The English first invented the term,” to kick the bucket” in the late 18th Century. Hollywood later adopted and galloped away with it…….Rope. Bucket. Hanging. In 2008, actors Freeman and Nicholson were cast as two terminally-ill characters and hospital roomies. As the plot thickened, the two hatched up their end-of-life laundry list of to-dos, and “the bucket list” became a part of American pop culture. Today there are numerous websites devoted to bucket lists. No kidding.
Not in a million years have I ever dreamed of being ahead of Jack Nicholson’s curve in anything, but, today, may I just strut my stuff? Seven years ago, before Jack and Morgan even thought of it, I was doing it. In all honesty, I borrowed the idea from Evelyn, a friend of a friend. It had nothing to do with the before-I-die issue, which seems morbid to me. Every year, on her birthday, Evelyn lists what she would like to accomplish, experience, see, learn, and know in the coming year. And, get this, her Everything List matches, in number, her age. Holy One-through-Sixty.
For her, it’s not about slowing down but gearing up. Evelyn, I salute you.
Seven years ago, on my October birthday and still in my 50s, I created my premiere list. First, however, I set the ground rules:
1)Every item must be new, something I wasn’t doing or hadn’t done.
2)No pie-in-the-sky entries. Everything must be possible or probable. (Climbing Kilimanjaro went off the table when I turned 50.)
3) My list would remain private (until today) and reviewed quarterly.
The miracle of this birthday exercise is apparently what it represented to me. That, despite the seismic disturbance and shock of my husband’s illness, I still was determined to keep driving through life with our lights on bright. Although his might have dimmed over the past seven years, mine, thankfully, have not. In fact, Evelyn’s idea not only launched this blog but birthed the title.
My List, like every other, has been blessed with hits and cursed with misses. On an early list was Learn French, which brought forth my first rule revision. Now, if necessary, items can be carried over from year to year. I have been at this Learn French-business for seven years. Despite my serious study and having become acceptably proficient in reading, writing, and understanding, conversation is slow and limited to three running sentences. C’est tout! But, I can buy bread, book a hotel, reserve a table and am very, very courteous. Merci.
I’ve flunked Doing the New York Times Crossword Puzzle in Pen and have totally failed Learn Sudoku.
After moving to Nevada, having never gambled, I listed both Play Bingo and Play Poker in a Casino . Done. Although I won $50 playing Bingo, I lost $20 playing Poker. From that experience I learned you do not take to the poker table a cocktail napkin on which are handwritten the ascending order of poker hands! Entertainment Icons who perform in Las Vegas often go on my list. Cher. Elton John. Barry Manilow, Celine Dion. Bette Midler. Reba McIntire. Seen. This year it will be Donny and Marie. Surely, I jest. Not at all, they are selling-out their showroom at $200 a seat!
Although I possess a 20th century-brain, I intend to utilize every 21st-century hi-tech toy. Every year I list a must-buy and then attempt to make it work. iPod. iPod Touch. MacBookPro. iPad. I hold tenure in Apple’s One-on-One program, a teaching tool to assist customers with new products. Although there’s a two-year limit, I’ve whined my way into Year 5. This year it’s an iPhone 5, I cherish. Take a deep breath.
Eating healthy is a constant challenge. Eating alone, not particularly pleasurable. Last year, in the healthy department, using Deborah Madison’s “Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone” as my text, I tackled Vegetables. Still wanting to expand my limited repertoire and since her classic tome is 723-pages in length, I continue to slice and dice this year.
I find it difficult to savor a home-cooked meal, no matter how delicious, by myself. While I still cannot celebrate the pleasure of cooking for one, I have been helped immensely by reading “The Pleasures of Cooking for One”. It’s written by Judith Jones, the legendary editor of some of the world’s greatest cooks, Julia, being one. Written more than a decade after the death of her husband, Evan, this recipe book, not only honors his memory but encourages me to keep trying.
My cooking buddies from afar, MarySue, who operates a cooking school, and Judy, a wonderful cook who does enjoy her solitary meals, as well as Michelle, my neighbor and professionally-trained chef, who practices law, have all taken me under their culinary wings, sharing friendship through tips and recipes.
