The birds are singing. I hear them every mornng just before my alarm goes off. I have not seen a Robin yet.
The squirrels are out. I tried to get a picture of one but they are too fast for me. Their black sleekness streaks in front of me as I walk to work each morning.
It feels like Spring.
However, we do not have a lot of green yet. The temperatures are rising but we need more sunshine. “Be gone clouds,” I say, “Begone!”
There is no ice under my feet as I walk down hill not afraid of falling, breaking. I don’t want to break again so all Winter I was so careful. I stopped enjoying my morning Winter walks.
There are bunnies abounding on windows and on doors. I’ve seen no real bunnies but plenty of the Easter variety have popped up in the stores. My nephew snapped a picture of a snow white bunny at his farm; it was sheltered against the dark, melting fields and thus easy to see. You need patience to catch pictures of wildlife. When I was married, many eons ago, we got up before sunrise and sat in a canoe for hours so that my ex could snap photos (this was before digital) of the beavers and their kits. We watched the beavers ignore us and we enjoyed the sunrise. It was surreal; that wasn’t me. I’m not an early riser.
It is almost Easter. It is almost time for my annual viewing of 1970′s Jesus Christ Superstar. Is Moses on tonight?
I miss enjoying Spring. As a child, I looked forward to mud puddles and rain boots. I could follow the rain rivers for hours as they flowed along the sidewalks, down the streets and into the drains. I made boats out of leaves and Popsicle sticks. I imagined river-side picnics and immense floods. I day dreamed.
As a young adult, I spent years on a quest for the best umbrella. I use to go through at least one cheap umbrella every Spring. Now, I spend more money and remember that the Prairie winds like to tease umbrellas out of my hands and that I need to see what is ahead of me. My current umbrella is clear, deep, and large. I have had it for about five years. I love to walk in the rain clearing seeing where I am going. There are so many lovely umbrellas to buy now.
The snow has all melted but there are no buds yet on the trees. We had a day recently when I saw young, foolish boys in shorts. It is not shorts weather yet!
It is Spring. Officially. The Spring Solstice has come and gone. The snows have melted. The time change has occurred everywhere but here. Nature is coming out of hibernation but I am not.
My heart is sad. It takes forever to do anything. I’m wanting for sunshine and rainbows. I’m waiting for an internal shift.
I’m waiting to feel like Spring has arrived.
I’m worried that if I keep looking down I’ll miss the rainbows.
Me me me. This post is all about me! This weekend is all for me. Today I celebrate me.
Growing up I wanted my initials to spell out something.
Like my favourite writer.
or the artist ME who uses her initials as her brand.
I am a writer. I employ a Nom de Plume.
I write under a pseudonym. Pseudonym – don’t you love that word. Isn’t it lovely. Isn’t it mysterious. Who is that masked writer?
I am nobody. Who are you?
I am me.
This weekend is my happy to me.
I will celebrate by watching the new Veronica Mars movie that I bought on release day and saved for tonight. I have been avoiding spoilers for over two weeks. Exhausting!
Happy to me. Happy to you. Happy to all.
I am me. Who are you?
Still, you never could tell. Especially when it came to family. You thought you were done with someone, and they’d reappear when you least expected to see them. (p. 142)
The Probable Future
by Alice Hoffman
Toronto: Doubleday, 2003
I do believe I will be dealing with family issues until the day I die. Don’t we all? The picture, above, is from my trip to Scotland – my paternal grandfather’s ancestral home. I didn’t get close to where he lived but here is the capital city of Edinburgh and I know that my grandfather walked these streets at least at one point in his life. This is why I would time travel – to meet my ancestors and know them before they knew me.
The picture is for the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge: Street Life.
I am a late adapter. That means that I am never the first one to explore new technology. I got my first cell phone (a SmartPhone) in August of 2012 – less than two years ago. However I did jump right in and get an iPhone as my first phone. I was seduced by its image.
My iPhone lies. It says I am sophisticated. It tags me as a Sex in the City gal.
When I was much, much younger the thing I wanted to be most was a writer living in New York City. A Carrie, if you will. Though back then Carrie was Helen Gurley Brown, the penultimate editor of Cosmopolitan, who evolved from Arkansas to Manhattan in the 1960s. She went from poverty to literary fame, from small rural town to what was then the literary capital of the United States.
