tradeswomn musings

Flo Back Home in Yakima

My Mother ande Audie Murphy Chapter 118

On this page Flo attached icons from Northwest and United Airlines, pictures of herself and her mother at their home in Yakima and several newspaper articles.

We Think Spokane is where Our Parents Met

Our parents told us kids that they met in the Spokane airport. They said Flo was ill and Carroll, our dad, helped her. But we never learned when this happened. My theory is that it was in April, 1946 when Flo flew back from Washington DC where she had been debriefed by the Red Cross. The United Airlines map on this page shows the flight going to Spokane, where she must have had to transfer to Northwest Airlines for the final leg to Yakima. Flo and Carroll carried on their relationship in Seattle where she moved in the fall of 1946. She worked for the publisher of the Seattle Times as a secretary. He worked at a gas station which was on her way as she walked to work. They married in November, 1947 and moved to Yakima.

Here are some excerpts and quotes from the news stories. It’s interesting that all the newspaper stories refer to Flo as a girl. One of the second wave feminist movement’s demands was that media stop infantilizing women. She was 32 when she returned from Europe.

Awarded the French Fourragère

“One Yakima girl is entitled to wear the fourragère awarded by France for distinguished service by an army unit. Miss Florence Wick as one of the four Red Cross girls attached to the Third Division was officially given the right to wear the coveted fourragère in full uniform. Certainly no one who knows of Miss Wick‘s work, which often led her to the firing line, will doubt in the least her right to the emblem of honor. Her friends are certain she was as gallant a soldier as any of her brothers in arms.”

Surprised at American Apathy

“Miss Florence Wick, who recently returned from overseas Red Cross service, is back home after a short stay in Seattle. Miss Wick is following the news of overseas needs with great interest but has no great faith of permanent peace in Europe under present conditions. She is, also, somewhat surprised at the seeming apathy with which world affairs are considered by most persons.”

Visited Families

She visited the town of Walla Walla to see the parents of two men that she was stationed with in Germany. (The men) are stationed at Bad Wildungen, and are expected to remain in Germany until late summer.

She Spoke Publicly About the War

She spoke to the Lions Club luncheon in the Commercial Hotel about “the combat history of the third infantry division that had the most casualties and fought the most battles. She celebrated the fall of Rome from a Roman villa amidst flabbergasted and excited Italians and VE day in the Salzburg Castle, where Hitler and Mussolini met near Brunner Pass. Describing the food situation on the continent as tragic when she left six weeks ago, Miss Wick told of people starving and of shelves bare of bread, soap, fat, oils, and sweets. The only food available, she said, was through the black market with a good meal costing $25 in Paris. Sweden and Belgium seem to have plenty, she pointed out, but the remainder of Europe is starving.”

She Stopped in DC to be Cleared

“She arrived Tuesday in New York. She telephoned her mother that she will go to Washington DC to be cleared by the Red Cross before leaving for her home here. She visited relatives in Sweden. 20 relatives from different parts of Sweden attended a reunion upon her arrival.”

Yakima Girl Returns With Four Battle Stars on Dress

“Miss Wick served in artillery range during Voge mountains fight. The slender vivacious, former Yakima business girl was one of four Red Cross workers who drove a clubmobile and served coffee and as many as 6000 donuts a day to weary dog faces and artillery men. They were with the rear echelon, lived in tents and were able to pack, take down their tents and move in 20 minutes when the army was on the go. Six GIs, battle fatigue cases, made the donuts which the four girls distributed.”

The Only Division with a Presidential Citation

“We have lots of mosts in our division,” says Miss Wick, whose pride in the division is tremendous. “We even had the most casualties.” She added that is to be expected because the units were in some of the toughest fighting. “We were the only infantry division to have a presidential citation for the whole division.”

On V-E Day Sadness Mixed with Rejoicing

Miss Wick says (V-E Day) was quite exciting, of course, but “I don’t believe there was one person there who wasn’t thinking of the ones who weren’t there, the ones who made the victory possible. There was sadness mixed with rejoicing.”

What Was Germany Fighting For?

“’The German people had so much more than the other people in Europe, it made the Americans wonder what the Germans were fighting for.’ The Yakima girl says she earnestly believes all the Germans should be held morally responsible for the war. They certainly do not feel this, she says. They think they are just unfortunate to have lost the war. Miss Wick visited Dachau prison and Landsberg, where the Jewish concentration camp was and says stories of these horrors are not exaggerated.

“Switzerland and her mother‘s native Sweden, which Miss Wick visited on leave after hostility ceased, she found peaceful and beautiful, strangely so after the rubble and ruin of Italy, Germany, and France and the damage in England from the blitz.
“Among Miss Wick‘s most interesting souvenirs is a Gestapo camera, a machine about 2 1/2 inches long and an inch high and an inch wide. She has not yet decided upon her future plans although she could go either to Europe or the Pacific area with the war department if she wishes.”

