Women in the Military – 1860’s Style

The political and financial chaos in the world last week, continuing into today with the European plan to raid private savings accounts to bail out inept governments while Syria attacks Lebanon, both colossal messes brought on by weak male leaders, I began wondering what has happened to the voice of women leaders in the world. Will there ever come a time when the world’s women will say, “Enough,” and take over?

From the inception of this democracy in the 1700’s we cast our women in the role of the submissive, the pious, the conciliators, concerned with family and children—a notion reserved for the upper-class Victorians, because real life required a different set of survival skills. Of necessity, women worked at low-paying, menial jobs, the only ones open to them, because they had hungry children. They followed their husbands westward to live in sod huts, because that what women did, and died from the hardship.

But not always. History changed in 1848 in Seneca Falls, New York, when women claimed for themselves the inalienable rights men granted to themselves in the Declaration of Independence. It began in a small way, most of it ignored by historians. 

Were you taught in grade school about the women in England who died in jail because they dared demand the right to vote? Probably not.

And did you know that the Revolutionary and Civil Wars in this country provided the chance for hundreds of women to dress as men and enlist in the military? That 250 documented cases of women serving as soldiers and the probability of many more is one of the best-kept historical secrets of the Civil War?

They Fought Like Demons, a book written by DeAnne Blanton and Lauren Cook, Louisiana State University Press, 2002, tells the story of these brave women who, disguised as men, fought and died, enduring hardship without asking for any quarter.

Why did they do that? For many, it was simple patriotism. Northern women fought to preserve the Union; Southerners fought to preserve a way of life threatened by the hated Northerners. Some joined to be near loved ones; others to escape the sheer boredom of Victorian life as women knew it. The pay was better and often there was a signing bonus. Many joined to escape unbearable marriages or an untenable lifestyle. Thus the legend of the female warrior, which prevails in our literature today, was born.

After reading this book I asked, “Where are women like that today--the ones willing to defy convention and persecution?” I can think of a brave Muslim teenager. Where are the rest? Surely we can see the state the world is in after a thousand years of male dominance and incompetence. Catholic women are speaking out, demanding a role in the church, why not Muslims?

You know that any five women in a room can have the nation’s budget balanced in a week. Getting elected President of the United States is not rocket science. You tell the electorate what they want to hear. In this last election they wanted security, safety and predictability in their life. Even though the one candidate was showing alarming signs of not having a clue, his opponent was such a wimp he let the other party beat up on him like a schoolyard bully. This was the guy who would tell North Korea if they so much as lobbed one nuclear bomb at us they would be a pile of dust within 24 hours? I don’t think so.

So, it’s time to take charge. You will have to do it. I’m entering my eighth decade and find being a local elected official is all I can handle, besides being a published author. If you can find the courage to speak out, expect to be trashed by the liberal media because we all know they’re terrified of what women united can do. Have at it and the rest of us will rally the troops.

I Want To Write A Book--How Do I Begin?

     I belong to several social media groups along with published authors and those waiting to publish. The conversation, all on the Internet, very often turns to questions like: How do I start? In the case of the more optimistic it will be, I'm almost finished with my book so how do I find a publisher, or an agent?
     Understand, I'm on the writer's side. I think everyone should be writing something to keep their mind sharp and stir the adrenaline. We are losing our ability to speak. Live conversation is almost a lost art. Cellphone gibberish is the rule of the day, and the only way you learn to talk is to read and write; otherwise the words won't be there when you need them, and you do need them--to explain your problems to tech support or your doctor, to straighten out your cable bill, to convince your boss you're a budding genius. If you don't think the right words are important, read my blog on the last election.
      Learning how to write a book is a lengthy and sometimes painful experience, but if you do it in the company of a writer's critique group, you will learn how to say the words. It won't happen overnight.
     So what makes me think I can offer advice? Well, I've been at this for fifteen years, attending a writer's critique group once a week, ten months of the year. My mentors taught me to write. I sold my first novel, a Western romance, Maddie's Choice, this year after fifteen years of trying and five completed novels. That is par for the course. You will probably write five books before you sell one. There are cases of instant success, but I'll bet those authors, up until they took pen to paper, led interesting lives full of conversation and varied experience, so it was stored in their brain, ready to come out.
     My first rule. Find a writer's group in your area which meets often, where you will be reading several pages of what you have just written. You will listen to the experienced writers tell you what's wrong and you will make notes and change your manuscript. That is how you learn. There are a bunch of books you can read, but nothing works like a published author telling you what's wrong.
      Pay attention. You will have to learn 'point of view,' and 'sense of place.' Those are what happens when you start a chapter or introduce a character, and they are not negotiable. You will learn that some words, like 'as,' or 'seem,' and probably 'just,' are not used. No more than three 'was' words a page. Do not use the same verb twice on a page. If she looked at him once, the second time she'll glance.  Watch out for sentences that start with noun/verb. Two or three to a page.  This might sound a little nit-picky, but it identifies the novice to an editor instantly. Above all, you will hear, "show, don't tell," every time you read. It is a matter of craft and you will learn it or never get published.
     Get acquainted with Writer's Digest and Writer's Magazine.
     Rule two. Understand the task before you. There are 250 words to a page, 70,000 to 80,000 words to a novel. Yeah. There has to be a lot of stuff going on to cover that ground. You WILL type your manuscript in 12 point type, double spaced, Times Roman font, one inch margins all around. Since most editors use Microsoft Word, it saves a lot of time if you do, too.
     Finally, when you have a finished product, edited several times to make it perfect, you will start the dreary job of writing the dreaded synopsis and query letter and begin submitting to hundreds of agents and publishers in the hope that somebody out there thinks you might have something of value to say.
     If you get this far you'll run smack into "platforms," and social medias, and blogs and web pages. That's for later. If you find out what you're expected to do once you've managed to write the book, you'll never start.
Good luck, and let me know how you're doing.