All the greats, all the women writers I admire, spent time writing and living in New York. Sylvia Plath went to Smith, worked at Mademoiselle and eventually ended up in London. London, England – another city I wished to use to live in. I was too poor to aspire to Smith but if I could write well enough perhaps I too could end up somewhere amazing. I envied her path in life but not her end. Why are the writers we so often admire so tragic?
Then there was Dorothy Parker, witty, not so pretty Dorothy who wore glasses and only wanted to be sophisticated and feared not admired and loved.
So there we have it, a capsule of New York City’s sophisticated writers from the beginning of the 20th century to its end. I’m a big fan of smart and liberated women no matter what century they lived in.
In reality, am I a Carrie, a Charlotte, a Miranda or a Samantha? I am older then the oldest of them now. The older I get the less I want to move though New York City, London and San Francisco still haunt my books and occasional dreams. These are on my TBR lists. (TBR = books to be read eventually). I’ve downloaded this Cocktail app on my iPhone.
So, mostly, I am a career centered Miranda with a bit of sex positive Samantha thrown in for fun. I can live with that!
Miranda, somewhat like me, is the pragmatic career woman. Though I wouldn’t say that I am highly ambitious, my own life and career does comes first. However, I will always put my iPhone down to enjoy a cocktail with the girls. I am strong-willed, determined and independent. I want what I want but finding the means to achieve what I want is where I run into trouble. I like to control my life and my space and each time I move it gets harder and harder to do. I want security. I want to be in a place where I’ll know that I’ll never have to move again and I would love to have a relationship with a stable, self-sufficient employed man.
There are too many to name. I seem to reinvent myself with every decade. My music tastes evolve. I read more widely in many more genres. I get pickier about what I watch on television. I seem less and less to fit in with the norm – not that I ever was miss popular small town wife and mother to be.
I was always slightly different from everyone else but I got very good at passing as normal (or whatever normal seemed to be at the moment).
gigi would not feel uncomfortable living anywhere in the world. She would be friendly while still maintaining her independence. She would be a woman of means who would age gracefully. She would love to wear vintage clothes and wouldn’t care what people said about her unconventional life.
So, as Helen Gurley Brown said:
“After you’re older, two things are possibly more important than any others: health and money.”
And Dorothy Parker opined in her poem, Resume:
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Myself, gigi, can only hope to one day be as witty and suplime.
Here’s to life – wherever and however you end up living it.
It is my daddy’s birthday tomorrow.
Tomorrow my daddy would have turned 80.
I never called him daddy.
Calling him daddy makes me feel little.
Little as in small. Little as in tiny. Little as in young. Like a little child.
I have no memories of my daddy from when I was little.
He wasn’t there. He left before I turned two and I didn’t see him again for about ten years. It felt sudden his coming back into our lives. There were visits and new rules and new relatives to get to know and I don’t like sudden change. I spent a lot of my time avoiding him in his own house, that was never my home, and feeling anxious.
I never called him Dad, only when I had to address him directly or in letters.
I barely called him Father, friends would say my father and I’d stay out of the conversation. I think that’s why I became close with my childhood best friend – neither of our mothers had husbands but she talked about her daddy because he was dead not just gone off. Her daddy didn’t choose to leave.
I’ve gone years ignoring my dad’s birthday and father’s day. I didn’t send a card because I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t write dad. I couldn’t sign it love me. It felt dishonest. I didn’t know who he was to me and what I felt. Was I mad at him? Was I hurt? It seemed he so easily forgot about me and replaced us.
I spent decades conflicted and feeling guilty. I spent years spending bits of the summer and occasional holidays at his home – but never Christmas or his birthday. I don’t remember ever being with him on his birthday. I don’t know what kind of cake he liked or what presents he got.
When did you last see your Father? I saw him a week or so before he died last year. It was on my birthday. It just worked out that way. After years of never getting a card from my father on my birthday and then years of me ignoring his birthday.
The first emotion that comes up when I think of my father is not love but guilt. I should have been more forgiving. I am at fault.
I never thought he felt guilty for leaving us and ignoring us for all those years (my formative years). But maybe that’s why he drank so much.
My father was an alcoholic. Maybe he drank to forget. Maybe he drank so he wouldn’t have to feel guilty. I don’t know.
I tried to understand him better. I tried to get him to talk (no write) to me. I poked and I prodded. I sent letters. I wrote poems. I sent him a blank journal to scribble his life down in. I needed the words. I needed the stories. I wanted both the fact and the fiction of who he was. I got no feedback.
This is as much my fault as his. I am a writer but my father, like my mother, is a talker. How I came from their DNA I can not explain.
