In Praise of Old Broads

Thought for the day: If you want a thing done well, get a couple old broads to do it.  [Bette Davis]

[Image courtesy of Wikipedia]

Some people might think it's an insult to call a woman a broad. Not me. Once upon a time, it was a derogatory term, but not any more. In fact, quite a few years ago, Ol' Blue Eyes Frank Sinatra insisted it was a term of affection. (But then again, he called most women broads, didn't he?)

Know when I accepted it as a term of affection? When I watched the 1984 movie Tank, in which James Garner tells his wife Shirley Jones, "You're a tough old broad." And believe you me, his words were dripping with love and admiration. (Terrific movie!)

In A Dictionary of Words About Women, written by Jane Mills, broad is defined as a woman who is liberal, tolerant, unconfined, and not limited or narrow in scope. Sounds good to me... and I should know. Because I am an old broad... and proud of it.

And I'm not alone. I've been working in cahoots with a group of really terrific old broads for quite a while now, and today, we are all happy to announce (ta-DA!) the publication of our book:

To celebrate its release, each old broad featured in this book is blogging about her favorite old broad today, and we invite each of you to tell us a little something about your favorite old broad in the comments. Oh, and if you're still offended by the term broad, I apologize. If you'd prefer, you can tell us about your favorite older lady... how's that? Oh yeah, and one of you who comments about your fave broad will be winning a free copy of our book. Cool, huh? (It really IS a cool book... not only is it filled with some fun poetry, but all proceeds from its sale are going to CARE International.)

Now then, let me introduce you to the other broads, so you can visit their blogs, too. (Like I said, they're ALL terrific.)

• Connie
• Robyn
• Joanne
• Fran 
• Delores
• Julie
• Liza
• Michael

NOTE: Technically, Michael isn't a broad. He's a guy. A very nice guy who used that lovely image from Francesco Romoli to create our cover for us, so you could say, as an important member of our team, he's an honorary broad. With hairy legs.

Now then. My favorite old broad. Without a doubt, that would have to be my maternal grandmother.

Her given name was Catherine, but her kids all called her Mommy, and all of us grandchildren called her Nana. What can I say? She was an amazing woman. I'm not sure anyone would have had the chutzpah to call her a broad back then, but undoubtedly, she was tough. Had to be. She married young... reeeeeally young... had a passel of kids, and then her husband died, leaving the red-headed spitfire to raise all those kids by herself.

Ever know anyone who made you feel unconditionally loved? That's the way she was. She was no warm and fuzzy kind of grandmother or mother, though. Quite the contrary. She drank incredible quantities of coffee... with chicory... prepared in a nasty top-of-the-stove aluminum pot that no one had better ever wash... and chain-smoked Raleigh cigarettes. Because she was deaf, she spoke in a loud voice... a loud gravelly voice. (Courtesy of the cigarettes.) She had strong opinions and a quick temper, but even when she was yelling, we always knew... she loved us.

She hated to have her picture taken, which means I have very few. The one to the right is the only one I have in which she's laughing, which makes it even more precious.

Remember that cousins' reunion I went to in Baltimore a few weeks ago? One of our conversations there does a pretty terrific job of nailing my hard-as-nails grandmother. (I'm telling you, when she played Pinochle, woe to anyone who made a play she didn't like...) Anyhow, at the reunion, my older cousin Patty said she was the only grandchild who ever got to spend the night at Nana's. I said I'd spent the night with her... my cousins Diane and Phyllis said THEY'D spent the night with her... and I suspect if more cousins had been there, even more would have said the same. Know why? Even though she had a bazillion grandchildren, that tough old broad knew how to make each of us feel special. From the big mugs of sweetened milk-laden tea and rye bread slathered with grape jelly she fixed for us, to the neat things she let us make from her big ol' can of clothespins, she somehow managed to show each of us that she loved us unconditionally. She was our biggest advocate, and like I said, a truly amazing woman. It's almost inconceivable that she's been gone for more than fifty years, but trust me, that special lady will live on forever in our hearts.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, your turn. Tell me about your favorite old broad or older lady, if you prefer... could be a relative, friend, celebrity, whatever. Doesn't have to be long, but it can be if you wanta. Heck, you can even write a poem about that special lady if you'd like. This isn't exactly a blogfest, because we're busy technically deficient lazy keeping things low-key, but we can call it a broadfest. Let's have some fun with it, shall we? Don't forget... one of you who tells us about your favorite broad on any of our blogs is gonna win a free book. The rest of you can buy it... after all, it IS for a very good cause. Besides, you might actually LIKE our poems! (Link to Amazon in the image in the sidebar. Easy-peasy...) And if ya would? Please help us spread the word about our spiffy book.

                                                 Now, in praise of older ladies...