Are We To Become A Welfare State? Haven't We Learned Anything From History?

The politicians governing this country, in Washington, DC, are so far removed from the reality of who we are they seem to be living in a parallel universe. In his inaugural speech, President-elect Obama, described his ideal world as one where the people owed all to big government. In his perfect world, every facet of our lives, our life style, how much income we would be allowed, the education of our children, and their futures, would be in the hands of the government. Subtext: We would be provided for according to what the government felt we needed and our duty was to accept and be content. This is a peculiarly European philosophy of government.

Is that what I heard? Surely not. He was describing a total welfare state—like the one that failed so miserably for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. We all watched while Russia imploded and shook our heads at the futility of a government trying to separate into an elitist, ruling class that subjugates the remainder of the populace to total dependency. It was called Communism, or Socialism and it didn’t work. Eventually, the little guys, referred to as the Proletariat, rebelled.

European history has always been about a privileged class, created by accident of birth, or dint of politics or religion, keeping a portion of the populace dependent and powerless in order to maintain elitist power.  Dependency was maintained by a government welfare system. Work was for those who were too dumb to play the system.

Remnants of the idea remain in Europe. We see it in public riots triggered when welfare checks are threatened, or people are asked to work a few more hours a week, or beleaguered governments try to balance their budgets by cutting back on benefits. Somehow, a portion of the populace has acquired contempt for honest endeavor. They are like baby birds sitting on a fence, demanding more and more food from their beleaguered parents.

Not everyone in the late 1800s bought into the “work is bad” idea. When the lower classes had enough, the bravest and best of them left for a new land across an ocean to seek the freedom to find a better life, free of government oppression, taking their solid work ethic with them. Thus began The American Dream, battered and beleaguered lately, but still alive.

Descendants of those stalwart legions are the bedrock of this nation, not the whining, privilege-seeking, corrupt men and women who govern us from Washington, DC. We need only to look to California to see what the “everybody on welfare” philosophy of government can do to destroy a nation. Again, the employed and business entrepreneurs who are supposed to pay for this have had enough. They are leaving.

How can our DC leaders be so unfamiliar with who we are? We are hard working, entrepreneurial people who will tolerate only so much interference from government. Forty-nine percent did not vote for the idea of the government-controlled life dreamed up by the socialist thinkers in DC. They will put up with only so much before they rebel. Gun control, outrageous corruption in our financial community, labor unions exploiting their workers—they all might be the last straw.

Our leaders would do well to learn from history. In “The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire,” historian Edward Gibbon wrote what might foreshadow history today.

“In the end more than they wanted Freedom,

They wanted security.

When the Athenians finally wanted not to give to society

But for society to give to them,

When freedom they wished for was

Freedom from responsibility,

Then Athens ceased to be free.”

-          Edward Gibbon (1737 – 1794)

Shootings, Murder and Mayhem. What's up with That?

It’s been over a month since my last post, but something happened. The world went sour and spending time writing a blog, which I enjoy immensely, seemed like such a trivial, self-serving contribution to an already too enormous glut of words trying to make sense out of what’s going on.

Although I’m a writer with an insatiable need to write, how do I avoid dwelling on a human race run amok and not let it color my enthusiasm for good things to come? 