I could not sit in a room, with him, and ask these questions. It did not feel safe.
What I know about my father, I know through rumour and innuendo. What I know about my father I have deduced myself. I may be wrong.
My father was a small-town, self-centered teenager. He was the eldest and his younger brother still complains that Dad always got the car (the three boys were supposed to share it).
My father was a looker and a player. Women around town (I grew up in the same small-town he did) still talk about how handsome he was and how much fun he was to be with. I don’t see it. It confounds me.
My father joined the army as soon as he could against the wishes of his parents. His father wanted him to farm (my father would have made a lousy farmer and probably wanted it as much as I wanted to be a farmer’s wife) and his mother wanted him safe.
The army aggravated my father’s drinking problem that probably started in that small town. I saw it growing up and in all the generations that still follow, alcoholism is a persistent curse in my small, rural home town.
My father was never sure that his father loved him and his mother loved him too much. Here I understand him all too well. There are rumours that he is not my grandfather’s son. We don’t discuss rumours in my family.
What scares me is how much my younger brother, whose upbringing our father was not involved in, made so many of the same mistakes with his children. I see my nephews getting it wrong as well and wonder when the cycle of hurt stops.
This is one of the reasons I am child-free. I was not going to raise a child in a one parent household. I would get it wrong. I would not make a good single parent. That does not mean my siblings could not choose to raise their children as single parents only that I could not. I would not. I will not.
I also see my nephews and nieces doing it right. They are raising their children as single parents, with the help of family and friends. They are forgiving their parents for not being perfect people. They are stronger than I am.
None of us are perfect. My father was not perfect. I am not perfect.
I’ll finish up with a story about my Dad’s 21st birthday – Myrna told me this story. Jim and Myrna were long time friends of my mom and dad.
It would have been 1955. It would have been Spring. March 17th was a Thursday.
They rented a cabin at Stoney Lake to party in. (I think I’ve seen pictures). They snuck out at 4am so they wouldn’t have to pay for the cabin – people used to trust you more, you wouldn’t get a cabin now without pre-paying first. Later Myrna and her dad went back to Stoney to fish and the owner came after Myrna’s dad for the money for the cabin. I assume she got in to some trouble for that as I know from other stories that her dad was very strict.
On the birthday trip, the boys (Dad & Jim) “borrowed’ an out-board motor, went fishing and lost the motor in the lake.”Borrowed” as in one of the guys had the motor to fix it and the owner would not pick it up until Monday. I wonder how they explained that. No, I don’t. I think they didn’t explain it. They just ignored the problem. It’s such typical small-town teenage behaviour and yes, 21 back then was still teenage!
Also, at this time, Jim was being hassled by a local cop. Jim would put his beer in a ditch between the bigger town where he bought the beer and their small home-town because he knew where the cops were most likely to stop him. If the cops found beer in the car they would confiscate it. This, of course, annoyed the group so Myrna decided to get back at the cop. Myrna invited the cop out to Dad’s official party at his parent’s house. She gave the cop a beer and posed on his lap for a picture so she could blackmail him into leaving Jim alone.
Dad & Myrna were the wild ones. Mom & Jim were more stable. Myrna married Jim and settled down. They were married for over fifty years until her death. Mom and Dad barely lasted five years together.
I don’t got game.
I am not a player or connoisseur of physical games. I don’t play sports. Never learned early on the love of the game.
Organized sports, to me, has always been about competition and pain, not fun. In school, I was always picked last. My happiest sports’ memory is learning how to score a baseball team and being allowed (finally) to legitimately sit on the sidelines during gym class. Because of this and lazy summer evening watching B – my first crush – play ball, I have fond memories of baseball and consider it my favourite sport. I can sit in the bleachers on a quiet summer evening eating sunflower seeds and enjoy the roar of the crowd, the feel of a soft breeze and a slow, lazy baseball game. But only in person. I do not watch sports on the television for longer than five minutes at a time.
It’s not that I was an inactive child. We weren’t allowed to sit inside all day watching television and getting underfoot. I enjoyed the freedom of my small town every day in the summer and played in the alley, fall and winter evenings before it got dark, during the school year. I enjoyed playing tag, hopscotch, mother may I and hide-n-seek. I borrowed my friend’s roller skates and had my own bike.
This is where and when I learned to enjoy walking. I am a walker. I walk almost everywhere I can. I am a daydreamer. It’s always felt safer for me to be walking. I also use to read and walk which got more dangerous the more I lost myself in the world of the book.
