• Lesbian sheroes in herstorical fiction are viewed with suspicion. How, critics ask, can an author know what lesbians could get away with in times past with only a few first-person records available? We have proof women’s opinions were ignored, their triumphs and words erased from public record. We know men’s writings from/about these time periods reflect patriarchal societies doling harsh punishment to women who dared assert themselves....


  • Abolitionists opposed slavery from the moment the slave ships first arrived in the Americas, even before the colonies dreamed of becoming a separate nation. For over a century, they told the facts of such an inhuman practice, and they preached the ultimate wrong of one person claiming the right to own another. Yet, for most people, those facts were not “true,” they weren’t real, until Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote and published Uncle Tom’s Cabin....


  • Tippy Canoe (board) and Writer Too: On Being Seventy and a Debut Novelist

     

     “So,” razzed younger neighbors, “what does a seventy-year-old who sits on her bottom all day to write know about getting up on a paddleboard? You’ll fall on your butt!”

     “Hah!” I said—my expletive was much more colorful—“Watch my butt!”

     Resistance being our strong card, my wife and I took our bespoke bottoms to Lost Lake, Oregon, to rent a paddleboard. I commandeered a cove area in the shade of firs, cedars, and wild huckleberry and awaited the arrival of my pioneering woman. Would Terrie come to me on her knees or prone? I didn’t venture a guess. I signaled my position and stood ready with a cold one.

    “Woo Hoo!” I shouted and extended my hand to welcome her to our secluded space. She stepped off and nodded to her imaginary audience. “Thank you, thank you!” she graciously accepted the applause.

    “Next!” She gave me her hand, “wifesplaining” technique. When she looked up to wish me happy sailing, my short Italian American legs had already risen above the flow. Needless to say my bottom was up!

    Paddling felt like coming home. I flashed on my pine-scented canoe-paddling days in Maine. In an instant I relived my youth, my writing of Death and Love at the Old Summer Camp, and tender love and affection. I heard my name. Old friends waved. Mt. Hood stood above us, smiling. “Here’s to seventy, a debut novel, and bottoms-up!”