Wednesday, November 29, 2017

All Right, I Guess We’ve Beaten 

We Will Have to Leave ROY MOORE’s Fate 
to the Voters in Alabama Where It 
Properly Belongs.

Concern You Regarding 
and the 

How's This for Starters?

Saturday, November 25, 2017

The spectre of self-righteousness looms large

Echoes today of Old Salem and the Old South


Public entertainment in the nineteenth-century

"SEXUAL HARASSMMENT" is a fabrication of the Left designed to help overly ambitious Power Whores, unfeminine Lesbians, and angry, envious, hopelessly UNATTRACTIVE WOMEN to WREST power from the hands of males by using DEFAMATION of CHARACTER with (usually) UNFOUNDED (or distorted and highly exaggerated) ALLEGATIONS of MISCONDUCT that only recently has been CRIMINALIZED by these Leftist Activists for their own power-grabbing convenience –– naturally.

Queen of the Feminazis

Latter-day Feminazi Accusers


ABRAHAM LINCOLN slept with MEN every 
chance he got when Mary was out of town.

GROVER CLEVELAND married Frances Folsom who had been his ward. Frances was young eniugh to have been his daughter. During a campaign for president the news came out that Grover Cleveland had fathered an illegitimate child with a women named Maria. The public responded 
with this slogan:

Hurrah for Maria! 
Hurrah for the Kid!'
We voted for Grover.
And we're damned glad we did!

WARREN  GAMALIEL HARDING was known to have accosted most every woman in sight with unbidden sexual advances during his tenure in the White House –– and probably long before he got there. No reasonably attractive secretary or chamber maid was safe from his advances.

JFK was an outrageous whoremaster, so was his brother Bobby. They both slept with MARILYN MONROE 
and gangster's moll JUDITH EXNER –– and GOD alone knows how many others.

TEDDY KENNEDY was not only a philanderer 
and a whoremaster, he was a DRUNK and a 
callous, unrepentant MURDERER

LBJ was a whoremaster. One of his most famous lines, was "Move over, honey, here comes your president." as he slipped uninvited into the bed of a "target" in the dead of night whenever and wherever he felt the urge.

MARTIN LUTHER KING, Jr. was a whoremaster too. He is reported even to have engaged in THREESOMES with JFK and Sammy Davis Jr. IN the White House. He was known to demand ONLY White Women in pursuit 
of his insatiable lascivious agenda.

We know only too well about BILL CLINTON's disgraceful, classless career as a Sex Addict, and how badly he and his Fearsome Partner in Crime, CHILLARY Rodham, treated his many "victims" from his long-term, extra-marital affair with Gennifer Flowers, through Paula Jones, Dolly Kyle Browning, Juanita Broaddrick whom he forcibly RAPED and INJURED in a hotel room, Kathleen Willey whom he tried to ATTACK in an anteroom to the Oval Office, and his disgusting dalliance with that fat, amoral little SLUT PIG young enough to be his daughter IN the Oval Office during BUSINESS HOURS! To make it even more unsavory Lewinsky's MOTHER had advised her dear little girl to pursue men with Money, Fame and Power in order to advance her OWN position in the world. Apparently, the chubette's Mommy was not above the idea of having her precious little girl BLACKMAIL 
her way to the Top, if that's what it took to get there.

And now WE'RE supposed to put up with ancient,
UNFOUNDED, UNPROVABLE ALLEGATIONS against a seventy-year-old man who has had a colorful-but-highly-successful FORTY YEAR CAREER in Alabama politics on the say-so of one or two premenopausal women who have obviously been COAXED and COACHED by the likes of the Washington Post HIT SQUAD and leftist bitch-on-wheels GLORIA ALLRED to  BELIEVE they "REMEMBER" Judge Roy Moore making "improper advances" to them 


Power-Mad Feminazis, the true witches of our time

What we think of the "case" against Roy Moore

Friday, November 24, 2017


Yesterday was THANKSGIVING DAY. It started well for me, thank God. Lots of pleasant correspondence with friends old and new, and my few remaining family members as well.  

No Big Dinner for me yesterday. I was at home by myself, but I am grateful to have many wonderful memories from years past, enough money to live comfortably, a very nice house that is a lifelong dream come true, and two charming kittycats –– Winner and Mr. Pussy –– to share it with.

I am thankful to be alive at age 76, and to be able to walk, talk, think, write and play the piano tolerably well. My eyesight is pretty well shot, but I still see well enough to get around, and to apprecate the beauty in my surroundings, thank God. 

