I went to a meeting of the caucus of the Vermont Democratic Party last night and was volunteered for duty as secretary. (I know, I know... it's an oxymoron being volunteered for something, but it happened before I knew it and it's really ok after all!) There were 8 of us there - all women of a certain age. (Where ARE the young ones these days?) And all women I particularly like. One is the doyenne of the town, its heart and the go-to person for far more things than she should be; two are writers of Western history; one is a book store owner in the next town over; one is the ur-grandmother to all the town's children and she has run the day care for decades out of her house; one is a talented stone wall builder (think Andy Goldsworthy), and one is a newcomer to town and Professor of theater at a top notch college. We didn't spend much time electing officers as I have said, though we exhorted the newcomer to run for office at town meeting next March-- new blood in a small town gets introduced quickly to the tasks at hand.
We were about to go our separate ways when someone mentioned a friend in town. We'll call her Sally Smith. She's roughly 60 and has just retired after many years of working for a local non-profit. Her husband is a talented builder and they are linchpins of one of the local churches. They have raised two girls who are working hard to build lives living off the land, and one was hard hit by the Hurricane a few weeks ago. Her farm was cut off from any way to get her produce to market, and I can't imagine what happened to her animals or the veegetables she was about to harvest - but that's another story.
Back to the gathered women about to conclude the meeting. In a small town, there are always stories to tell about the neighbors. In this town, they are mostly informational and almost never mean-spirited. The stories remind people about someone who is ill or whose truck went off the road --a caution to others passing on the same stretch. They are about daughters or sons who have succeeded, or opportunities to share garden bounty.
"She's not Sally Smith anymore," we were told. Our mouths dropped open.
"The pastor of the church has told them that women must be subservient to their husbands, and this having a separate name... She's changing her name."
We were speechless, but not for long. One member of the group was about to stomp out in fury, when I stopped her to recount my dream of the previous night.
I was throwing a birthday party for H in the center of town. There was a stage in the middle of a space that looked as though it was set for the re-enactors at a Renaissance Fair. I had invited the town's children... odd in itself since neither of us have, or are particularly interested in, children. One child in a red and white dress was in tears thinking she hadn't been invited and I told her to tell her mom that she was of course included... I'll spare you the rest of the details. Suddenly I realized that the Pastor of the church was about to launch into a sermon. I furiously marched up on the stage to remind him that as a newcomer, he was welcome, but no sermons were appropriate at this birthday Easter party... That wasn't our way at parties. Satisfied I marched back down and went about my business, only to realize that he was back on stage about to deliver fire and brimstone while dressed in a long purple and black split tailed frock coat as ... SATAN!!!
Now, some of you may remember that Herb asked for some dream analysis before.... I am just concerned about these premonitions I seem to be having....
Anyway, as I said in the beginning, I am going to be changing my name too. Herb suggested that I take his name: Nora Allen Rubinstein. And he will be taking mine: Herb Jane Childress.
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