Each year, I come up with a fresh, revised, and, yes, longer list. This year, to the astonishment of my family, I’ve already accomplished a newbie, Do One Thing That Scares Me, by getting my ears double-pierced! (Remember, I’m from Iowa.) Travel adventures? The Galapagos, maybe. Intellectual pursuits? Read more Shakespeare (to be truthful, any Shakespeare would be good). And, after subscribing to The New Yorker since 2005, this year I hope to find time to actually read it! Family and friends? Get all the family photos in albums. And, why not stop making my daughter insane by stuffing my granddaughters with junk food. (Although Clara, age 7, reminds me sadly, “Grandma, you know at home it’s vegetables, vegetables, vegetables.) Exercise Routine? Yoga, regularly. And, more, of course.
My favorite addition this year was lifted from a “lululemon athletica” shopping bag: Dance, Sing, Floss And Travel. That, alone, took up four spots!
With thanks to my friend, Ardyth, currently traveling on business in Ireland, for taking the time to stop and smell the heather, sharing it with me today from her iPhone.
A benefit of living alone is that democracy is not an issue. In my house, there is just one vote – mine. Inspired, of course, by a concept created by our politicians, I decided to shutdown myself. Yesterday. At Noon.
The previous few days have been dumpy: for Butler University, the loser X 2 of the NCAA Final; for Congress, unable to reach a spending consensus; for Japan, with its ongoing nuclear disaster; and, for me.
While my problems are minuscule compared to others, they are still mine. I own them. For example, Saturday was a gorgeous, 85-degree day in Nevada. The local University’s extension office was offering a day-long journey through southern Nevada entitled ” From Mining to Hollywood, Southern Nevada History and Stories.” Being a history fanatic and having found these days to be enriching and informative, I signed on.
On Saturday, I was up early, packed a lunch, and on-schedule to arrive at the required meeting place, a museum in Boulder City, by 9am. Now, I admit to being map-illiterate. North, East, South and West have always been a problem for me. Usually, I scout out a location before the actual event, but the week had been hectic. Since the MapQuest print-out seemed idiot-proof, I bypassed the Mary/Map Rule, feeling I was good-to-go.
You know the ending to this story, right? Three days later and I have yet to find the museum nor see the motor coach I was to board! To make matters worse, as I was re-reading the map, charging down a busy Las Vegas highway, I cruised right through a red light, shocking not only myself but the guy, to my right, driving the white Ford pick-up, who thought it was his turn.
Having been the sole driver in my family for the past 15 years, my car is my friend and I’m a good pilot. Since this experience rattled me to my core, I headed home, went back to bed and decided to try the a-beautiful-Saturday-in-Nevada later.
Wait, it gets worse. In the afternoon, after re-rising, re-breakfasting, with a I-Know-I-Can-Do-This attitude, I tried to set up my Wireless Printer, its manual and CD, at the ready. Two hours and twenty-minutes later, I tossed the Printer in the Trash. Call me infantile, immature, childish, I’ll plead guilty. As a woman who tries to stay centered, calm and stable through any crisis, I needed, at this moment in time, to be defiant. And, yes, it felt Tony the Tiger – grrrrrreat.
In the evening, I clicked open my iPad, anxious to play a game application I’d just loaded, called “Angry Birds”. Twelve million copies have been sold. Everyone’s playing it. Except me. It took just 30 minutes to realize it was time to phone-a-friend, a young man who recognizes my technical mis-comfort zone for what it is. He was at my front door by the time the Brownies came out of the oven.
My usual remedy to cure a funk-a-thon is to get-a-grip and go, go, go. Put on a happy face and watch the doldrums disappear. This time, I realized, I needed more. An Adult Time Out. Wiggle room to get relief. Quietness for sifting, sorting, and discarding some unpleasant baggage that’s weighing me down. My good friend and confidante, Paige, who is a psychologist by profession, recognizes this not as a shutdown but a strategy. “You’re quieting your level of action,” she says, “and quieting your thoughts as well. Just softening it up.”
I like that. Not a meltdown, so negative. A softening, inhaling lightness and empowerment.
Poet Emily Dickinson, who led a quiet and reclusive life, gathered not only strength but verse from it. She penned this powerful, mystical poem.
Great Streets of silence led away by Emily Dickinson
Great Streets of silence led away
To Neighborhoods of Pause —
Here was no Notice — no Dissent
No Universe — no laws —
By Clocks, ’twas Morning, and for Night
The Bells at Distance called —
But Epoch had no basis here
For Period exhaled.