The state of our blessed country bothers the hell out of me, but I'm still very grateful to have been born at a time when there was still so much to celebrate, love, enjoy and take pride in about being an American.

I hope every one of you had a wonderful day yesterday, and continue to remain well, free from harm, free from sadness, bitterness, resentment, discontent and full of optimism, affection, determination, and bright hopes for the future.

Love and best wishes to all,


Thursday, November 23, 2017

To Thanksgiving

This holiday is often overlooked
One feels, because it doesn’t generate
The flow of cash, the airlines overbooked,
Hysteria at fear of being late.

A humble, homey, family-style affair,
No supernatural glamour European
Kicks Concupiscence awake to dare
Sobriety to drink and make a scene.

Giving thanks for what one has is not 
In fashion in this Age of Gimmemore.
Virtue, quaintly comical, has got
Inhibited. It fears to be a bore.

Nothing satisfies, however wild, like
Giving thanks for home in manner childlike.

~ FreeThinke, The Sandpiper, Autumn, 1996

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

A Fair Hearing by a Jury of His Pervs

by Clarice Feldman

Clarice Feldman

AMERICAN THINKER - November 19, 2017

There’s a lot going on in DC this week, but it seems to be overshadowed by Weinstein case creep –– the penchant for women coming out of the woodwork to accuse high profile men of sexual misbehavior, much of it from decades earlier and most of it unverifiable. Some these allegations are clearly fabrications. That certainly seems to be true of the claims against Roy Moore. On Twitter, Thomas Wictor has made a credible analysis establishing that the one piece of non-testimonial record against Moore, a yearbook notation purportedly by Judge Moore in 1977, is a forgery made with two different inks, and the “D.A.” after his name (at a time when he was not district attorney) are the initials of his law clerk, who signed the court paper used as the forgery template.

Gloria Allred, notorious for sitting with unpersuasive sobbing women as she daubs their tears and peddles incredible tales, repeatedly refused to answer Wolf Blitzer’s questions about whether the signature was a forgery and has said she never even asked her client, Mrs. Wilson, whether she actually saw Judge Moore sign it.

Moore has demanded the yearbook be turned over for forensic examination and Allred says she’ll turn it over only to a (nonexistent) Senate Committee for its investigators to study.

Foolish deflection from a woman as to whom complaints are (as far as I can determine) still pending before the DC and California bars and whose claims in any event, based on her past performances, deserve to be disregarded.

The charge, however, has put Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell under fire. Esther Goldberg argues that sex was just the pretext and that Judge Moore is merely a pawn in the fight between Mitch McConnell and Steve Bannon, a repeat of the war they fought against President Trump.

Goldberg’s theme centers on a lead editorial in the Wall Street Journal that describes the Bannonites (as they once described Trump’s supporters) as “cranks and outliers” and attacks them for their agenda of “trade protectionism and slashing immigration,” views Goldberg rightly notes were winning themes in 2016. Like me, she sees the problem with the candidates McConnell and the WSJ would approve of as non-starters:

Problem is that candidates have to get elected first, and the candidates blest by Mitch McConnell and his swamp creatures haven’t been able to do so. And those that have been in the legislature for years don’t seem to be interested in doing any of these things.

Except for that insurgent Donald Trump who’s been busy getting his originalist judges confirmed. Having submitted 105 individuals to vacancies on appeals courts, district courts, and U.S. attorney positions, Trump finally succeeded in lighting a fire under McConnell to speed up the confirmation process in the last few weeks. “They’re waiting forever on line,” said the President. “It shouldn’t happen that way. It’s not right, it’s not fair.”

Judge Roy Moore today

Roy Moore is only a pawn in this Game of Thrones. The allegations against him are laughable. “We do not want to live in a country or political culture in which every accusation of sexual misconduct is automatically accepted as true,” piously intones the Journal before going on to accept them automatically as true, after a desultory nod to Moore’s right to challenge his accusers “for acts alleged to have happened more than 30 years ago.” Mitch McConnell had no qualms about convicting Judge Moore on the spot, however, the constitutional presumption of innocence be damned. “I believe the women, yes,” he said. This is about as courageous as declaring “I don’t like Nazis.” And as disgustingly superficial and manipulative.

She notes that while McConnell praised Ted Kennedy for being able to separate the “personal from the political” after the latter left a young woman trapped in his car to die underwater, he cannot do that with those who threaten his power even when the best he can do is argue they engaged in some unspecified (and unproven) sexual misconduct” nearly four decades earlier.