Politicians are no help here. The cultural anthropologists will have to explain human behavior to us in such a way that we can deal with its atrocities and understand how we’ve emerged, since the beginning of our existence, with this unholy need to kill every other living thing that crosses our path. Our three thousand year history is a relentless chronicle of violent human behavior—ethnic cleansings, slaughters of entire civilizations, destruction of irreplaceable treasures, the slaughter of those of different beliefs—the Jewish Holocaust—I could go on and on. This need to destroy is not the work of some supernatural devil force. It is perfectly normal behavior of a species of mammal that has imbedded in its DNA a predator gene, usually recessive, but, when turned on, runs amok.

We are the mammalian product of evolution rising from the primordial mud thousands of years ago. We have been given, by whichever Creator you recognize as your God, DNA and a genetic make-up that contains a predator gene that is usually recessive until activated by a host of reasons. Something went wrong during the process but, it defines our character. The sooner we accept that this gene, when activated, causes behavior capable of obscene destruction, the sooner we will be able to deal with it. We cannot deny it—we can only learn to recognize it at the start and learn how to channel it away from calamity.

We see the evidence everywhere.  We can begin with our determined destruction of any life form on Earth that isn’t like us and therefore of no value.

Go on from there to the child massacre in Connecticut, by a lost soul for whom there was no help, and on to a mother who had to put six bullets into a home invader to save her children, acts of neighborhood violence by men who’ve lost their humanity, the wholesale slaughter of 60,000 citizens by a demonic, power-crazed ruler, or the ever-present ethnic cleansing inspired by zealots held in thrall by their religion exists with the same fervor today as it did a thousand years ago.

If we want to make this a better world than what we have now, we have to admit that humans kill when turned on to do so. They enjoy it. We won’t solve the problem by getting rid of guns because other ways less convenient will replace them. We must accept the existence of the predator gene and recognize that, even though it is usually recessive, there are a host of catalysts that will activate it.

Killing is not acceptable and must result in loss of life as punishment. That includes acts of war, ethnic cleansing, and simply killing because you can. Recognize the existence of this aberrant human behavior, learn to recognize it early on and its many causes and teach the awareness of it beginning in early grade school. Recognize mental illness and make treatment available. Recognize early signs of predatory behavior and do not allow teasing or bullying in the young.

Find out why Chicago and Detroit neighborhoods reservoirs of violence, and fix it. Why do children bully? Put an end to it by teaching why. Get to work and do some thoughtful parenting. Be prepared to learn that humans who cannot be re-educated will have to be eliminated from society forever.

Meanwhile, understand the problem and be prepared to do whatever it takes to protect yourself.  You might want to learn more about my take on the subject by reading my book, “Accidental Alien.”

A Free Gift For Christmas

From me to my readers, here is a short story for Christmas entertainment. It's not the warm fuzzy Hallmark Channel lurkers are used to, in fact, there's irony here and a little taste of "gotcha," but it has a happy ending.
It's an experiment in Interior Monologue, which means only one voice, one point of view. His name is George, and he's not a happy camper. Enjoy!

Marilyn Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

               By Joyce  Zeller

I've lost my mind.  I'm standing in a puddle of slush on the sidewalk, in Downtown Chicago, waiting for my ride and shivering my ass off, because I've been sucked into to another Christmas cocktail party. Hell, I just came from an office party. 

I’m a push-over that’s what. I hate these things. The food is lousy, alcohol gives me a headache, and I stand around trying to look like I'm having fun, but nobody wants to talk to me. Bud wants me to meet this woman he's gone ape over--the broad he's going to marry if he can talk her into it, and, OK, I owe him. He’s new in the office and the only one who’s tried to be friendly in a while. The rest of those losers all took Marilyn’s side in the divorce and now they just ignore me. Learned a lesson there.  Four years of marriage is more than enough. Shit, if the guy wants me to go to this party to meet this woman, well, what the hell. 

It’s starting to snow—again. God, I hate Chicago in the winter—the damn wind blowing salt from the street in my face, the sidewalks piled with dirty, greasy snow left from the last storm.

       Holidays are the worst. The place goes crazy with gaudy Christmas decorations, the obligatory, glitzy tree in every office, and those damn, clanging bells in the hands of the ersatz Salvation Army Santas, driving a man crazy.      

       “Hey, George! Over here!” 

       Well, yeah, Bud, yell loud enough for the whole world to hear, hanging out the window of that cab, waving his hands, just like a little kid.  I’m not going to live through this evening if he keeps up with this holiday cheer.

Well, it ‘s too late now to back out. I might as well get this over with.

      “Hey, good Buddy. You been waiting long? Here, let me move these bags. I stopped to get some wine. Melody likes this special wine they sell at Stop &Shop.”

     So smile as if you mean it, stupid. Melody Lowe! What the hell kind of a name is that? A woman with a name like that is up to no good.

     “Hey, cheer up, George.  You’ll enjoy yourself. Wait until you meet her!”

