The Ladies Page


| July/August 1971


As I sit down to my trusty typewriter, rain is falling with increasing impetus upon our waiting earth. One feels the promise in it, for it is a living thing.

In our back yard, my husband's big Minny, still awaits her first surge of steam to set her steel-spoked wheels turning in eager response to the pressure of steam in the boiler. Only then can she come alive. The morning is dark and dreary, but I tell myself, 'This too will pass.'

On the Sunday past we had a visiting minister in our church who preached quite convincingly on the signs of hope in our days of turmoil. I knew as he spoke that he would, awaken in me some thoughts to put on paper. He was a man who could say more in ten minutes than some men say in an hour. And isn't it the quality of words rather than the quantity which we are seeking? Certainly we all know some individual who talks, and talks, and talks, and never says anything worthwhile.

And even more familiar to us, at this time, are the peddlers of filth, through words, which fill our library shelves. I read one such book recently, not because I wanted to, but because it was being 'raised to the skies' through a slick job of promotion, both as a book and a movie. As a writer, I felt I must read it to talk about it with some intelligence. No lady ever talked to her lover like that lady did. No one I would call a lady. And yet she was the prominent character in the book.

I finished with that mess as I was comfortably curled up in my bed. I laid it beside me, wondering if I was fit to pray. But I couldn't stand it there. I got to my feet, sleepily, and shuffled it and myself out to the kitchen door, where I could return it to my neighbor next morning, EARLY! Then I slept!