“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
Mark Twain
This quote was shared with me today by Luky Seymour, a tiny albeit plucky Colorado friend of the past twenty-five years. Luky, one of those Rocky Mountain sprites whose generosity of spirit and unparalleled kindness touches so many, has lifted me up and landed me gently, more times than I can count.)
When you’ve lived alone, as I have for the past four years, no chicks, no childs, nor man in the house, I’ve unearthed hours back into my day. Oh, yes, I’ve been overwhelmed with busyness, chores, responsibilities, challenges, and plain, old-fashioned work, but my days have not flown by. In my mind, the statement, “I’m so busy I have no time to think,” no longer holds water.
Maneuvering through each day, I’ve been gifted with Thinking Time. That’s provided me an opportunity to give my brain the space to roll around and ponder notions not perviously permitted by my normal, chaotic American lifestyle. Although this phenomenon is definitely a Martha Stewart “Good Thing”, there is a downside to giving my brain the space to roll around and ponder notions not previously permitted by my normal, chaotic American lifestyle.
There’s the rub.
I am starting to think about my Legacy, an excitedly explosive word with various meanings. For many of my friends, wrapping up illustrious 40-year careers, it’s an achievement or, maybe, many, that will continue to exist professionally after retirement and death. Think, accomplishments. For most, it’s a gift of money or other personal property, a bequest by will, left to others. Think, Rich Uncle. As for me, I’m leaning more personally in dealing with this word. Think, self-reflection. And, I’m feeling there’s still a little work to be done.
Not to be morbid but, in 20 to 25 years, I am going to be a Memory. Death and Taxes, remember? To that certainty, I am committed to being a good Memory. Quite honestly, I am very happy in my own skin. Quite content. Proud. Well, perhaps a little tweaking.
I grew up in a hard-working, solid, Midwestern, no-nonsense Iowa family. No complaints. I feel fortunate to have also raised my two girls in Iowa. My Mother was wonderful, selfless, and loving in so many ways. When the chips were down, she was the go-to gal. She was also opinionated, frank and spoke her mind, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But, my Mom was also a black or white woman, pretty rigid, she knew no gray. She had “sharp elbows”. Growing up, that’s what I knew and that’s what I became.
For most of my life I’ve said what’s on my mind and I’ve been pretty frank about it. I’ve never suffered fools. I’ve believed you have to tell the people you love exactly what you think. Unfortunately, if you’re my friend, I love you. In my world, everyone knows exactly where they stand with me. It wasn’t until the past ten years, with the birth of my first grandchild, that I started to want to still be Me but, a softer version. Kindness, that’s the key. Within my Legacy, My Memory, I want Kindness to stand tall.
I blame my son-in-law, Stephen, for that.
Stephen is a successful lawyer by profession, a splendid athlete by sport, and, kind, by nature. I have known this man for almost 25 years, in his presence probably more than he’d choose, and, his heart pumps kindness. Through watching him, I’ve finally realized that you lose nothing of yourself by being kind. May I still be frank about that fact?
Not that Stephen has had an easy time of it with this family. When my daughter brought him home from college, he was nothing we had ever envisioned for her. The guy had some real defects: 1) He wore flip-flops. Always. With everything. 2) When asked, he told my husband he didn’t know what he wanted to do. The horror of it. My husband knew at birth he was going to be a doctor and never strayed from that path. 3) The worst. He turned down a scholarship to Northwestern to attend a small, liberal arts school in Minnesota. My husband earned three degrees at NU and thought the guy must be nuts.
Reason enough for us to send him packing. Thankfully, we faced resistance from my strong-willed daughter (Yeah. Pot. Kettle. Black.).
My own family was equally dismayed. Soft-spoken. Quiet. Gentle. What was that about? They didn’t lay out the Welcome Mat either.
Fast forward to 25-years later, Stephen’s still around and I know I’m the luckiest mother-in-law in the world. I’ve baked humble pie, many times. His favorite is rhubarb. And, in an America that arguably has its own “sharp elbows”, becoming more mean-spirited, spiteful and, sometimes, downright nasty, he’s refreshing. Not perfect. Not without faults. Not me. He’s Gray.
The lesson of Stephen is that, unwittingly, he has made me, I believe, a better person. Now, I still do not do that “kindness” thing 24/7. Probably won’t get there. Not in my lifetime. But, I am trying. I can see, as well, that living with him has made my daughter a better, more well-rounded person. Most importantly, he is nurturing and raising kind children, not perfect, but, kind.