In any event, Allred seems to have opened a Pandora’s box. Because now the always vulgar clown Senator Al Franken is under the spotlight for specific sexual misconduct. He’s admitted the most serious charge to date and apologized, but some in his party are demanding that he resign, although at least one self-described feminist has leapt to his defense. 

Some on the left even have found (20 years late) words to admit they were wrong in defending Bill Clinton saying he should have resigned over the Lewinsky affair. McConnell appears not to be the only party leader trying to get rid of inconvenient colleagues and former colleagues, using women’s’ tears as weapons. (It’s hard for me to imagine how “I am woman hear me roar” fits in with claims that a pinch on the butt or an unwelcome advance (rejected) can prove a traumatic event of a lifetime.

The suggestion by some that Franken should be subject to a Senate ethics hearing (which Franken actually asked for), drew Iowahawk’s tweet: “He deserves a fair hearing by a jury of his pervs.”

And there’s a basis for that characterization. The Congressional Office of Compliance notes that an unspecified but substantial amount (quotes of $15 million dollars appear to be an exaggeration) has been paid out of a not previously disclosed slush fund (hush fund?) as settlement of Congressional harassment claims –– and this after accusers have had to first undergo lengthy mediation and counseling sessions. The public is entitled to a more specific accounting of these claims.

The enacted Legislative Branch Appropriations bills of 1996 through 2017 have appropriated funds awards, and settlements under the Act. This year alone almost a million dollars of tax money was spent to settle eight such claims.

Now there’s talk about setting up “harassment training for Congress” –– you know, like the idiotic time wasters their laws have imposed on the rest of us. Iowahawk (peace be upon him) will have none of it:

“Forget the stupid "harassment training" fig leaf. If Congress is serious about this, release details of their $15 million harassment slush fund payments, including on whose behalf they were paid.”

While attention is focused on the kind of things of great interest only to viewers of daytime television, strapped to hospital beds and unable to reach a remote to turn it off, some important things are happening.

The House has passed a tax cut bill, which is heading to the Senate, where I hope the harassment training won’t cut into their work time, as it apparently has the U.S. Navy’s operations.

Senator Chuck Grassley has announced he’s going ahead with a confirmation hearing for David Stras, a nominee for the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals, ignoring Al Franken’s blue slip effort to stop the confirmation hearing, and will as well hold a confirmation hearing for Kyle Duncan for the 5th Circuit, despite his home state senator John Kennedy‘s blue slip. Former senator Harry Reid undid a slew of Senate traditions, and his party paved the way for the new majority to follow his lead. Senatorial courtesy, which once allowed a home state senator to block a nominee from his own state, seems to be a dying tradition.

Rumors are strong that Justice Anthony Kennedy is about to resign from the Supreme Court and the White House has announced five new additions to the slate of potential nominees to fill that slot:

The White House on Friday announced the addition of five new names to President Trump’s list of potential Supreme Court nominees... 

Two of the latest candidates, Judge Amy Coney Barrett and Judge Kevin C. Newsom, were both nominated to their current positions by Trump in May, according to the White House. 

Barret serves on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 7th Circuit and Newsom serves on U.S. Court of Appeals for the 11th Circuit, the statement said. The White House announced both nominations in May. 

Also on the list are Justice Britt C. Grant of the Supreme Court of Georgia, Judge Brett M. Kavanaugh of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit and Justice Patrick Wyrick of the Supreme Court of Oklahoma. 

The update comes amid ongoing rumors that Justice Anthony Kennedy, 81, who has served on the court for more than 20 years, is considering retirement.  

Probably the most important development this week is the effective end of the CFPB (Consumer Financial Protection Bureau), a power grab by Democrats led by Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth Warren, which gives a single director who can only be fired for cause by the president (a structure designed to operate outside Congressional or executive control) power to regulate mortgages, credit cards, and retirement and pension investments –– in sum, all consumer financial transactions. Warren originally wanted to run this outfit, but when it was clear she’d never get Congressional approval, Richard Cordray became the one-man credit czar. Last October the Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit ruled that placing so much power in a single commissioner not answerable to the president was unconstitutional.

The Obama Administration sought en banc review by the entire Circuit Court Panel.  In March, the new administration reversed the government’s position. The entire panel heard the case in May. While the decision in that case is still pending, Cordray this week resigned, and the president appointed in his place OMB chief Mike Mulvaney as interim head. Mulvaney strongly opposed the creation of this bureau. The President thus has now put in place someone who can be counted on to undo the Democrats’ machinations to control all our financial transactions by the fiat of a single man. By their own hands, they created a situation they are powerless to undo –– just as by tarring Judge Moore with suspect accusations they open themselves to the same treatment. 