School and organized recreation is what destroyed my love of physical exercise. I took figure skating and tap dancing and hated both. I had weak ankles and hand-me-down skates so figure skating was a chore not a pleasure. However, I loved just speed skating around the rink but this was not something a young lady should aspire to according to the rink coaches. Tap dancing was too loud. I wanted to learn ballet but it was not then offered in my very small town and we had no money to travel elsewhere. If we had, my eldest sister would have made it to the Olympics as a figure skater.
That was the other problem; my mother felt that the only way to be fair to all her children was to enroll them all in the same activity. My eldest sister excelled at all of them, my next sister was good enough and I was shit at the ones available.
I would have failed out of ballet too eventually as I got too tall and well-endowed by age thirteen to be a ballerina. By then dance classes evolved into learning square dancing in gym class. I’m sure you can imagine how that turned out – boys roaming one side of the gym and girls hiding on the other side until we were all forced together, by the teacher, for an awkward dance.
Badminton was my favorite gym sport but we played it so little as baseball dominated the Spring season, basketball dominated the Fall season and hockey dominated Winter. And, as always, the boys and their games dominated our culture.
There was one girl allowed to play on the boy’s hockey team until they all hit their teens and she was forced to give up on hockey as there was no girl’s team. I wonder if she plays hockey now. We’ve come a long way, there are now about 87,000 girls registered in hockey in Canada.
I watched B play and excel at hockey on the senior team when we were in High School. I watched my nephews play, at the recreational level, all their lives as my eldest sister loudly cheered them on (all the players still remember hearing my sister cheering them on above every one else in the crowd) and drinking Mochas, the only coffee I drink.
Even now, Hockey is the main sport in the small town I grew up in. If you don’t follow hockey you don’t have much else to do during our long Winters. Grandma F use to go to all the games. But then again, she started to go to the games because someone she knew (a relative who made it to the big time) played. I find the game easier to watch when I know someone who is playing.
I don’t watch NHL games because the NHL games seem to drift from fight to fight. During the Olympics, a more technical game is played and I don’t remember seeing or hearing about a lot of fights. If Women’s hockey was played regularly on television I might watch more but only if they fought less than the men seem to do. I want to watch hockey not fighting!
We are Hockeyville.
I’m not totally oblivious to hockey. I remember the excitement in 1972 when Henderson scored. I was just starting High school and it seemed like the whole class was listening to the game (on transistor radios) that noon hour. Nothing much got done that afternoon in school (other than talking about the game). I guess we were directly involved in history that day!
But the game I remember the most of was the day the women won the gold in Salt Lake City because of their skill and a little bit of luck. That they won again in Vancouver (2010) and recently in Sochi (2014) warms my heart. The fact that we were as excited at work for the women as much as for the men gives me hope.
I don’t got game. I don’t play sports. I want more for the women who follow after me. I want my nieces to have the opportunity to play in the NHL if they so wish. I thrilled that they have a hero like Hayley Wickenheiser, another Saskatchewan girl, to look up to.
International Women’s day was yesterday Saturday, March 8th. I support all women following their dreams and passions even when it’s a passion that is alien to me.
Hockey is Canada’s game and it should belong to all of us.
I am feeling ancient, ancient and cold (the minus 50 degree Celsius day is not helping). I am rock. I am granite. I am stone.
Water runs off me, through me and wears away at my surface.
The good stuff is underneath, is inside.
I am gargoyle, grotesque. I am a statue – immobile.
I am ancient. I am unknown.
I am abandoned.
There is beauty there.
Old. Ancient. Abandoned.
One snowy white night, a little girl with a red scarf enters the woods with a basket. But she’s not visiting grandmother and she won’t meet a big bad wolf. What will the little girl find in the woods…?
I Am Not Little Red Riding Hood
by Alessandro Lecis
Ills. by Linda Wolfsgruber
Translated from the German by Talia Rebecca Ergas
New York: Sky Pony Press, 2013
Orginal title: Ich bin nicht Rotkäppchen!
This week’s synchronicitic find (see above):
by Helen Docherty
Ills. by Thomas Docherty
UK: Alison Green Books, 2013
Cloaked in Red is a collection of short stories that retell the classic fairy tale “Little Red Riding Hood.” All the stories were written by Vivian Vande Velde.