Catching Some Culture in NYC

My Mother and Audie Murphy chapter 117

Flo saw shows and friends in the Big Apple

Flo sailed into New York City at the end of March 1946, and she partook of as much culture as she could in a few short days. She saved the playbills from several shows. She heard music at Carnegie Hall, saw the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo at the City Center of Music and Drama, and caught a play at the Cort on Broadway.

She connected with a friend, Dr. Edward Dunlap, who was starting his medical practice at New York Hospital, and she included his announcement, a picture of the hospital, and a picture of him. He could have been someone she knew during the war, but there are no other pictures or mentions of him in the album.

Dr. Eddie, his announcement, and the New York Hospital on East 68th Street.

Did she see her lesbian girlfriend, Edna Lauterbach, while in New York? Probably, but there’s no mention of “Eddie.” They had seen a show together when Flo visited in 1941, so it’s likely they reconnected — or maybe their friendship had ended by this time. Edna was definitely smitten with Flo, and I can imagine that Flo may have felt uncomfortable in the situation. I wrote about their relationship after discovering love letters from Eddie saved in another scrapbook. https://mollymartin.blog/2016/09/03/my-mothers-lesbian-affair/

Chapter 118: https://mollymartin.blog/2026/08/08/flo-back-home-in-yakima/

A Day to Thank the Earth

My Regular Pagan Holiday Post

In Andean cultures, the feminine figure was valued as a living expression of Pachamama’s attributes. AI generated image

August 1 in the northern hemisphere is celebrated as Lammas, the first harvest day. In South America it is Pachamama Day, the start of the growing season.

I first encountered the idea more than fifty years ago, but I didn’t recognize its importance until much later.

While reading Charles Mann’s 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus, I kept noticing one name in the footnotes: Alfred Crosby. The name stopped me. Crosby had taught history at my alma mater, Washington State University, and I had been his student.

At the time I knew him simply as a professor. I had no idea I was sitting in the classroom of a historian who would change the way the world understood history.

In 1972 Crosby published The Columbian Exchange, introducing a revolutionary way of thinking about European conquest. History, he argued, was not driven only by kings, generals, and battles. Plants, animals, microbes, and ecosystems were just as important. His work essentially created the field of environmental history.

The Columbian Exchange describes the enormous movement of crops, livestock, diseases, technologies, and cultures between the Americas and Afro-Eurasia after Christopher Columbus arrived in 1492. Potatoes, tomatoes, and corn transformed Europe, Africa, and Asia. Horses and cattle transformed the Americas. But the deadliest travelers were invisible.

In Ecological Imperialism, Crosby argued that European conquest depended as much on biology as on military power. Smallpox, measles, influenza, and other diseases swept through Indigenous populations that had no immunity. Entire societies were devastated before they could organize resistance. Europeans inherited landscapes emptied by epidemics as much as they conquered them by force.

Charles Mann takes the story even further. He argues that the Americas were home to far larger populations than historians once believed—perhaps tens of millions more. The continent Europeans imagined as a wilderness had actually been carefully managed for centuries by Indigenous peoples. Forests, fields, rivers, and grasslands all bore the imprint of human stewardship.

The tragedy becomes even greater in that light. Not only were millions of people lost; countless traditions, languages, and ways of understanding the natural world nearly disappeared with them.

Nearly—but not entirely.

Some traditions survived.

Every August 1, Indigenous communities across Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Colombia, Chile, and Argentina celebrate Pachamama Raymi, or Festival of Mother Earth, one of the oldest pre-Hispanic ceremonies still practiced in South America. Pachamama, from the Quechua words pacha (world, space, or time) and mama (mother), is often translated as Mother Earth. But she is more than the ground beneath our feet. She represents the living world that nourishes all life. Pachamama is the fertility goddess in Inca mythology, responsible for planting, harvesting, creating mountains and earthquakes, as well as the very existence of life on Earth.

The celebration coincides with the start of the agricultural season in the southern hemisphere and centers on a simple but profound idea: reciprocity.

The Earth feeds us. We must feed the Earth.

On August 1, farmers allow their fields to rest. Families prepare offerings of cooked foods, corn, potatoes, fruits, coca leaves, medicinal herbs, chicha, seeds, and flowers. A small hole is dug in the ground—symbolically Pachamama’s mouth—and the gifts are placed into the earth. The offering is not payment but gratitude, an acknowledgment that human life depends on the generosity of the land.

It is, in essence, Thanksgiving.

Long before Europeans arrived in the Americas, Andean peoples had developed a tradition that recognized what modern environmental science is only beginning to emphasize: humans are not separate from nature. We exist because of it.

The ritual feels remarkably relevant today. We celebrate technological progress while exhausting soils, warming the climate, polluting rivers, and treating the Earth as an endless warehouse of resources. Pachamama Day offers another way of thinking—not about ownership, but relationship; not about extraction, but reciprocity.

I find myself wishing we had something similar in our Western culture.

