The Ladies Page

COUNTRY ECHO


| November/December 1970



BRANDON WISCONSIN R.R-2 ZIP-539I9

Today my husband picked up the daily paper. 'Humph,' he commented tersely. 'I guess it's a good thing I am going away tomorrow. By the looks of things I wouldn't have a cook anyway.'

I laid my spatula down uncertainly. 'What are you talking about?' I asked. 'Don't I usually cook?'

For answer he handed me the paper and pointed out a front-page story: FIX YOUR OWN MEALS WEDNESDAY, DAD: GIRLS GOING OUT ON STRIKE. This was the headline. There was to be a national woman's strike against menial jobs and kitchen work, it said.

It was now my turn to say 'Humph' and 'Humph' again. 'Not me,' I went on. 'I like it from where I stand.' I slipped the still warm applesauce and freshly-baked rolls onto the table. 'Nobody but me is going to mess around in my kitchen as long as I can hold out,' I said to myself. 'I may not be the world's best cook, but, so help me, I'm no slouch either.'

Mr. B. chuckled his nose further into the newspaper as he waited a moment for his cup of hot coffee. I think he has me where he wants me, in the kitchen, and I surely won't argue about it.

The last thing I want to be is one of these bewigged, painted witches we see on our city streets and many other places. And as far as the other extreme goes the long, straight hair hanging to the waist, mixed in with love beads and dirt is hardly my dish either. It must be I am out of step with this generation. Somehow, when a chunky woman packs her fat fanny into a pair of stretch pants and then ties an apron over this insult, I about faint.