Wild Words

  Women’s Lib   Becoming part of the second wave of feminism in the 1970’s was most unexpected. It was a very exciting time for women who wanted to return to work, not have a huge family, or be beholding to men. I joined a group which met in an avid feminist’s home in a small country town, and we discussed all the literature which was important including ‘The Feminine Mystique’. The group consisted mostly of farmers’ wives. We were determined to change our restricted worlds.   Unfortunately, the day-to-day reality was not quite so exciting or radical. Several of us were not permitted to get a job off the farm. I had four small children to care for in the days when the men did very little for their children. Even changing a nappy or minding a child for a short time was seen as an imposition. That was the woman’s job. Ironically, I did read all the exciting literature that promised women a life of freedom and a career, but like most of the group it was all to no avail...

  Social Media Bullying I am a serious person, and a serious commentator on the social issues faced today. For many years I have enjoyed Facebook, and more lately Instagram and Threads. Each of these platforms has become increasingly nasty. I am saddened by the mocking I receive for being thoughtful, nuanced, articulate and helpful in my responses.   This has caused me to pull back from commentating. But is this the correct option? Lately I have been driven to tears after seeing videos of hundreds of women breastfeeding on Instagram. When one said she was so depressed that feeding an almost 2-year-old was coming to an end I responded by asking her if she had ever considered the depression experienced by women who could not breastfeed. I received hundreds of responses abusing me for this genuine comment. Some of them hurt so badly I eventually removed my comment. There were over 60 likes, and one nice woman replied saying she understood how I felt.   Obviously, a...

  Parritch  I hate porridge. It was one of my favourite foods as a small child until….Pakuranga Health Camp. Breakfast there consisted of porridge made in a huge pot and toast. Unfortunately, the person in charge of stirring the pot never did a very good job. As we stood in line holding out our plates waiting for the inevitable dollop from a soup ladle, my stomach began to revolt. This was not the smooth well-cooked porridge made with love by my mother. It was full of dry lumps of uncooked oats surrounded by thick sludgy uneatable porridge. Those of us unable to eat this awful concoction had to stay behind as we gagged and some vomited. Eventually we were released to go to school. To this day the smell and sight of porridge makes me nauseous. I never ate it again.   Yet Parritch (the Scottish term for porridge) still follows me to this day. When my daughter comes to stay in the winter she asks for a big plate of it for breakfast. Initially buying the small one serve...

 I follow an Australian Aboriginal psychologist on Facebook. Tracy has a Masters and PhD in Clinical Psychology. She recently posted about how, as a woman of colour, her success is measured against that of a white woman. It is assumed there must be an explanation; a lower standard for passing, a helping hand given, a gravy train. Her own merit and hard work is dismissed. She has built a successful business with no support, runs a charity, and self funds support for critical mental health needs in vulnerable communities. All of this with no government funding. She describes the narrative following every Aboriginal person as them being the product of lowered standards. Success rides on a victim mentality. Their voice is not earned, it is illegitimate. She is becoming a loud voice in response to this insidious racism. I responded to her quietly and respectfully saying that the same conversation occurs around disability. when I was studying at university I was often asked what kind of ...

 This is a story I wrote after being rescued by firemen when my bedroom door handle broke in the middle of the night and I could not get out of my bedroom. It was quite an adventure.  Four Hunky Firemen and a Couple of Policemen  Four kind and burly firemen (who asked that I make them better looking, younger and taller than the ones on TV) stood in my bedroom early one Saturday morning. This was not the scenario I envisaged when I went to bed at 9.30pm the previous night. My life had changed irrevocably.   Getting up about 2.30am to answer the call of nature, I discovered I could not get out of my bedroom. The door was jammed tight. Turning on the light, much to the amusement of my guide dog Maya, I examined the recalcitrant door handle. Always aware that these handles could accidently lock, and no key had been provided for them, I had purposely never locked any of my interior doors. Initially I tried a coin as told to do by the builder. Nothing happened. Then ...

 I have blogged on and off for several years. I have been encouraged by a friend to start again as my stories are short and interesting, mostly memoir pieces. I also write longer memoir essays, encouraged by a famous New Zealand writer named Fiona Kidman. The magazine I write for is now moving to bi-monthly publication, hence many of my stories are just sitting in my computer unread. They only take positive stories so some I have written or wish to write become part of my current writing file left to wait until I find somewhere that will accept them. I am hoping to write more of these stories on controversial topics or difficult topics and post them here.  Hopefully others may be challenged to write on these awkward topics or discuss them here by commenting.   Also, as an avid reader of many genres I will post reviews of books I have read which may interest others.  A little more about me; I love my garden, walking my dog, and cooking. I attempt art journaling b...