The author’s note in the collection goes into a bit of detail about how the collection came about, including examining exactly how ridiculous the original story is, even by fairy tale standards. This is what Vivian has to say about Little Red Riding Hood:
When I was a little girl, my mother was nervous about my crossing the street without adult supervision. But fairy-tale characters do not make good role models. Goldilocks’ parents not only let let her play in the bear-infested woods, they neglect to give her that most basic advice: “Don’t break into strangers’ homes.”
There are other examples of irresponsible adults in fairy tales. The miller in “Rumpelstiltskin” hands his daughter over to a king whose royal motto is “Spin straw into gold or die.” And Rapunzel’s mom and dad trade her to a witch for a garden salad.
We won’t even get into the issue of stepmothers.
Few authors can make their notes laugh-out-loud funny, but Vivian Vande Velde has a uniquely twisted style of telling things that either comes off as charming or annoying. I found her author’s note both amusing and charming. This is not the first book of hers that I have read; I’ve enjoyed many of her works, especially this one. If you’ve been reading my blog for a while you know I have a fascination for witches. Though Vivian writes for a younger crowd, I’ve never felt that I was too old to be reading her books.
And I quite enjoyed Cloaked in Red.
Cloaked in Red has eight new versions of the Little Red Riding Hood tale. Red gets named. We get to meet her family as more than just cardboard characters. We learn more about the wolf and the woodcutter. There are surprise twists. Within the many point of views, there is history and fantasy and fun.
The stories all begin in the usual way.
“Once upon a time, after fashion was discovered but before people had makeovers on TV” (p.16) begins the tale of Red Cloak. Meg (Red) is shy and doesn’t like to stand out, much like me, and is horrified when her mother dyes her cloak bright red. This strong desire to avoid notice is what brings about her fateful meeting with the wolf. What Meg discovers, by the end, is the moral of the story.
“Once upon a time, before department stores and designer labels” (p.32) begins the tale of the Red Riding Hood Doll. Here Georgette is a seamstress. She is tired of this life and wishes for a child but not a marriage. When one of her customers complains about a fancy red cloak, Georgette creates a doll out of it and then uses a spell to turn the doll (Red) real. This does not go well (remember that other wooden doll who wished to be a real boy). Georgette concludes that often children can be more trouble than pleasure.
“Once upon a time, long after people had found out that their families could sometimes be an embarrassment, but before there were advice columnists you could complain to” (p.48) begins the tale of Little Red Riding Hood’s Family. Roselle (Red) is exasperated and embarrassed by her parents. Roselle is the responsible one in the family and because of this is the one who has to visit Granny in the woods. Granny, like Roselle’s parents, has an irresponsible nature and a secret. As does Roselle. Secrets abound in this charming tale.
“Once upon a time, before online dating services” (p.58) begins the tale of Granny and the Wolf. This is, obviously, Granny’s story. Granny’s name is Nelda and she has an unwanted suitor. Granny, also, is a friend to animals (a PETA member before there was PETA). Problems occur when Scarlet (Red) pops in for a visit and a series of hilarious, slap shot, events unfold.
“Once upon a time, before eyeglasses were invented” (p.81) begins the tale of Deems the Wood Gatherer. It is a delightful story of a near-sighted (like me) woodcutter. He inadvertently is also a friend to all, both woodland and fairy tale characters. He also likes being a woodcutter despite his handicap and no glasses! The problem is that he lives near an odd woods with a bad reputation. Can you guess what happens next? Probably not, but in the end, the woodcutter goes home happy.
“Once upon a time, after books were invented but before TV and movies” (p.92) begins the tale of Why Willy and His Brother Won’t Amount to Anything. Here Isobel (Red) lives next to an annoying little boy named Willy. Misunderstandings abound in this tale. You know how it is with little boys who have overactive imaginations and live near the woods! There is a surprise and delightful twist at the end.
“Once upon a time, before superhighways and hotel chains” (p.100) begins the tale of The Little Red Headache. This is the Wolf’s tale. Here the wolf and Red cannot communicate as they don’t speak the same language. In spite of this, the wolf tries to do the right thing as he is a proper and well brought up young wolf. There is much confusion and all the wolf ends up with is a headache and I am sure that from then on out the wolf will be wary of little girls in red cloaks, grannies and woodcutters.
“Once upon a time, before malls, boutiques, or online clothing catalogs” (p.109) begins the tale of Little Red Riding Hood’s Little Red Riding Hood. This is the cloak’s tale and it involves a fairy godmother very much kin to Sleeping Beauty’s fairies. Ruby (Red) is gifted with an intelligent and self-aware cloak that she is too self-centered to appreciate. Eventually all ends well for the cloak.