Those flip-flops. Still. His fashion statement. I am being very kind about that.
Rough week, huh? Escalating wars in the Middle East. Devastating earthquakes in Japan with horrific tsunami and radioactive ramifications. A worsening global financial crisis. It’s as if the World is just wrapping its arms around itself, rocking out-of-control while dropping buckets of tsunami tears and screaming, “What on Earth….. ?????
After loading those tragedies on our backs every morning, we then shift to face the reality of our own lives, with their challenges and problems. We often forget to toss happiness, contentment and joie de vivre into that hefty baggage we’re hauling around each day. You bet, it’s far easier to be sad, miserable and depressed. “Woe is me” trumps “Ain’t life wonderful”, every time. And, unfortunately, being female, growing older, living alone, either by choice or happenstance, digging down within to find the lightness, is often tough, really difficult.
Call me crazy but I believe we can choose to be, no matter how our world turns, joyful and happy, or, not. Our glass can be half-full or half-empty. We can utilize our lemons to make lemonade or let them rot. I promise you, one can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. That’s what this week’s essay is about, doing just that.
More than six years ago, as my husband’s illness progressed to “noticeably serious”, we were forced to make some dramatic lifestyle changes, selling our Colorado home, leaving friends of 20-years, escaping the Rocky Mountains’ idyllic high-altitude living.
Once settled in Nevada, my husband, in his mid- 70’s, his mate, that would be me, in her late 50’s, faced a reality neither of us had even envisioned. ( Alone, I may be, but Alone, we are not. Alzheimer’s is difficult to diagnose, more difficult to predict, unpreventable, incurable and, presently, five million other Americans have it.)
Our years ahead revolved around his illness, my sharpening skills at the University after realizing the financial consequences of this disease, and, to my mind, just surviving. That was when I began writing a book, the working title, “Neither Nurse, Saint, or Martyr Be, My Role as a CareGiver”. Trust me, the title was the best part! Ninety-two pages of grief, anger, “Why Us?, discontent, gloom and doom later, I realized this was not going to be the block-buster to solve my financial concerns and it also was never going to see the light of day.
Being a midwestern girl, you might call this my “Get a Grip”, “Buck-Up”, “Shake It Off”, Moment. The time when, my husband being safe, secure, loved and cared for, always primary, I needed to find a path forward that included happiness. Whether alone by choice, death, divorce, or, like me, through illness, we all deserve to be happy.
Readers, never, never forget that.
This voyage has been arduous, not always successful. I still suffer times of inconsolable sadness. But, for the past two years, having ridded myself of Survivor’s Guilt, among other things, I have enjoyed more upticks than downs, my smiles are broader and my step is livelier. I find it easier to be Me. And, I’ve come to believe that not only do we deserve to be happy, despite the responsibilities and grievous roadblocks thrown in our path, every one of us can BE happy if that’s our recipe of choice. Yes, I’ve had to tinker with the ingredients, adjust the time and temperature, and purchase new utensils, but I’ve baked a whole bunch of happiness back into my life. So, here are some of my “tricks of the truc”, some serious, others, silly. They all work.
Step #1 – It is important to surround yourself with family and friends who love you unconditionally. Whatever your circumstances, everyone, yes, everyone, will have an opinion as to how your life should be handled. And, of course, some of those opinions will be critical, hurtful and harmful. For now, at least, get those critics out of your life or put them on the back burner.
Step #2 – Stop being a Victim. A huge challenge to this particular illness, and, probably, others, is that CareGivers lose themselves into the disease. It becomes, because it is, all-encompassing. It wasn’t until a year ago that a very dear (and, wise) eighty-two-year old-friend said, most kindly, “Oh, Mary, I’m so glad to see you’re no longer playing the Victim.”
Step #3 – Choose advisors carefully. When life gets shaky, you’ll need sound advice, buckets of it. Some will come free, others, I’m sorry, you’ll need cash. For financial advice, I called upon the smartest friends I knew. Just started asking economically-laced questions. Which, amicably, they answered, and still do. I call them my “unpaid Board of Directors”. I love ‘em. In dealing with uncharted territory, I relied on our doctors, books, organizations, support groups, and, most importantly, I hired a trained, educated senior guidance consultant who does know the territory and helped us immeasurably. Among my friends I found good, trusting “sounding boards”, often testing their goodwill, patience, and love. My last stop was always my California daughter, my best cheerleader but always thoughtfully and honestly direct. I’ve exhausted her.
