Sneak Peek Bitchin'- continued
Bitchin'
Those '70's Girls
by TA Gates & Luree Vanderpool
Chapter Four- Excerpt
Luree's Pre-70's Background
The world in the US was ever changing as I was growing up in the ‘60s. New attitudes were forming daily. Viet
Nam (1965-1975) played the one of the biggest roles.
Where Have All the Flowers Gone
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
~Pete Seeger and Tao Rodriguez-Seeger
1961 & 1977
While my mom’s brother Gerald was in Viet Nam, the news was on nightly. The news was our connection to
him on the other side of the world on a daily basis. The gray images from the black and white TV would flicker
images while a grave toned Walter Cronkite announced the latest offensive and the resulting body count. Body
counts were also daily events.
I could feel my parent and grand parents holding their breaths waiting for some awful news to come. Then a
letter would arrive in the post from Gerald dated three weeks earlier and a collective, but momentary wash of
relief would be passed along with the precious pieces of paper from family member to family member.
The envelope had strange post marks from a country I didn’t know where to find on a map. And the paper the
letters were written on felt strange to me, used to the dirty white, blue lined thinness of Big Chief tablets. It was
white, crisp and crinkled when it came out of the envelope. It was written in cursive and I couldn’t read all the
words, but I heard enough to know that Gerald was counting the days until he came home. The top of every
letter had how many days he left in Viet Nam; 229 days and counting.
Blowin’ in the Wind
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
~Bob Dylan
~Peter, Paul & Mary and many others
The ‘60’s
Having the news on nightly brought the big world into our little world. It was often hard to understand what all
this meant. No one talked to kids; it was left to adult conversation. What remained was for my interpretations.
Students at colleges were marching around holding signs, shouting and men in uniforms with funny helmets
were holding shields, guns and wielding black sticks beating them up. People shouted ugly remarks about the
soldiers in Viet Nam and other boys just refused to go, they went someplace called Canada. Boys no older
than those protesting came home in caskets with American flags on top and others came back missing legs
and arms. Then the marchers would get hurt fighting with the police and some movie star would say the
soldiers coming home were baby killers.
It was all very confusing and very scary. I would touch that paper Gerald’s letters were written on and know it
had come from there; that place called Viet Nam. And I would look at the picture of him dressed in his uniform
and I would be proud; my uncle the American soldier fighting for his country. My hero.
The TV news brought other foreign thoughts. The biggest being- not everyone was “equal”. Now until Walter
Cronkite told me that, I had no clue. Perhaps it was because my life out in the country was sheltered, or maybe I
just never noticed or no one pointed it out. But I had no idea all people weren’t treated the same based on their
color, race, sex or religion. I don’t remember hearing my parents express prejudice in regards to someone’s
color; their prejudices were based more on how someone behaved. Outside of my Grandpa V making it clear
you didn’t buy things made in Japan, because he fought in World War II, I wasn’t around for other prejudices any
of them may have expressed until I was almost grown.
It was a while before I got the women’s movement hoop-la. Men did men jobs and women did women jobs and
sometimes on the farm those jobs crossed over. Weeds in the field that needed pulled, onions that needed
topped, and tractors that needed driven really didn’t give a hoot if you were a man or a women. The job just
needed doing. Men opened doors for women to enter and women made sure everyone was fed. It was
simple. My parents always encouraged me to be or do what ever I could dream of and it never crossed my
mind being female made me fall into the category of those people on the news that weren’t equal.
But I didn’t see it that way. To me it was obvious that my mother and grandmothers were the center upon
which all things spun. Households ran at the quick clip of a well organized business. Routines and schedules
were set in stone. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, laundry, house cleaning, homework, farm chores and even baths
had a day and a time. Standards of living were created by their rules.
Grandma Miller is the one who taught me that stitches had to be straight, place setting should be pretty and
symmetrical and that clean was very, very good. Her house was always spotless. I created the ‘white glove’
story. When ever I cleaned I imagined the lady of the house marching in behind me, white gloves twitching as
they were run over every surface inspecting for dirt, even the tops of doors were swiped. It stretched my
imagination trying to find a new place the white gloves might go. It kept me entertained at least when I was
doing chores. After all there was no need to do something unless you were going to do it right.
As far as my world went, the women ruled. It never occurred to me that any of them may have wished for
anything different.
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