Old family story...Once upon a time, like...80 years ago...my Tennessee great-grandparents were sitting out on the front porch (which is what Southern people DID in the afternoons, back when) when this man, running for public office, came by.
Walked up the sidewalk, shook hands with my great-grandfather, make some small talk and then handed my Papa a campaign card. Asked my Papa to vote for him. And then, as an after-thought, added, "And I'd appreciate it if you'd have your wife vote for me, too."
I'm sure my great-grandmother, sitting there in her shirtwaist, with her stockings and her black two-inch heels and her perfect silver curls, in the Southern heat on a steamy afternoon, didn't say anything. But you better BELIEVE...all hell broke loose later.
And no, she didn't vote for that man. Tell HER who to vote for? They had a farm, a house in town and owned a business or two in town, one of them the general store. My Mama kept the books, did the ordering and more or less ran things. And Papa was supposed to tell her for whom to vote because...WHY?
I don't think so. We STILL laugh about that story. As we go to vote every election, because my Mama was ADAMENT that...we got the right? We WILL exercise it.
My grandmother on the other side buried three husbands. She, too, owned the general store in her town in Alabama, and I remember when calculators came out...people my age do a total on paper, and then check it with a calculator. My grandmother? Totaled up on the calculator and then got a pencil and paper to check it. Odds are, she was right more often than the calculator. Those buttons and things.
When Clinton ran for office, my brother as getting married. My dress needed hemming, and I needed help pinning it up. So off I went to...The Big Boy's old friends. They lived in the neighborhood and she was home with kids, so I loaded up my dress and pins and heels and went down for her to pin my hem for me. As we're talking, something came up about something and I THINK what I said was...I could NOT vote for...insert name of whomever ran against BC the first time here. Can't remember. But...no. Wait. What I SAID was...I don't believe in abortion for myself but I would never vote for someone who was totally anti-abortion. (It was simpler than that, but that's the gist.)
A couple of days later? I hear that female-friend-of-TBB has told her husband, "OMG. CG is going to vote for Bill Clinton." And male-friend-of-TBB said, and I quote, "OMG. I'll have to speak to TBB."
Needless to say, I heard this secondhand because NO. TBB did NOT "speak to me." But the thinking behind this...bothered me. Which is what leads us to...
This.
My family owns a farm. MY family. CG's family. I married TBB, but that's all I did. Didn't sign over no soul or rights or such. That's fine...he doesn't do fence posts or livestock or screwdrivers or chainsaws or...pretty much ANYTHING involving nature that doesn't include a putting green. That works. Don't need another opinion in this quilting bee, anyway.
So imagine my surprise...and then my horror...and now my...bemusement...when the phone rang last week and there on the other end of the line was...a parent from The Not Nice Kid's basketball team. And when I answered, the parent asked ME to please let him speak to TBB.
And then that stupid fucking dumbass asked MY husband, who is married to ME, if it was okay if the parent and his son went hunting at MY family's farm. MY. FAMILY'S. FARM.
Asked my husband.
TBB ain't no dummy, and he immediately started stuttering around until I realized what was going on. Suggested that he just pass on, "The land's leased." End of discussion.
That man called my husband, to ask permission to hunt on my farm.
I'm contemplating the perfect words at the perfect time but, excuse me. I have to go now and iron my husband's shirts and pack his lunch and shine his shoes and make him a lemon meringue pie because he has a REAL JOB and will be so tired when he comes in.
Just me. Doin' my job.
I think I'm gonna puke.
Walked up the sidewalk, shook hands with my great-grandfather, make some small talk and then handed my Papa a campaign card. Asked my Papa to vote for him. And then, as an after-thought, added, "And I'd appreciate it if you'd have your wife vote for me, too."
I'm sure my great-grandmother, sitting there in her shirtwaist, with her stockings and her black two-inch heels and her perfect silver curls, in the Southern heat on a steamy afternoon, didn't say anything. But you better BELIEVE...all hell broke loose later.
And no, she didn't vote for that man. Tell HER who to vote for? They had a farm, a house in town and owned a business or two in town, one of them the general store. My Mama kept the books, did the ordering and more or less ran things. And Papa was supposed to tell her for whom to vote because...WHY?
I don't think so. We STILL laugh about that story. As we go to vote every election, because my Mama was ADAMENT that...we got the right? We WILL exercise it.
My grandmother on the other side buried three husbands. She, too, owned the general store in her town in Alabama, and I remember when calculators came out...people my age do a total on paper, and then check it with a calculator. My grandmother? Totaled up on the calculator and then got a pencil and paper to check it. Odds are, she was right more often than the calculator. Those buttons and things.
When Clinton ran for office, my brother as getting married. My dress needed hemming, and I needed help pinning it up. So off I went to...The Big Boy's old friends. They lived in the neighborhood and she was home with kids, so I loaded up my dress and pins and heels and went down for her to pin my hem for me. As we're talking, something came up about something and I THINK what I said was...I could NOT vote for...insert name of whomever ran against BC the first time here. Can't remember. But...no. Wait. What I SAID was...I don't believe in abortion for myself but I would never vote for someone who was totally anti-abortion. (It was simpler than that, but that's the gist.)
A couple of days later? I hear that female-friend-of-TBB has told her husband, "OMG. CG is going to vote for Bill Clinton." And male-friend-of-TBB said, and I quote, "OMG. I'll have to speak to TBB."
Needless to say, I heard this secondhand because NO. TBB did NOT "speak to me." But the thinking behind this...bothered me. Which is what leads us to...
This.
My family owns a farm. MY family. CG's family. I married TBB, but that's all I did. Didn't sign over no soul or rights or such. That's fine...he doesn't do fence posts or livestock or screwdrivers or chainsaws or...pretty much ANYTHING involving nature that doesn't include a putting green. That works. Don't need another opinion in this quilting bee, anyway.
So imagine my surprise...and then my horror...and now my...bemusement...when the phone rang last week and there on the other end of the line was...a parent from The Not Nice Kid's basketball team. And when I answered, the parent asked ME to please let him speak to TBB.
And then that stupid fucking dumbass asked MY husband, who is married to ME, if it was okay if the parent and his son went hunting at MY family's farm. MY. FAMILY'S. FARM.
Asked my husband.
TBB ain't no dummy, and he immediately started stuttering around until I realized what was going on. Suggested that he just pass on, "The land's leased." End of discussion.
That man called my husband, to ask permission to hunt on my farm.
I'm contemplating the perfect words at the perfect time but, excuse me. I have to go now and iron my husband's shirts and pack his lunch and shine his shoes and make him a lemon meringue pie because he has a REAL JOB and will be so tired when he comes in.
Just me. Doin' my job.
I think I'm gonna puke.
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