Where
Did
All
the
Tough
Broads
Go?
When we moved awhile back, we filled a 1-800-Got-Junk dumpster to the
brim with piles and piles of stuff. Horrid, gnarly flower arrangements,
heavily embroidered drapes, nicks and knacks, sacks and sacks or
ornamental trash, in colors that NEVER EVER appear in nature. Mauves and
sea foam green. Among the odd pieces of shag rug mixed in with my
deserted and abandoned half finished stabs at cross stitching, I found
an old wall hanging I must have made while on heavy medication, a five
foot by seven foot hooked rug, of what was once the setting sun, long
well set and unraveling in my hands. Ah yes, this was from our "chrome
and glass" period. Actually worse than that, more our "chrome plated"
and "smoked glass" decade. Vase after vase of trailing fake ferns
covered in dust.. I won't even mention the terrible awful offal pile
of polyester pants and suits and oh my the mustard colored stirrup
pants and matching shoulder-padded-oversized sweaters. The leg warmers
and matching head bands. Enough! Enough! Enough!
So, no one was more surprised than I to witness the resurgence of
consignment stores and warehouses cropping up deep in the downtown
recesses. I read about them in the paper and ventured forth to see what
all the buzz was about. There, in full view, the downsized remains of
baby boomers, just like me, stacked in piles, and young people standing
in lines...lines!...to dig through the boxes and the crates for that one
special "find". I got the giggles, I must admit, thinking that someone
would pay to own what I had thrown. However, there, laid bare,
my past, my distant far away past sat within reach. Armoires with hand
carved doors lined with silvery etched mirrors. Leather strapped steamer
travel trunks, lined inside with still smooth satin. Beside these hardy
and sturdy time travelers, a dressmakers mannequin. The outline of the
shape and form of the women I once knew. Full figured, hour glass
shaped, nipped in at the waist.
The. Big. Tough. Broads.
The women in the photo albums at home, the ones photo cornered in
black. The women standing stiff and straight, their long locks swept up
and back, held by ebony combs. One hand resting on the back of the chair
in which their husband sat, equally tall and equally straight. Both
staring into the lens of the camera, nary a smile nor a show of emotion.
The woman in deference to her mate, perhaps. Or as I know, because I
grew up around these women, the Big. Tough. Broads., they rarely sat
down, for anyone.
Where are those scary faced women who asked me to give more than what
was expected. The ones who stared into my eyes and without a single
word asked Well?
The ones who saw more in me than I never knew I had. Saw beyond my
ill fitting clothes, beyond my social stammer, to what I could not see.
That I could be anything if I tried. That I could do anything if I was
willing to learn.
They expected an effort. A try.
These are the women who kept their boots on the ground while the
earth shook all around them. They had no need to protest, as they needed
no one's permission. What was broken, mended. Who was ill, tended. The
hard working shirk no duty, move over, hands in hot water broads.
Busy busy broads too busy with the fullness of life to protest in any
other way than by the sheer weight and power of setting an example for
the next in line. Women will big appetites and full figures. If they had
ever burned their corseted brassieres, it would have been a lusty pyre.
But when you're busy building bridges there's little time for
bonfires.
You know these women. Just as I do. The courageous who crossed the
ocean in search of a better life. The solid souls, reins in hand,
driving wagons across plains and over mountains. The fearless who
crossed the lines when the signs said Don't Walk. The tenacious few who
strolled up the aisle and simply sat down. The beautiful Big. Tough.
Broads. who used their calloused hands to help other women up.
If they were here right now, standing with their hands across their
formidable chests, they'd merely shift their stance, narrow their gaze
and without a word, ask
Well?
The. Big. Tough. Broads.
The. Yard. Yetis. Of. Lore.
Raquel Rhododendron...One. Big. Tough. Broad.
Her story begins here...