                                       Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Nuthin Could be Finah

Thought for the day:  Two boll weevils grew up in South Carolina. One went to Hollywood and became a famous movie star, while the other one, a bit of a slacker, stayed behind in the cotton fields and never amounted to much. I guess you could say the second one was the lesser of two weevils.

palmetto trees

Okeydokey, it's time for another whirlwind tour. Up this week: the lovely little state of South Carolina, AKA the Palmetto State.

A fitting nickname, don't you think? I mean, not only are there more palmettos in  South Carolina than there are Republicans in Texas, but the tree has a certain claim to fame in the state's history, as well. As the story goes, the walls of the American fort on Sullivan Island in Charleston Harbor were built with palmetto logs. Spongy palmetto logs. How spongy, you say? During the Revolutionary War, British cannonballs allegedly bounced right off of them. Now, I'm not saying the story is true, and I'm not saying it isn't true. But you have to admit, it's an interesting tale.

Before South Carolina adopted the Palmetto nickname, it was known as the Iodine State, a rather stinging moniker that stained the state's good name. Okay, so it wasn't an awful nickname, but not nearly as pleasant as the image of palm trees swaying in the breeze, either. The state is also a big rice grower, and boasts the largest gingko farm in the world. The gingko, the oldest living tree specimen in the world, dates back 150 to 200 million years, and is actually considered a living fossil. So South Carolina folks should be happy their state motto isn't something about it being the home of living fossils. (Some senior citizens might take offense at that...)

Okay, enough chatter. Let's check out some pictures, shall we?

Fort Sumter, located in Charleston Harbor, is the historical site of the first Civil War battle.

Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War historical site, is located in Chesnee. There, you can see some of the original settlers' cabins like this one at the left.

Not to be confused with the battlefield, there is also a Cowpens Depot and Museum located in the city of Cowpens. Housed in a 100-year-old train depot, this museum is a showplace for relics belonging to the crew of the U.S.S. Cowpens, a WWII aircraft carrier.

This is an 1860's artist's sketch of the Confederacy's submarine the Hunley, which was discovered and raised from her watery grave in 2000. She is now preserved in a 90,000-gallon tank in Charleston's Hunley Museum, where you can also see numerous artifacts and learn all about this fascinating 40-foot craft and the men who served as her crew.

But South Carolina isn't all about military war. No sirree, it's also about a war of... peaches. Although South Carolina is the largest producer of peaches in the country, Georgia had the temerity to call itself the Peach State. No problem. Gaffney, South Carolina built the Peachoid, a water tower that looks like a giant peach. This distinctive landmark, clearly visible from the Interstate, delivers a silent non-combatant message, as it stands proudly in the midst of miles and miles of  peach groves and stands offering everything peachy for sale. (And yes, Georgia also has a peachy water tower, but not on the Interstate.)

Depicted in this life-size weather vane atop the 1886 Opera House in Camden is a noble Catawba Indian named King Haigler. He's known as the patron saint of Camden because of the way he befriended and helped early settlers in the area.

The Grand Strand is an exquisite arc of beach lands that stretches more than sixty miles. Pictured at left is Myrtle Beach, one of the many popular vacation destinations along the coast. This part of the state brings to mind such things as sea oats, sandpipers, boating, fishing, crabbing, seafood, beach music and boardwalks. Places where you can have fun in a crowd, or enjoy a secluded walk on the beach at sunrise.

Oh, and along with beach music, we can't forget to mention the shag, the official state dance. This swing dance originated in South Carolina in the '20s, and is still wildly popular today. In some ways, it's very similar to the jitterbug, but ... smoooooother. Wanta see?

The Thoroughbred Racing Hall of Fame can be found in Aiken, South Carolina.

Irmo's Lake Murray looks lovely, doesn't it? Hiding beneath its tranquil surface may dwell a mysterious monster. Its first reported sighting came in 1973, and every few years since, numerous additional sightings have been reported. Invariably described as a cross between an enormous snake and a prehistoric monster, it sounds like a cousin to the famous Nessie.


One more short video before we move on to check out some of the nutso laws, okay? Fountain Head, South Carolina's most famous native son is Clayton "Peg Leg" Bates. He lost his leg in a cotton gin accident at the age of twelve, but that didn't stop him. He went on to become a famous dancer, who appeared on Ed Sullivan's show many times. Here's a peek at him in action:

If you'd like to get a real feel for South Carolina, I suggest you read some of Pat Conroy's books. Not only will you fall in love with his writing and stories, you just may become a little enamored with the state itself. Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk. [Pat Conroy]

Okay, ready to check out some of those cockamamie laws still hanging out on the books in South Carolina?