Sunday, November 19, 2017

Please read ths story carefully then use your imagination to tell us how it could relate to the plight of Judge Roy Moore

“I know now that I had been, all along, kind of interested  in him, the way any girl as old as I was would be, in any youngish man living in the same house with her ... I thought  the reason I threw my arms around him was because I had been so scared. And I certainly had been scared, by my old cousin’s horrible talk about the cornfield being full of  men waiting to grab girls. But that wasn’t all the reason I flung myself  at Malcolm Fairchild and hugged him. I know that now. Why in the world shouldn't I have been taught some notion of it then?

by Dorothy Canfield Fisher

It was three times –– but at intervals of many years –– that I heard my Aunt Minnie tell about an experience of her girlhood that had made anever-to-be-forgotten impression on her. The first time she was in her thirties, still young. But she had then been married for ten years, so that to my group of friends, all in the early teens, she seemed quite of another generation. 

The day she told us the story we had been idling on one end of her porch as we made casual plans for a picnic supper in the woods. 

Darning stocking at the other end, she paid no attention to us until one of the girls said, “Let’s take blankets and sleep out there. It’d be fun.”

“No.” Aunt Minnie broke in sharply, “you mustn’t do that.” 

“Oh for goodness sakes, why not!” said one of the younger girls, rebelliously, “the boys are always doing it, Why can’t we, just once?”

Aunt Minnie laid down her sewing. 

“Come here, girls.” She said, “I want you should hear something that happened to me when I was your age.”

Her voice had a special quality which, perhaps, young people of today would not recognize. But we did. We knew from experience that it was the dark voice grownups used when they were going to say something about sex.

Yet at first what she had to say was like any dull family anecdote; she had been ill when she was fifteen; and afterwards she was run down, thin, with no appetite. Her folks though a change of air would do her good, and sent her from Vermont out to Ohio – or was it Illinois? I don’t remember. Anyway, one of those places where the corn grows high.

Her mother’s cousin Ella lived there, keeping house for her son-in-law. 

The son-in-law was the minister of the village church. His wife had died some years before leaving him with two little girs and a baby boy. He had been a comely personable man then, but the next summer, on the Fourth of July when he was trying to set off some fireworks to amuse the children, and in imperfectly manufactured rocket had burnt his face. The explosion had left one side of hs face badly scarred.

Aunt Minnie made us see it, as she still saw it, in horrid detail: the stiffened, scarlet scar tissue distorting ine cheek, the lower lip turned so far out at one corner that the moist red mucous membrane linung always showed, one lower eyelid hanging loose and watering.

After the accident, his face had been a long time healing. It was then that his wife’s elderly mother had gone to keep house and take care of  the children. When he was well enough to be about again, he found his position as pastor of the little church waiting for him. The farmers and village people in his congregation, moved by his misfortune, by his faithful service and unblemished character, said they would rather  have Mr, Fairchild, even with his scarred face than any other minister.

He was a good preacher, Aunt Minnie told us, “and the way he prayed was kind of exciting. I’d never known a preacher, not to live in the same house with him, before. And when he was in the pulpit, with everybody looking up at him, I felt the way his children did, kind of  proud to think we had just eaten breakfast at the same table. I liked to call him ‘Cousin Malcolm’ before folks. One side of his face was all right, anyhow. You could see from that that he had been a good-looking man. In fact, probably one of those ministers that all the women …” 

Aunt Minnie paused, drew her lips together, and  looked at us uncertainly.

Then she went back to the story as it happened – as it happened that first time I heard her tell it. “I thought he was a saint. Everybody out there did. That was all they knew. Of course, it made a person sick to look at that awful scar – the drooling corner of his mouth was the worst. He tried to keep that side of his face turned away from folks. But you always knew it was there. That was what kept him from marrying again, so Cousin Ella said. I heard her say lots of times that he knew no woman would touch any man who looked the way he did, not with a ten-foot pole.

“Well, the change of air did do me good. I got my appetite back, and ate a lot and played outdoors a lot with my cousins. They were younger than I (I had my sixteenth birthday there) but I still liked to play games. I got taller and laid on some weight. Cousin Ella used to say I grew as fast as the corn did. Their house stood at the edge of the village. Beyond it was one of those big cornfields they have out West.

At the time when I first got there, the stalks were only up a person’s knee. You could see over their tops. But it grew like lightning, and before long, it was the way thick woods are here, way over your head, the stalks growing so close together it was dark under them.

