We all know, if vaguely, that we are facing something we might call a catastrophe.
Not Women’s Month or Women’s Day but Women’s Time—Our Time—long overdue but come at last.
For most of Grandfather’s neighbors and friends, memory of the communes is sharp and sour. We have yet to sweeten it.
A while back, or perhaps it was more than a few years ago, we all became aware of the epidemic of violence against women in this country, and memoirs began to be written as the survivors felt empowered to describe what they had gone though, battling through shame and the fear of family repercussions. We all have our lists of these titles, some of them bitingly effective, others less so, and perhaps I was not alone in imagining that writing about the problem would make the problem go away, or at least diminish it.
Most of the lone hikers I meet, often accompanied by one or two dogs, are women, young, old and in between.