• By law, if a man promises to marry an unmarried woman, the marriage must take place. (Um, suppose he is already married?)
• Railroad companies may be held liable for scaring horses.
• Fortune tellers must obtain a special permit from the state.
• Dance halls may not open on Sundays, and no work may be done on Sundays, but it is legal for a man to beat his wife on the courthouse steps on a Sunday. (Don't lift a finger on the Sabbath, unless it's to keep the little woman in line?)
• Musical instruments may not be sold on Sundays, but light bulbs can. (Ah-HA! I see de light!)
• It's against the law to perform a U-turn within one thousand feet of an intersection.
• It's considered an offense to get a tattoo. (Well, yeah, some of them are pretty offensive.)
• Horses may not be kept in bathtubs. (What the hay?)
• It's only legal to fire a missile if you get a permit. (All righty then.)
• Every adult male must bring a rifle to church on Sunday to ward off Indian attacks. (Believe it or not, a similar law is being considered by our state politicians right now.)
• It's a capital offense to accidentally kill someone while attempting suicide. (Oopsie.)
• Watch out! In Charleston, the fire department is allowed to blow up your house.
• In Clemson,  lifeguards must be present at apartment complex pools, but um... only after 11:00 P.M. 
• Also, bitches in heat must be confined. (Can they have gentlemen callers?)
• In Fountain Inn, horses must wear pants at all times. 
• In Greenville, the drinking age on Furman University campus is sixty.
• In Lancaster county, it's illegal to dance in public.
• And finally, in Spartanburg, it's against the law to eat watermelon in the Magnolia Street cemetery.

Ordinarily, this is where I'd tell you it's time for (ta-DA!) The Weirdest News Stories of the Week, but not this time. This is the final week for Suze's Tiny Harmonies haiku challenge, so I'm gonna end this post with that. She didn't provide a picture to go along with her themes this time, so I'll pick my own. Three themes to choose from this week, too: quench, the real, and loam.  Or, do all three... Okay, let's see what I've got:

This tiny otter is harmoniously quenching HIS thirst. 

From cradle to grave,
The wise man's thirst for wisdom
Will never be quenched.
***
Anyone know me?
Not the aging shell you see—
The real soul I am.
***
Dirt, dark as coffee,
Sweet verdant stubble of spring:
Rain-blessed scents of life.



How about you? Care to try your hand at writing a haiku as part of your comment? The basic formula is three lines consisting of five, seven, and then another five syllables. (Watch out! It's addictive!) Thanks, Suze.

                                      Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Bend Over, Laddie

Thought for the day:  The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley.  [Robert Burns]

Last Friday, the 25th, was Robert Burns Day, a worldwide drunken celebration of Scotland's favorite son and poet. So, yeah, that would have been a logical time to write a post about him and the annual poetry-reading, whiskey-swilling celebration of his birthday, but as he wrote, sometimes our plans gang a-gley.

Since I opted to participate in False Start Friday last week, why not talk about Burns today, eh?

A lot of people only associate the prolific Burns with Auld Lang Syne, but the truth is, he wrote a LOT of poems. I know, because I have a book filled with every single one he ever wrote. My grandfather's book. A true Scotsman he was, too. He could recite Burns' poetry like a Shakespearean actor, and the more libations he had, the more dramatic his recitation.

Even Pop's before-meal grace came from Burns:

Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

You know what the traditional meat is at the Burns Day celebrations? Something called haggis, a sausage-like dish containing what Scots call the pluck of a sheep: its heart, liver and lungs. (Takes a bit of pluck to eat it, too!) When all the ingredients are combined, they're traditionally sewn into the sheep's stomach for cooking, with the windpipe hanging over the side of the pot. Yum, huh? Modern recipes, however, may call for tongue instead of lung, and sausage casing instead of sheep's stomach. But I've even heard of instances where the sausage ingredients are shaped and cooked in a likeness of Burns' head and served on a huge platter. Talk about a following, huh?

Burns wrote poetry about all kinds of things. This, he allegedly wrote after observing a woman in church looking up the text during the sermon:

Fair maid, you need not take the hint,

Nor idle texts pursue;

'Twas guilty sinners that he meant---

Not angels such as you.

Rather than inundate you with more of Bobby Burns' poetry, let me address the question that niggles at many a fair maiden's mind... exactly what do those Scotsmen wear under their kilts???

Well, here ya go. The little ditty in this video will answer that question quite nicely. Cute pics, too. FYI, the illustrator is a very talented young autistic man, who has been drawing since he was a young child.

Now that you're smiling, how about one more short video? (Where do I get these things, you ask? Why, I pull 'em out of my... um, ear... of course.)

                                         Okay, lads and lassies, that'll be aboot it for noo.

                                               May He who gives the rain to pour,

                                               And wings the blast to blaw,

                                               Protect thee frae the driving show'r,

                                              The bitter frost and snaw.

                               Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

[A photo of my grandmother's cousin Ian. Had I been born with the proper accoutrements, that would have been my name, too.]