“Cousin Ella told us youngsters that it was lots worse for getting lost in than woods, because there weren’t any landmarks in it. One spot in a cornfield looked just like any other. ‘You children keep out of it,’  she used to tell us almost every day, ‘ especially you girls. It’s no place for a decent girl. You could easy get so far from the house nobody could hear you if you hollered. There are plenty of men in this town that wouldn’t like anything better than . . .’ she never said what.

“In spite of what she said, my little cousins and I had figured out that if  we went across one corner of the field, it would be a short cut to the village, and sometimes, without letting on to Cousin Ella, we’d go that way. After the corn got really tall, the farmer stopped cultivating, and we soon bear down a path in the loose dirt. The minute you were inside the field it was dark. You felt as if you were miles from anywhere. It sort of scared you. But in no time the path turned and brought you out on the far end of Main Street. Your breath was coming fast, maybe, but that was what made you like to do it.

“One day I missed the turn. Maybe I didn’t keep my mind on it. Maybe it had rained and blurred the tramped-down look of the path. I don’t know what. All of a sudden, I knew I was lost. And the minute I knew that, I began to run, just as hard as I could run. I couldn’t help it, any more than you can help snatching your hand off a hot stove. I didn’t know what I was scared of, I didn’t even know I was running, till my heart was pounding so hard I had to stop. 

“The minute I stood still, I could hear Cousin Ella saying, ‘There are plenty of men in this town that wouldn’t like anything better than . . .’ I didn’t know, not really, what she meant. But I knew she meant something horrible. I opened my mouth to scream. But I put both hands over my mouth to keep the scream in. if I made any noise, one of those men would hear me. I though I heard one just behind me, and whirled around. And then I thought another one had tiptoed up behind me, the other way, and I spun around so fast I almost fell over. I stuffed my hands hard up against my mouth. And then – I couldn’t help it – I ran again – but my legs were shaking so I soon had to stop.

There I stood, scared to move for fear of rustling the corn and letting the men know where I was. My hair had come down, all over my face. I kept pushing it back and looking around, quick, to make sure one of the men hadn’t found out where I was. Then I thought I saw a man coming towards me, and I ran away from him – and fell down, and burst some of the buttons off my dress, and was sick to my stomach – and thought I heard a man close to me and got up and staggered around, knocking into the corn because I couldn’t even see where I was going.

“And then, off to one side, I saw Cousin Malcolm. Not a man. The minister. He was standing still, one hand up to his face, thinking. He hadn’t heard me.

“I was so terrible glad to see him, instead of one of those men, I ran as fast as I could and just flung myself on him, to make myself feel how safe I was.”

Aunt Minnie had become strangely agitated. Her hands were shaking, her face was crimson. She frightened us. We could not look away from her. As we waited for her to go on, I felt little spasms twitch at the muscles inside my body. “And what do you think that saint, that holy minister of the Gospel, did to an innocent child who clung to him for safety? The most terrible look came into his eyes – you girls are too young to know what he looked like. But once you’re married, you’ll find out. He grabbed hold of me – that dreadful face of his was right  on mine – and began clawing the clothes off my back.” 

She stopped for a moment, panting. We were too frightened to speak.

She went on, “He had torn my dress right down to the waist before I – then I did  scream – all I could – and pulled away from him so hard I almost fell down, and ran and all of a sudden I came out of the corn, right in the backyard of the Fairchild house. The children were staring at the corn, and Cousin Ella ran out of the kitchen door. They had heard me screaming. Cousin Ella shrieked out, ‘What is it? What happened? Did a man scare you?’ And I said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, a man – I ran . . .’ And then I fainted away. I must have. The next thing I knew I was on the sofa in the living room and Cousin Ella was slapping my face with a wet towel.”

She had to wet her lips with her tongue before she could go on. Her face was gray now, “There! That’s the kind of thing girls’ folks ought to tell them about – so they’ll know what men are like.”

She finished her story as if she were dismissing us. We wanted to go away, but we were too horrified to stir. Finally one of the youngest girls asked in a low trembling voice, “Aunt Minnie, did you tell on him?”

“No. I was ashamed to,” she said briefly. “They sent me home the next day anyhow. Nobody ever said a word to me about it. And I never did either. Till now.”

By what gets printed in some of the modern child-psychology books, you would think that girls to whom such a story had been told would never develop normally. Yet, as far as I can remember what happened to the girls in that group, we all grew up about like anybody. Most of us married, some happily, some not so well. We kept house. We learned – more or less – how to live with our husbands, we had children and struggled to bring them up right – we went forward into life, just as if we had never been warned not to.

