“Tell a woman and the word will get around.” Before you ladies get in an uproar this is the title of a song. “Don’t telephone, don’t telegraph, tell a woman the word will get around” is the chorus from the song I heard on a Bakersfield radio station sometime in the late 40s. You can well imagine the high dudgeon this would find women in today if the song was still being played, though women are cast in a far worse light by some of the so-called “music” of today.

Just how did this reputation for gossip become peculiar to women when men are just as guilty? This reminds me of the Victorian attitude that held women were not to enjoy sex as men did. And, the double standards regarding much of human behavior cuts both ways, and both men and women suffer from such double standards. One of long standing was girls should be chaste and boys “experienced.” But the basic premise was sound in that girls and women should be a civilizing influence on boys and men.

Still, when it comes to gossip even Henry Thoreau noted it is good when taken in “homeopathic doses” and he did not discriminate between men and women on the subject. As to women being singled out, when one considers how women have had to struggle to have any voice or rights comparable to men it is no wonder all they had was conversation among each other throughout much of our history. That such conversation would often degenerate into gossip as a pejorative term is not to be wondered at.

My copy of American Spirit- Daughters of the American Revolution Magazine dated March/April 2003 has a lead article detailing the typical “Woman’s Day” in 1770. The magazine notes Family-Community-Country being essential to our welfare as a nation. But to consider the extreme hardships endured by women especially attempting to make a home, to bear and rear children those centuries ago is to come face to face with wonderment that women and children managed to survive.

I experienced much of this while living on the mining claim here in the Sequoia National Forest. No electricity or indoor plumbing, nothing but a woodstove and fireplace for cooking and heating, coal oil lamps for lighting at night. And I continue to marvel at the way my great-grandmother and grandparents endured such hardship without complaint.

However, before moving to the forest while living in Little Oklahoma in Southeast Bakersfield during WWII the next-door neighbor had a cow, and what a treat it was to visit at milking time. Occasionally, my brother Ronnie and I would get a fresh, warm cup of the milk. We would blow off the hair and foam from the top of the cup; just like we saw W. C. Fields and some others do in movies with a mug of beer, and drink it like a milkshake.

Sometimes when grandad took us to downtown Bakersfield we would stop at the Orange Julius. It was built like a huge orange and the structure fascinated Ronnie and me. We loved the orange-milk drink and grandad would always ask the attendant to put a raw egg in his. Never knew why and never asked for raw egg in mine. This was kind of strange since I usually tried to copy grandad in everything he did.

Ronnie and I were not overly conscious of the absence of a father. Grandad was still a fairly young man, and not having a son I suppose he took us on as the sons he always wanted and treated us accordingly; though the distinction of being our grandfather was never blurred and he was always grandad, never dad. Our mother contributed a lot to keeping this distinction clear because of the seemingly constant friction between her and our grandparents; this together with the flow of stepfathers that were to filter through our lives.

There were so many activities at our grandparents’ place that Ronnie and I were seldom at a loss for things to do or for interesting things to observe and listen to. Like the quilting parties.

Our grandparents had a quilting frame that hung from the ceiling of the spacious living room. At times the neighbor ladies, mostly members of grandad’s little congregation, would get together and make quilts. It was something Ronnie and I always enjoyed when we were small. What made the quilting parties so much fun as the ladies all gathered around the apparatus, Ronnie and I could crawl under the contraption and, in the coolness of our shadowed sanctuary, listen to the genteel gossip of the lulling, matronly voices. We were far too young to understand much of what the ladies said, but it was pleasant to hear them and enter into the enjoyment they obviously were having as they sewed the various pieces of fabric into fascinating mosaics of a quilt. They would often have the radio on and we could hear the soap operas as well, the ladies commenting on them at intervals.

Quilting was a communal thing. It made Ronnie and I feel good whenever all the neighbor ladies got together and were so obviously enjoying themselves. It gave us a happy, warm, secure feeling. Maybe this was so special to us because of our father leaving us and the world was at war. Like crawling into our private preserve of the cannas in the yard; there was some kind of magic in the warmth and security of just having good, loving people around us or being in a shaded place during the hot, summer days that made us feel more alive and made us feel like laughing.

Women were responsible for the home and little ones, and when they gathered in community, like on quilting or wash day they shared the work, they talked, and we children felt safe and secure. The work the women usually did was hard work. However, by working and sharing together, the work didn’t seem as hard. Men, women, and children had clearly defined roles it seemed. But as hard as the work was for the ladies, washdays were real fun for us children.

Large galvanized washtubs would be set up on bricks over wood fires. The ladies would put soap and lye in the water and boil the clothes in the tubs while stirring them with a stick, usually a used broom or hoe handle. After boiling and stirring, the clothes went into another tub for scrubbing on washboards. After scrubbing, they went into a tub for rinsing and then wrung out to be hung on the lines. Of course, there were different tubs for colored and white things. Bleach, starch, and Mrs. Worth’s Bluing were fascinating ingredients to us children. It was a wonder to us how the ladies knew such intricacies of chemistry. Washday always smelled wonderful; the aroma of clean wash was marvelous. And like the quilting parties, the gossip and lulling voices of the ladies moved over and around us children like a refreshing breeze in the heat of a summer day.

Our mother and grandmother loved to crochet and knit. Ronnie and I were taught these arts as well; and we also learned to embroider. Looking back, I’ve thought this was the result of having three mothers and only one man in the house; grandad. And we learned to use the Singer sewing machine. This was a truly marvelous device. Ronnie and I would take turns working the treadle and stitching since our legs couldn’t reach the treadle while seated at the machine.

So it was no wonder that as I grew older some things thought “fittin’” only for girls were suspect to me. And as my great-grandmother was to point out to me one time there were very few things boys did that girls couldn’t do as well, and why shouldn’t girls enjoy shooting, fishing, even building model airplanes? While such a thing seemed foreign to me at the time, as I grew older the wisdom of my great-grandmother’s words was inescapable.

Many things have changed in America since I was a boy, and women have made much progress. But when it comes to Equal Rights vs. Equal Value the gap seems as wide as history. That old song “Tell a woman and the word will get around” is a haunting reminder that when it comes to the equal value of women to men this distinction still has a long way to go. While the extreme hardships for women have been ameliorated since 1770 here in America, they remain in many other nations where women are still considered no better than “chattel.”

Unlike many conservatives Nancy Pelosi does not get me all a’ dither with the vapors. While she is no better than any other corrupt politician and will do what is in her best interest rather than in the interest of America like all politicians the fact she is a woman does at least offer me some comfort. Deep down I remain like Rhett Butler hopeful that Scarlett may develop a real woman’s heart, that civilizing heart that understands women attempt to make homes while men make wars.

One thing about which most Americans agree; our government is in a shambles and there is little to give us hope our government will put the interests of America ahead of that of whoever is in power.