I quite enjoyed the twists and turns in all these stories that started in the conventional way and ended as they needed to.
All pages numbers taken from:
Cloaked in Red
by Vivian Van Velde
Tarrytown, NY: Marshall Cavendish, 2010
This week’s synchronicitic finds:
An absolutely gorgeous cloak is here on The Mary Sue and Etsy and Fashionably Geek. Oh, too have extra money to spend on this. But then where would I wear it? I’m not really a cape person though I tried to be one at sixteen (I sewed my own and seldom wore it – it was a small town and I did not yet have the attitude for cape wearing).
Epbot has a charming story about a young girl and her steam-punk twist on Little Red Riding Hood. Go. Read. Enjoy.
In almost all the traditional fairy tale tellings our Little Miss Red Riding Hood is the quintessential babe in the woods. Sweet, innocent and naive. She blissfully skips along the forest path, humming a tune and lost in daydream, as she travels towards Grandma’s house. She is not concerned about danger. She is not looking out for wolves. She is happy to be in the forest, the calming, sun-dappled forest.
She is alone on her journey. She is the protagonist of her own story. Is she symbolically moving from childhood to adulthood?
She is cloaked in red. Red is the colour of harlots, femme fatales, scandal and blood. For women, it is blood that heralds our transition from child to adult. It is blood that is noticed, by ourselves and others. It is blood that the wolves scent out. Once we bleed, we are no longer children, no longer sweet and innocent. The naivety, however, may continue for a lifetime.
The wolf is an evil animal. The wolf thinks only of himself. The wolf at the door prophecies poverty, hardship and hunger. The wolf is predator and tempter. He lures her off the path. This is his role. This is his job. One cannot tell Red Riding Hood’s story without mentioning the wolf!
His wolf whistle commands her attention and there she goes, off the straight and narrow path to gather posies. Flighty, fancy, pretty, unnecessary posies. Wouldn’t Grandma love some flowers? Do we not need both bread and roses to survive?
And wasn’t Red out there looking for fun? Why wasn’t she anticipating trouble? She was out there in her paint-the-town red cape, flaunting her charms – a sinful temptress looking for a wolf. Looking for trouble! The wolf made her feel both excited and scared.
Mother said stay on the path and don’t talk to strangers. But mother also raised her to be obedient and polite. Can’t you see the contradiction. The wolf said “Hello, little Girl.” It would have been impolite not to answer back. I’ve spent fifty years unlearning this habit. Sometimes, I want to be impolite. Sometimes, I want to follow my own path. Sometimes, I want to explore my own wild nature.
Sometimes, I want to be like the wolf thinking only of my own pleasure and enjoying my own fun. Sometimes, I want to talk to strangers and sometimes I don’t.
Have you ever noticed that of all the best known traditional fairy tale heroines only Red is unattached – Cinderella, Snow White, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, are all only seen as complete once their prince shows up in the picture. Only Red Riding Hood and Gretel (Hansel’s sister who saves him) never grow up and marry. They are proactive in the very earliest tellings of their stories. Gretel saves her brother from the witch and gets them home. Red escapes with no help from any male or older female figure, instead she uses her own cunning to outwit the wolf. She becomes a wolf herself.
It was the Grimm brothers who introduced the idea that Red needed a man/hunter to rescue her and her grandmother. Red could not become the wolf. If she did, her innocence would be lost and society needs Little Red Riding Hood to remain sweet, naive and innocent or all is lost.
Men commit crime, women sin and it is only the innocent who can save us all.
Fairy tales tell the truth side-ways. Childhood is nothing but sweet. Life ends at parenthood. Men are the masters of their own fate and women wait. Old women tempt others with the poison apples that they should be eating themselves for that swift surrender to death that we all deserve for daring to age!
Me, I’m trying to tell my own truth. As I age, every year I know myself better. There was a time I was but a babe in the woods. There was even a time I was the wolf at the door.
Now, I only want the freedom to explore my own voice and live my own life on my own terms. No more babe in the woods. No more wolf at the door. No more maiden, mother, crone. Only me.
This week’s synchronicitic finds:
Red 1 – 2 – 3: In the familiar cautionary tale about the little girl and the big bad wolf, the child wears a red hood. In Katzenbach’s skillful contemporary version, red hair attracts the predator.
Fingersmith (DVD): Please don’t touch me, stifle me, smother me, pretend to love me…