Perhaps, young as we were that day, we had already had enough experience of life so that we were not quite blank paper for Aunt Minnie’s frightening story. Whether we thought of it then or not, we couldn’t have failed to see that at this very time, Aunt Minnie had been married for ten years or more, comfortably and well married too.

Against what she tried by that story to brand into our minds stood the cheerful home life in that house, the good-natured, kind, hard-working husband, and the children – the three rough-and-tumble, nice little boys, so adored by their parents, and the sweet girl baby who died, of whom they could never speak without tears. It was such actual contact with adult life that probably kept generation after generation of girls from being scared by tales like Aunt Minnie’s into a neurotic horror of living.

Of course, since Aunt Minnie was so much older than we, her boys grew up to be adolescents and young men, while our children were still little enough so that our worries over them were nothing more serious than whooping cough and trying to get them to make their own beds.

Two of our aunt’s three boys followed, without losing their footing, the narrow path which leads across adolescence into normal adult life. But the middle one, Jake, repeatedly fell off into the morass. “Girl trouble,” as the succinct family phrase put it. He was one of those boys who have “charm” whatever we mean by that, and was always being snatched at by girls who would be “all wrong” for him to marry.

And once, at nineteen, he ran away from home, whether with one of  these girls or not we never heard, for through all her ups and downs with this son, Aunt Minnie tried fiercely to protect him from scandal that might cloud his later life.

Her husband had to stay on his job to earn the family living. She was the one who went to find Jake. When it was gossiped around that Jake was in “bad company” his mother drew some money from the family savings bank account, and silent, white-cheeked, took the train to the city where rumor said he had gone.

Some weeks later he came back with her. With no girl. She had cleared him of that entanglement. As of others, which followed later.

Her troubles seemed over when, at a “suitable” age, he fell in love with a “suitable” girl, married her and took her to live in our shire town, sixteen miles away, where he had a good position. Jake was always bright enough.

Sometimes, idly, people speculated as to what Aunt Minnie had seen that time she went after her runaway son, wondering where her search for him had taken her – very queer places for Aunt Minnie to be in, we imagined. And now could such an ignorant, homekeeping woman ever have known what to say to an errant willful boy to set him straight?

Well, of course, we reflected, watching her later struggles with Jake’s erratic ways, she certainly could not have remained ignorant, after seeing over and over what she probably had; after talking with Jake about the things which, a good many times, must have come up with desperate openness between them.

She kept her own counsel. We never knew anything definite about the facts of those experiences of hers. But one day she told a group of us – all then married women – something which gave us a notion about what she had learned from them.

We were hastily making a layette for a not-especially welcome baby in a poor family. In those days, our town had no such thing as a district-nursing service. Aunt Minnie, a vigorous woman of fifty-five, had come in to help. As we sewed, we talked, of course; and because our daughters were near or in their teens, we were comparing notes about the bewildering responsibility of bringing up girls.

After a while, Aunt Minnie remarked, “Well, I hope you teach your girls some sense.  From what I read, I know you’re great on telling them ‘the facts’, facts we never heard of when we were girls. Like as not, some facts I don’t know, now. But knowing the facts isn’t going to do them any more good than not  knowing the facts ever did, unless they have some sense taught them, too.”

“What do you mean, Aunt Minnie?” one of us asked her uncertainly. She reflected, threading a needle, “Well, I don’t know but what the best way to tell you what I mean is to tell you about something that happened to me, forty years ago. I’ve never said anything about it before. But I’ve thought about it a good deal. Maybe –“

She had hardly begun when I recognized the story – her visit to her Cousin Ella’s Midwestern home, the widower with his scarred face and saintly reputation and, very vividly, her getting lost in the great cornfield. I knew every word she was going to say – to the very end, I thought.

But no, I did not. Not at all.

She broke off, suddenly, to exclaim with impatience, “Wasn’t I the big ninny? But not so big a ninny as that old cousin of mine. I could wring her neck for getting me in such a state. Only she didn’t know any better herself. That was the way they brought up young people in those days, scaring them out of their wits about the awfulness of  getting lost, but not telling them a thing about how not to get lost. Or how to act, if they did.

“If I had had the sense I was born with, I’d have known that running my legs off in a zigzag was the worst thing I could do. I couldn’t have been more than a few feet from the path when I noticed I wasn’t on it. My tracks in the loose plow dirt must have been perfectly plain. If I’d ha’ stood still, and collected my wits, I could have looked down to see which way my footsteps went and just walked back over them to the path and gone on about my business.

