Mentioning Unmentionables

Talk to most women today, and they don’t remember not wearing pants or slacks to work or school. Visit with ladies past a certain age, and they’ll tell about a time when schools required little girls to wear dresses or skirts to class and employers mandated females do the same at work. Moms even cleaned house in a dress. Most mothers didn’t go so far as TV stars who wore pearls and heels to vacuum, but they made certain they could answer the door without causing the neighbors to gossip about manly apparel. Granted, such fashions weren’t the cumbersome Mother Hubbard gowns or flowing long skirts pioneers wore, but they complicated daily life unnecessarily.

Some would say mid-century housewives and schoolgirls didn’t have it so bad. Unlike travelers across emigrant trails, they didn’t have to worry about their hems catching fire while they cooked outdoors or tripping on them, crossing uneven surfaces. Gals of the 30s - 60s revealed ankles and calves and enjoyed freedom of movement their grandmas never knew. 

What folks don’t think about is getting to work or school during frigid temperatures and snowstorms. Some families solved the problem the way pedestrians in large cities do today. Individuals wore slacks under or over their dresses on the way to their destination and changed after arriving.  

What no one took into account was the playground dilemma little girls faced. As public schools added more recess equipment that involved climbing and twirling, females struggled to prevent others from seeing their bloomers and singing risqué songs involving London, France, and underpants. Learning to read, write, and do arithmetic was hard enough without worrying about peers knowing the color and condition of personal garments.

Keep in mind, these were days either before or soon after WW II when most families couldn’t afford a week’s supply of lacy undies for their daughters. Frequently, one sibling handed clean but pre-worn clothing to the next in line, causing more than one playground confrontation resulting in a bloody nose or black eye.

With the advent of monkey bars, girls who wanted go head to head in acrobatic challenges wore summer shorts under dresses. This added to mom’s laundry, but youngsters trying to perform a flip while tucking hems under or between knees meant re-stitching seams or patching fabric on a daily basis or worse, a broken arm. It was easier to wash extra clothing.

Certainly, women who grew up wearing dresses learned decorum regarding sitting with knees and ankles pressed together. Today’s females frequently discover the necessity of such postures the first time they publicly wear a short dress. More than one teacher or boss has observed lack of awareness concerning this detail.

No doubt, about it, females and pants go together from infancy to old age. Who needs to worry about a skirt rising in a breeze or during a cartwheel, offering a peek at undergarments. Too bad pioneer women never got to find out how much easier their lives would have been if they had worn trousers.

The Women's Grinding Rock

Weekend trips were my father’s way to unwind from stressful work.  One of his favorite getaways was a  ranch east of San Diego along the Mexican border.  Semi-arid and hilly, it’s mystique appealed to me as well.  It was a relief to escape the crowded Los Angeles basin to this uncomplicated ranch nestled amidst sage-dotted hills.  The land’s sparse vegetation and up-thrust boulders made it difficult for man or beast to inhabit. 

We would hike, hunt, four-wheel, fish, and get grubby among granite formations, sage, sand, and scrub oak stands.  On the lookout for artifacts and fossils, I walked nose to the ground, hoping to spot a flint chip or arrowhead.  Despite my dedication, all I got was a crick in my neck.

One day my family decided we wanted to explore an adjacent arroyo.  A nearby granite outcrop provided the best vantage point, so the four of us clambered onto an house-sized boulder.  This huge, gray and white striated chunk of granite had punched itself out of the soil.  Much surrounding earth had eroded, providing a clear view over the wash below.

Atop the rock, we noticed pockmarks the size of cereal bowls gouging its face. Curious, I crawled from indention to indention like a blind person reading braille.  What was their purpose? 

Because an ancient Indian cemetery existed nearby, I realized natives had called this land home.  From my overlook, I could see plenty of oak stands nearby. I also knew from fourth grade California history that ground acorns provided a primary food source for early inhabitants.   Aha! I stood upon a grinding rock.

From the number  and depths of depressions, this slab had served generations of women as the local grindstone.  My imagination flew as I fancied friends gathering blanched acorns, babies, and toddlers to work and gab at “the rock.”

As I leaned against the stone and closed my eyes, time peeled away.  Morning sun would have warmed those women’s backs as they leaned into their pounding and grinding.  A sea breeze blowing inland would have rattled oak leaves just as it made leaves whisper to me.  Those long dead mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends undoubtedly talked about the same things women talk about today: family, work, joy, and sorrow.

After examining the grinding rock and sandy earth surrounding it, my family hiked down the gulch, hoping to find more treasure.  That day was  lucky indeed, for we found a vanished woman’s simple rolling pin, the stone she carried to the grinding rock.  Size-wise, it compares to any standard rolling pin.  The ends reveal wear from years of mashing acorns. 

That generated more questions.  How did she lose this stone?  Who lost it? How long ago? Was she running in fear unable to lug that heavy, awkward tool with her?  We don’t know the answers, but that artifact became family treasure that we carried from state to state during repeated moves. 

Eventually, it ended up in my home. A few years ago at an auction, I lucked upon a metaté.  Though from distinctly different regions and tribes, uniting the two seemed right. 

Each time I move them to vacuum, they remind me of the grinding rock, bridging across time to those who came before me.  Women still gather to work and talk about important issues: family, work, joy, and sorrow.