have you used it lately?

A drop in map printing began around 2003, when affordable GPS units became popular Christmas presents. Public demand started to go down; and today, with transportation departments around the country facing limited budgets, paper maps are often the first things on the chopping block. Some states have opted to print new maps every two years rather than every year, others have decided to publish them every five years, and some have done away with them altogether.

I understand this thinking. Tough decisions have to be made in these economic times. It makes sense to cut the services that are thought will be least missed.

But that GPS Lady who verbally gives you directions is only concerned about getting you from here to there in the quickest, most efficient way possible. She cares nothing for the “blue highways,” as writer William Least Heat-Moon calls them — the small, forgotten, out-of-the-way roads (which were drawn in blue on the old-time Rand McNally road atlas) where you’re likely to encounter the things you didn’t plan on: a remote nature reserve, an encounter with a bear, or even a great diner that serves an exceptional piece of pie.

GPS Lady doesn’t understand when you don’t follow her instructions and reprimands you with a stern word of “recalculating” when you venture off her chosen route.

Paper maps never lose their power source or fail to work because of unreliable service. And they don’t admonish you when you veer.

Do you think paper maps are becoming obsolete?


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