“Now I ask you, if I’d been told how to do that, wouldn’t it have been a lot better protection for me – if protection was what my aunt thought she wanted to give me – than to scare me so at the idea of being lost that I turned deef-dumb-and-blind when I thought I was?

“And anyhow that patch of corn wasn’t as big as she let on. And she knew it wasn’t. it was no more than a big field in a farming country. I was a well-grown girl of sixteen, as tall as I am now. If I couldn’t have found the path, I could have just walked along one line of cornstalks – straight – and I’d have come out somewhere in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most. Maybe not just where I wanted to go. But all right, safe, where decent folks were living.

She paused, as if she had finished. But at the inquiring blankness in our faces, she went on, “well, now, why isn’t teaching girls – any boys, too, for the Lord’s sake don’t forget they need it as much as the girls – about this man-and-woman business, something like that? If you give them the idea – no matter whether its as you tell them the facts, or as you don’t  tell them the facts, that it is such a terribly scary thing that if  they take a step into it, something’s likely to happen to them so awful that you’re ashamed to tell them what – well, they’ll lose their heads and run around like crazy things, first time they take one step away from the path.

“For they’ll be trying out the paths, all right. You can’t keep them from it. And a good thing too. How else are they going to find out what it’s like? Boys’ and girls’ going together, they’re likely to get off the path some. Seems to me, its up to their folks to bring them up so when they do, they don’t start screaming and running in circles, but stand still, right where they are, and get their breath and figure out how to get back And anyhow, you don’t tell ‘em the truth about sex” (I was astonished to hear her use the actual word, taboo to women of her generation) “if they get the idea from you that it’s all there is to living. It’s not. If you don’t get to where you want to go in it, well, there’s a lot of landscape all around it a person can have a good time in.

“D’you know, I believe one thing that gives girls and boys the wrong idea is the way folks look!

My old cousin’s face, I can see her now, when she was telling me about men in that cornfield. I believe now she kind of  liked  to talk about it.

(Oh, Aunt Minnie – and yours! I thought.)

Someone asked, “But how did  you get out, Aunt Minnie?”

She shook her head, laid down her sewing. “More foolishness. That minister my mother’s cousin was keeping house for – her son-in-law – I caught sight of him, down along one of the aisles of cornstalks, looking down at the ground, thinking, the way he often did. And I was so glad to see him I rushed right up to him, and flung my arms around his neck and hugged him. He hadn’t heard me coming. He gave a great start, put one arm around me and turned his face full towards me – I suppose for just a second he had forgotten how awful one side of it was. His expression, his eyes – well, you’re all married women, you know how he looked, the way any able-bodied man thirty-six or – seven, who’d been married and begotten children, would look – for a minute anyhow, if a full-blooded girl of sixteen, who ought to have known better, flung herself at him without any warning, her hair tumbling down, her dress half unbuttoned, and hugged him with all her might.

“I was what they called innocent in those days. That is, I knew just as little about what men are like as my folks could manage I should. But I was old enough to know all right what that look meant. And it gave me a start. But of course the real thing of it was that dreadful scar of his, so close to my face – that wet corner of his mouth, his eye drawn down with the red inside of the lower eyelid showing –

“It turned me so sick, I pulled away with all my might, so fast that I ripped one sleeve nearly loose, and let out a screech like a wildcat.

And ran. Did I run? And in a minute, I was through the corn and had come out in the back yard of the house. I hadn’t been more than a few feet from it, probably, any of the time. And then I fainted away. Girls were always fainting away; it was the way our corset strings were pulled tight, I suppose, and then – oh, a lot of fuss.

“But anyhow,” she finished, picking up her work and going on, setting neat, firm stitches with steady hands, “there’s one thing, I never told anybody it was Cousin Malcolm I had met in the cornfield. I told my old cousin that a man had scared me. And nobody said anything more about it to me, not ever. That was the way they did in those days.

They thought if they didn’t let on about something, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I was sent back to Vermont right away and Cousin Malcolm went on being minister of the church. I’ve always been,” said Aunt Minnie moderately, “kind of proud that I didn’t go and ruin a man’s life for just one second’s slip-up. If you could have called it that.

For it would have ruined him. You know how hard as stone people areabout other folks’ let-downs. If I’d have told, not one person in that town would have had any charity. Not one would have tried to understand. One slip, once, and they’d have pushed him down in the mud. If I had told, I’d have felt pretty bad about it, later – when I came to have more sense. But I declare, I can’t see how I came to have the decency, dumb as I was then, to know that it wouldn’t be fair.”

