EEEuuuuu!

The tomato horn worms are attacking my garden. I thought they were just cute little catepillars when I noticed one and removed it from my garden a couple of weeks ago. And I forgot about it. Now, lots of the stalks are eaten dead.
My neighbors tell me I have to pick them off and squish them dead. EEeeeuuu! I’m heading over to a garden center tomorrow to see what kind of spray I can use.

From President Jimmy Carter’s speech at the Democratic convention:
You can’t be a war president one day and claim to be a peace president the next, depending on the latest political polls. When our national security requires military action, John Kerry has already proven in Vietnam that he will not hesitate to act. And as a proven defender of our national security, John Kerry will strengthen the global alliance against terrorism while avoiding unnecessary wars.
Ultimately, the issue is whether America will provide global leadership that springs from the unity and integrity of the American people or whether extremist doctrines and the manipulation of truth will define America’s role in the world.
At stake is nothing less than our nation’s soul…..
AMEN. AMEN to that.

Three’s a magic number, and I’m all for making magic.
And so on with the Sorority Saga of the adventuresome fourteen.
We all wondered if we would recognize each other after more than forty years. All of us had been married; four of us are no longer, and of those four, one is a widow. Almost all of us have kids, and, of those, as far as I could tell, all have grandkids; at least one had a child who died; almost all of us had taught at least for a while. An alarming number are breast cancer survivors. We all have a few extra pounds — some more, some less. Five do not color their hair, and three of those are wonderfully white. (I made sure I touched mine up the week before the reunion.) The years showed on all of our faces and our bodies — some more, some less.
What was funny was that one of the sisters admitted that as she walked into the bar and looked around for the others, she found herself searching the faces of the twenty-something females who were there. That’s how she was remembering us all — as we were the last time she saw us.
How did we recognize each other? Mostly BY OUR VOICES — both the actual physical voice and the “selves” that we revealed in WHAT we voiced. We all (aurally) sound the same as we did when we called to each other up and down the stairs of the sorority house. As we had a chance to chat and catch up and reminisce, it became apparent that those of us who were more conservative back then, still are — some even moreseo. And on the other end of the spectrum are one of my apartment roommates and, heh, me.
And our eyes are still the same — not the skin around them, but the souls they reflect. We also recognized each other by our eyes.
No one passed around photos of their kids and grandkids (well, I admit I did whip out a goofy photo of my grandson to show two of my ol’ roommates). Instead, we spent our time together remembering and laughing (loud and long), and adding to the legends and lore of our girly days.

In between, we caught up on where we were in our lives, chatting in small groups or one-on-one with those to whom we were closest.
Who says you can’t time travel! We did. We took ourselves back more than forty years and, for one night, we were carefree, fun-loving girls again.
OK. So you want to see “then” and “now” photos, right?
Well, here are three of us hanging around the sorority house in our pajamas in 1960. (Somewhere I have a photo of the four of us and when I find it, I’ll replace this one.)

And here we are as we are, at least on the outside. On the inside, where our true voices begin, we are as we were as we are.

And so, as way to keep sharing our voices, I’ve begun setting up a gangblog for us, since we all have computers (although some are more adept at using them than others). And so Beta Zeta (which no longer exists at our college) will move into the virtual 21st century, laughing all the way.

Hats off to thee, BZ!

I’m interrupting my sorority saga to point out some of the good, bad, and ugly in today’s news. And I do this recognizing that a couple of my “sisters” who will probably be checking out this blog when they get back home do not agree with my politics:
First, the good: Bloggers offer inside view to convention
Delegate bloggers play a different role than traditional media or even other bloggers, said New York University journalism professor Jay Rosen, who is covering the convention for his blog.
“You can’t apply to it the criteria of news or even punditry,” Rosen said. “One shouldn’t expect startling new information because that’s not the point. The point is to share the experience.”
Many delegate bloggers supported Howard Dean, whose Internet-based, grass-roots campaign set fund-raising records and attracted a large following. Some say they want to keep that online effort alive even as they transfer their loyalty to John Kerry, the party’s presumed nominee

Second the bad. Well, it’s bad for the current administration but good for everyone who believes in truth and honesty:

Setting the Sept. 11 record straight
At the time, it was understood that all of the hijackers had entered the country legally and done nothing to draw attention to themselves; Osama bin Laden had underwritten the plot with his personal fortune but had left the details to others; U.S. intelligence agencies had no warning that al-Qaida was considering suicide missions using planes; President Bush had received a special intelligence briefing weeks before Sept. 11 about al-Qaida that focused on past, not current, threats
But 19 months later, the commission released a final, unanimous book-length report Thursday that, in calling for an overhaul of the way the government collects and shares intelligence, showed that much of what had been common wisdom about the Sept. 11 attacks at the start of the panel’s investigation was wrong.
Third, the ugly. The uninformed thinking of people like this 77-year old American woman really scares me. I couldn’t find a link to this brief piece that appeared today in my local newspaper:
from Voters voice
…I’m sorry that this cournty has to be the policeman throughout the world, but somebody’s got to do it…What we’ve got over there is a volunteer army, and there’s no drafting. These men and women signed up, and they’re getting paid. I’m sorry they have to be over there, beause they’re volunteers…but we’ve still got to do it.
…I’d like to see every child that can do it get a quality education but..I don’t thinkwe can realistically afford it for everyone.
…I’m concerned about Medicare and prescription drugs even though I don’t have a problem gettng insurance myself..but sometimes people abuse drugs when they’re free. They take them just because they’re there. It’s like Medicare: Some people go to the emergency room just because it’s a place to go.
When the revolution comes, I know what side I’m going to be on.

He remembers dancing with me, he says — the guy who ultimately married one of my roommates. I certainly remember him, too. He was one of the best Lindy dancers around — easy to follow, smooth and sassy. He says that what he remembers about me was that I always wore bright colors and make-up to match. Remembers that, in terms of whatever boyfriends I had, I was known to be “flighty.” A “free-spirit.”
Free spirit.
That word comes up often when my long-time friends say what they remember about me. Free Spirit. And Beatnik. That’s who I was, or at least what I aspired to. No wonder I am who I am now.
The three husbands who joined us after our dinner were all from the same fraternity. There were lots of pairings between their fraternity and our sorority over the years. If we were sisters, they were our brothers-in-law. I liked these three then and I still do. Good guys, these guys.

I liked hanging around with guys back in college in the late fifties because they had so much more freedom than we girls did. And flirting was an art we all enjoyed. But it was innocent flirting. It was all before drugs seeped onto campuses; it was when guys (at least the guys we knew) understood and accepted that No means No.
So now they all tease me about my tendency to push the envelope of expected female behavior. It was, after all, just about the timeframe of Mona Lisa Smile. I guess I was just born to be a feminine feminist.
The memories that spill out of our aging brains complement each other, fill in some blanks that we each have.
I had forgotten that I used to sit by myself and play my aunt’s old guitar. I only knew three chords but could play just about all the old Everly Brothers songs. And Web Pierce’s “There Stands the Glass.” I’m sure now that my rudimentary attempts at guitar playing were as much for effect as for any great desire on my part to actually learn to play well. Beatniks, after all, sit alone in a corner and play the guitar. We become what we imagine.
I had forgotten that, in grad school when I lived in an apartment on an inner city side street with three other sorority sisters, I was the one who called the police because we had a prowler on the roof. We lived in a three story building owned by “Aunt Liz,” an Irish washerwoman who did the laundry of others in her basement. Our shared bedroom was the attic that had a big skylight, and we would lie in our beds and night and tell each other our dreams and share dirty jokes. One night we heard footsteps on the roof. I don’t remember calling the police and laughing so hard about the whole thing on the phone that the cops thought I was joking. But my roommates remember. They also remember that, when the cops finally arrived, they found a ladder against the side of the building and someone’s sneaker left behind on the roof. They remember the cop pulling out a gun. I just remember my annoyance at having our privacy invaded and my surprise that my roommates were as upset as they were. I guess I should have felt more violated than I did, but back then, in my own mind I was invincible, untouchable, immortal.
Enough about me. What follows will be more about them, those golden girls who, I think, glow more compellingly now — and for some it’s 44 years later — than they even did in what we all remember as our sweet golden glory days.