Step #4 – Is your head spinning? Have second-guessing, panic, fright, and “shoulda, woulda, coulda”, become your sidekicks? For years I took every anxiety-reducing herb known to man until my frustrated daughter finally wailed, “Mom, you can mainline every herb in your cabinet, it’s not going to work. Get help.” And, I did. And, it did. A well-educated, experienced psychologist has enabled me and allowed me to find my path.
Step #5 – Sleep. Never underestimate the value of a good night’s sleep. Priceless. Park your worries. I cannot stress the importance of 8-hours of rest each night.
Step #6 – The Silly Stuff. Always at-the-ready to play on a dumpy afternoon, iTunes playlists filled with Golden Oldies, locked and loaded with my memories. I also delight in my playlist of newbies, Taylor Swift, the Green Peas (or, something), I even like the gal who botched “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Super Bowl XLV.( I forgive her.) Go to a movie. What’s so bad about staring at Matthew McConaughey (“The Lincoln Lawyer”) for two hours? Bake something rich and decadent/deliver pasta dinner to those 9-5 hard-charging neighbors who are your constant good samaritans. Keep all your hobby projects visible, scattered about, ready to go. Be messy. It’s okay. You live alone. Always, always, have a book to read. Never miss Jeopardy. Keep a Gratefulness Journal. Every night I write down two or three things for which I am thankful, ranging from the Chicago Cubs to 7-year-old granddaughter Clara losing a front tooth at our local PF Chang’s. Okay, I admit to some, yeah, well, many blank pages. And, granted, some of my “Grateful” I’m not proud about. I’ve written down, Krispie Kremes, probably more than I should admit. But, the journal is an ingredient for the road to recovery.
No recipe is fail-proof and, it’s true, happiness is elusive. Sometimes it even takes being brave. For every giant step forward, there’s always a baby step or three back. However, I believe with ever fiber of my being, that all of us can have it (happiness) and be it (happy), if we wish. Even in today’s world. Wasn’t it about 235 years ago that those someones wiser than us saw this pursuit of happiness-business as an unalienable Right?
Hanging prominently on a wall in my study, located squarely at eye level over my desk, is a caricature of three deliciously joyful women. A ribbon of words dances through the picture, “If Life gets dumpy, call your best friends and throw yourself a party.” Now, no one would call me “a social animal.” Small talk is not my forté. I’ve never met a boisterous cocktail party that I’ve enjoyed. Restaurants, dimly lit, crowded and noisy, don’t make me smile. I love, however, to gather friends around my table at dinnertime.
The opportunities for entertaining, as my husband’s illness noticeably progressed the past six years, have been slim to none. My life has been “on call”, needing to give attention to every crisis, dealing with emergencies as they presented themselves. No day has been my own. And, honestly, how was I going to enjoy gathering people at our table when he wasn’t at the other end of it? It was now time, I decided, to shed that skin and find out. What better way to do that than by gathering my female friends together to commemorate the upcoming 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day on March 8th.
Odds are that most of you have never celebrated IWD, nor even heard of it. Put simply, it’s a day to honor and support women’s empowerment, economically, politically and socially. In many European and Asian countries, it’s a national holiday. I was first introduced to this by my friend, Ardyth, an academic who just spent 6 months in Latvia as a Fulbright Scholar. Last March 8th, in one of our daily e-mail exchanges, she elaborated on how wonderful the day’s acknowledgement of women had been. “There were flower vendors on every corner,” she enthusiastically wrote. “Women received bouquets from their sons, their husbands, their bosses, no one was forgotten.”
(According to the CIA’s World Fact Book, there are almost 7 billion people in the world, more than half, female. Recognizing that women are the change agents who can drive peace, reconciliation, economic growth and stability, President Obama created a U.S.Ambassador-at-Large for Global Women’s Issues naming Melanne Vermeer to the post. According to a recent Boston Consulting Group survey, “Women” is the world’s largest and fastest growing market. “WE” will arguably spend more than $5 trillion over the next several years, more than the predicted growth consumer economies of India, Russia, Brazil or China! The CEO of Coca-Cola, Muhtar Kent, has committed his company to empower and train 5 million women entrepreneurs by 2020.)