It was not long after this talk that Aunt Minnie’s elderly husband died, mourned by her, by all of us. She lived alone then. It was peaceful October weather for her, in which she kept a firm roundness of face and figure, as quiet-living country-women often do, on into her late sixties.

But then Jake, the boy who had had girl trouble, had wife trouble. We heard he had taken to running after a young girl, or was it that she was running after him? It was something serious. For his nice wife left him and came back with the children to live with her mother in our town.

Poor Aunt Minnie used to go see her for long talks which made them both cry. And she went to keep house for Jake, for months at a time.

She grew old, during those years. When finally she (or something) managed to get the marriage mended so that Jake’s wife relented and went back to live with him, there was no trace left of her pleasant brick freshness. She was stooped and slow-footed and shrunken. We, her kins-people, although we would have given our lives for any one of our own children, wondered whether Jake was worth what it had cost his mother to – well, steady him, or reform him. Or perhaps just understand him.

Whatever it took.

She came of a long-lived family and was able to go on keeping house for herself well into her eighties. Of course we and the other neighbors stepped in often to make sure she was all right. Mostly, during those brief calls, the talk turned on nothing more vital than her geraniums. But one midwinter afternoon, sitting with her in front of  her cozy stove, I chanced to speak in rather hasty blame of someone who had, I thought, acted badly. To my surprise this brought from her the story about the cornfield which she had evidently quite forgotten telling me, twice before.

This time she told it almost dreamily, swaying to and fro in her rocking chair, her eyes fixed on the long slope of snow outside her window.

When she came to the encounter with the minister she said looking away from the distance and back into my eyes, “I know now that I had been, all along, kind of interested  in him, the way any girl as old as I was would be, in any youngish man living in the same house with her.

And a minister, too. They have to have the gift of gab so much more than most men, women get to thinking they are more alive than men who can’t talk so well. I thought  the reason I threw my arms around him was because I had been so scared. And I certainly had been scared, by my old cousin’s horrible talk about the cornfield being full of  men waiting to grab girls. But that wasn’t all the reason I flung myself  at Malcolm Fairchild and hugged him. I know that now. Why in the world shouldn’t I have been taught some notion of it then? 

‘Twould do girls good to know that they are just like everybody else – human nature and sex, all mixed up together. I didn’t have to hug him. I wouldn’t have, if he’d been dirty or fat and old, or chewed tobacco.”

I stirred in my chair, ready to say, “But it’s not so simple as all that to tell girls –“ and she hastily answered my unspoken protest. “I know, I know, most of it can’t be put into words. There just aren’t any words to say something that’s so both-ways-at-once all the time as this man- and-woman business. But look here, you know as well as I do that there are lots more ways than in words to teach young folks what you want ‘em to know.”

The old woman stopped her swaying rocker to peer far back into the past with honest eyes. “What was in my mind back there in the cornfield – partly anyhow – was what had been there all the time I was living in the same house with Cousin Malcolm – that he had long straight legs, and broad shoulders, and lots of curly brown hair, and was nice and flat in front, and that one side of his face was good-looking. But most of all, that he and I were really alone, for the first time, without anybody to see us.

“I suppose, if it hadn’t been for that dreadful scar, he’d have drawn me up, tight, and – most any man would – kissed me. I know how I must have looked, all red and hot and my hair down and my dress torn open.

And, used as he was to big cornfields, he probably never dreamed that the reason I looked that way was because I was scared to be by myself in one. He may have thought – you know what he may have thought.”

“Well – if his face had been like anybody’s – when he looked at me the way he did, the way a man does look at a woman he wants to have, it would have scared me – some. But I’d have cried, maybe. And probably he’d have kissed me again. You know how such things go. I might have come out of the cornfield halfway engaged to marry him.

Why not? I was old enough, as people thought then. That would have been nature. That was probably what he thought of, in that first instant.

“But what did I do? I had one look at his poor, horrible face, and started back as though I’d stepped on a snake. And screamed and ran.”

“What do you suppose he felt, left there in the corn? He must have been sure that I would tell everybody he had attacked me. He probably thought that when he came out and went back to the village he’d already be in disgrace and put out of the pulpit.

But the worst must have been to find out, so rough, so plain from the way I acted – as if somebody had hit him with an ax – the way he would look to any woman he might try to get close to. That must have been – “ she drew a long breath, “well, pretty hard on him.” 

After a silence, she murmured pityingly, “Poor man!”