     Brace yourself. Here it comes.  When Bud starts about Melody it‘s like a dam breaking. To hear him tell it, the lady is the most dynamic, dazzling, beautiful, et cetera, woman to come down the pike this century.

     “She’s so confident! She knows where she’s going and how to get there.”

     What the hell is that supposed to mean?

     “She makes her own clothes out of material she paints. She weaves stuff on the loom she has in her living room.”

     George sighed. “Marilyn used to have ideas like that. We’d fight about it and then, she’d finally give it up.”

     Hell, I’m talking about my ex-wife! I never talk about her, ever, except to mother. Damn, there shouldn’t be this pain in the gut. I should be glad to be rid of her.

     Bud was looking at him, waiting.

     “Marilyn is my ex-wife.”

     It wasn’t enough. Bud still waited. What the hell! Maybe it was the goofy look on his face when he talked about Melody, or his general dumbness when it came to women. Whatever, George suddenly felt like talking about his marriage. He was an expert on the devious ways of women. Maybe he could enlighten Bud about the pitfalls and keep him from making a stupid mistake.

     “Marilyn had all these ideas about decorating. She wanted to fill the living room with wild colors and buy a purple rug. We had a big fight about it. Mother explain to her that most dirt was shades of brown, so it was smarter to stick to those colors so the dirt wouldn’t show.”

Bud was looking at him oddly. It was plain that he didn’t understand and it was important to George that he did.

      “It took some doing but she finally saw it our, ah, my way.  We ended up with a nice brown tweed sofa and a brown carpet. Good stuff. Cost a bundle. Here’s women for ya’. When it was delivered Marilyn refused to go in there -- only to dust once in awhile.”

     Plainly, Bud wasn’t listening, looking down at his hands, obviously waiting so he could talk about Melody. His temper started to flare. His friend reminded of a dog he’d once owned, briefly. Damn thing didn’t want to listen to him, either.

      “Melody’s about our age. I met her when I was taking a night class at college. She’s an Interior Decorator. She makes a lot of money. Wait until you see her place. She’s got these acrylic tables she made in art class, and there’s a purple rug on the floor. 

     One of those hippie types. “Marilyn wanted to go back to school.  She started taking a couple of night courses, but it didn’t work out. I mean, what kind of life did I have if she had her nose in a book all the time? Dinner was never ready because she was late getting out of class. Breakfast too, because she stayed up late studying. We didn’t have anything to talk about anymore.“

      “Melody and I spend hours talking. She has a fine mind. You know, the next day is easier after I’ve spent an evening with Melody. I know she’s there, waiting for me to phone and I don’t feel alone anymore.” He looked to George for understanding.

     Well, hell. “Yeah, Buddy, I know what you mean.” Regret seared through him, making his gut ache. “Loneliness is the one thing about divorce that’s hard to live with. There’s nobody to talk to unless you go out looking, and then you wonder if anybody will like you enough to spend an evening with you, and then wonder what else they’ll expect, and if you’ll disappoint them.

The moment of quiet brought on by his confession should have been peaceful, but it embarrassed him. Thankfully, Bud broke the silence.

      “I’m going to ask Melody to marry me again, tonight. The one thing I have going for me is that I want kids and so does she.  Did you ever have kids?”

     The fight about kids ended his marriage. “No. Marilyn wanted kids and we argued about it, but Mother warned me. Marilyn was adopted and if you didn’t know the blood, you couldn’t be sure of what you’d get, so I didn’t want to have kids.”

     The expression of pure disgust on Bud’s face shocked him.  He heard his laugh echoing uncertainly.

     “You know, Melody once told me one of the things that appealed to her about me was that I didn’t have a mother. I thought that was a strange thing to say, but maybe not.”

      They pulled up at Melody’s apartment. Bud paid the cab and George got out to follow him to the entrance of an obviously high-end apartment complex. The lobby gleamed with polished wood and elegant furnishings and lush Christmas decorations, obviously the work of a professional. The bronze elevator doors and plush carpeting added to the impression of wealth. George looked around, envious, wondering what it'd cost to live here. Reluctantly he followed George, walking down the hall, inhaling the electronically freshened air. The sounds of gaiety beckoned them.

     The door was open. George saw Melody Lowe standing there, wearing some long, flowing thing of many colors, and laughing with the crowd of people surrounding her. She had pulled her long, dark hair on top her head with tendrils of curls caressing her exquisitely long neck. Pain twisted in his gut. He had never seen a more desirable woman. When she looked up and saw George, her face stilled. Slowly, deliberately, she walked toward him, He stood, rooted to the floor, impaled by the expression in her eyes as she approached, placing one foot in front of the other, like a cat stalking its prey. 

     She was up to him now, looking coldly into his white face.

     “Hi, Marilyn, long time no see.”

                                                             The End