I sent invitations to seven women friends, asking them to join me for dinner on March 8th. No one, except for Ardyth, had even heard of IWD but all responded affirmatively. Hey, it’s dinner, after all.
These women might all bring home the bacon, but, on this night, at least, they would not have to toss it in the pan! Although these gals are treasured personal friends, their professional credentials
aren’t too shabby either. Gathered together in my home last Tuesday evening were two PhD’s, three business owners, and two lawyers, one, also, a professional chef and judge. (Yeah, she exhausts me, too.) Among us, we have seven daughters and granddaughters. You might say we have quite an investment in women. Their only assignment was to think of the woman, past or present, they would be, if asked to change places.
I sharpened up my knives as well as my cooking skills to put together a menu. Perhaps, a “Where’s the Beef”, comfort food-evening, along with lots of vegetables, salad and pasta to satisfy any Vegetarians in the crowd. And, for dessert, a three-layer lemon torte, a Marie Antoinette – who really never said “Let them eat cake” – Moment. French Champagne. Italian Cabernet Sauvignon. For dessert, Limoncello, to honor a Sicilian guest, Adriana. My Ukrainian florist and friend, who has always celebrated IWD, created lovely table bouquets of roses, daises and tulips.
(The world produces enough food to feed everyone. Half of the world’s food is produced by women. In developing countries women harvest 60% to 80% of food crops. In Sub-Saharan Africa, 70% of the small hold farmers are women. However, according to United Nations 2010 figures, from 925 million to 1.2 billion people, almost 14% of our global population, go to bed hungry every night Dr. Helene Gayle, the CEO of Care USA, points out that 60% of the world’s one billion poorest people are women. “As recently as 1990, more than 90 percent of the world’s poor people lived in poor countries,” she says, “Today, roughly three-quarters of the world’s poor live in middle-income {emerging} countries.”)
The evening was, by all accounts, a smashing success tempered by sobering statistics. Our champagne toast was not made to “us” but to the hundreds of million of women who do not have the opportunity to be “us”. We delighted in exposing the ‘other woman within us’, from Julia Child (Michelle, my lawyer-judge-chef friend) to Mother Cabrini. “You may not know, I almost became a nun,” Adriana said, with a giggle. ( We are all still trying to get our arms around that revelation.) Linda and Kathy each chose Amelia Earhart, “but not her ending,” they said, in unison. Ellen, who devours self-help books, channeled successful California author, Louise Hay. And, Ardyth honored the achievements of Wilma Rudolph and Katherine Hepburn. I chose Madeleine Albright (that woman is all-bright on every level), Gertrude Ederle (I cannot swim), and my daughter, Melissa (wishing I had had her parenting skills). Actually, no one chose just one woman but a composite of many, thinking, perhaps, it took tiny parts of them to make one of us. The most intriguing choice was Susan’s of Kate Middleton, in all probability, England’s future queen. “I would just love to be Kate,” she said. “bringing what I know NOW to what she has the opportunity to be. What a platform. She can be and do so many good things.”
(Using UNESCO figures, there are arguably one billion non-literate adults in the world. Two-thirds of these are women. Two-thirds of the children who do not attend school are girls. Nobel Laureate Natalie Godimer calls literacy the “poverty of the intellect.”)
Prior to our sitting for dinner, I asked everyone to pick up their place cards. On them I had written a phrase which we each read aloud, round-robin style.
I, began – “The 19th Amendment to the Constitution, giving the right to vote to women”
Ellen – “took 72 years”
Adriana – “and, required 56 referendum campaigns,
Michelle – “47 campaigns to get state constitutional conventions to write women’s suffrage into state constitutions,”
Linda – “480 drives to get state legislatures to hold those referendums (5 referendum campaigns in South Dakota alone),”
Kathy – 277 campaigns to get state party conventions to include women’s suffrage planks,”
Ardyth – “30 campaigns to get presidential party campaigns to include women’s suffrage planks in their platforms,”
Susan – “and, 19 campaigns with 19 successive Congresses.”
(In the 2008 Presidential election, 56.8% of eligible Americans voted, more women than men. “Women still bear the brunt of poverty, war, disease, and famine,” Hillary Clinton recently said. “ And when it comes to the boardroom meetings, government sessions, peace negotiations, and other assemblies where crucial decisions are made in the world, women are too often absent.”)
Cudos to New York Times Columnist Gail Collins for those startling, fantastic place card statistics.