Our Thanksgiving has become centered on football, shopping, and overeating, with little reflection on the land that produces our food or on the Indigenous peoples who first cultivated many of the crops on our tables. Imagine setting aside a single day each year not to consume more, but to acknowledge our dependence on healthy soil, clean water, pollinating insects, and the astonishing web of life that makes our existence possible.

Perhaps that is why Crosby’s work and Pachamama Day seem connected to me.

Crosby taught that history cannot be understood without ecology. The Andean peoples never separated the two in the first place.

One explains how civilizations rose and fell. The other reminds us how to live.

As August 1 approaches, I think about the professor whose lectures made a great impression on me, the civilizations whose knowledge survived against overwhelming odds, and the simple wisdom embodied in a handful of food returned to the soil.

The Earth has always sustained us.

Perhaps it’s time we remembered to say thank you.

On the Ship, Sailing into NY Harbor

Chapter 116 My Mother and Audie Murphy

Seeing Liberty: What Does the Statue Symbolize?

In Sweden, afternoon coffee is a daily ritual, and my grandmother Gerda carried the tradition with her to America. We often joined her at her tiny house in Yakima and later at her apartment in a senior housing complex across from the Presbyterian church.

As Grandma arranged homemade butter cookies on her little table and poured coffee into delicate cups, she reminisced about sailing into New York Harbor and seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time in 1905. She had been herded toward the line marked Aliens. The statue, rising above the harbor, filled her with emotion. Forty-four years later, after returning from a visit to Sweden, she saw it again. This time she joined the line marked American Citizens.

Flo on the deck of the USAT George Washington crossing the Atlantic

For Gerda, the Statue of Liberty symbolized America’s welcome to immigrants.

“I could only think, This time I’m a citizen,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

My mother, Flo, sailed into New York Harbor in 1946 as she returned from Europe after the war. For her, the statue carried different memories. It reminded her of enormous loss—her fiancé and many friends had been killed—but also of pride. She and her generation had fought fascism and prevailed.

“When I saw the Statue of Liberty, I thought about all the people who died in that war,” Flo said. “The Americans were fighting for democracy.”

Her face crumpled. A tear rolled down her cheek. Soon both my mother and grandmother were crying. To me, it seemed almost hysterical.

Flo loved history and liked to imagine the future.

“Maybe by the turn of the twenty-first century,” she sniffled, “war will be history.”

Lounging on deck. It took the Geo Washington about ten days to sail from France to NYC

Both women were unabashed patriots. Flo flew the American flag every Fourth of July, though by the early 1970s she had also become deeply troubled by America’s conduct in Vietnam. Gerda proudly displayed both the American flag and the blue-and-yellow Swedish flag in her home. She liked to say that she had voted in every election open to women since becoming a citizen.

I was not a flag waver. I was a flag burner—metaphorically. I never actually set fire to a flag, but my brother and I once cut up an American flag to sew a shirt. It was illegal then; today it might pass as a right-wing fashion statement. To me the flag represented a country whose foreign policy included overthrowing democratically elected governments, assassinating foreign leaders, and installing compliant dictators.

A musician entertains the crowd of GIs on deck

I had never seen my grandmother cry before, but I had often seen my mother cry, usually over war. During the Vietnam War she would call me in tears, saying her generation had failed to end war and now the responsibility belonged to mine. She carried the suffering of the world on her shoulders.

I vowed never to be like her. I wouldn’t cry. Crying was weakness—or so the culture taught me. Men didn’t cry, and men held the power. I wanted to be like them.

That afternoon, what struck me as sentimental nostalgia repelled me. I had never sailed into New York Harbor and never would. When I looked at the Statue of Liberty, I didn’t see freedom. I saw the thousands of Southeast Asians killed in a war my country was waging, the millions of tons of bombs dropped on civilians, villages burned, children scarred by napalm.

A finger points to the sign on shore reading “Welcome Home. Well Done.”

Years later, I began to wonder whether my mother’s extraordinary empathy exacted a physical toll. She was repeatedly hospitalized with severe asthma attacks. The disease eventually killed her at seventy.

Later still, I came to believe that Flo had probably returned from the war with what we now recognize as PTSD. The government had little interest in acknowledging psychological trauma, even among combat veterans, much less civilian war workers like my mother.

In NY harbor the Transportation Corps sign reads “Welcome Home.”

Like so many Boomers, I had grown up with a parent emotionally wounded by war.

At the time, though, I understood none of that.

All I felt was embarrassment at her tears.

The Statue of Liberty had meant hope to my grandmother, sacrifice to my mother, and hypocrisy to me. It took me a while to understand that all three meanings could be true at once.

Now, when I see the statue and read the Emma Lazarus poem, I’m the one who’s crying. I still cry for the people we kill in endless needless wars, for the immigrats we imprison, murder and deport, and I cry for our democracy and all that we have lost.

The famous inscription mounted inside the statue

To start at the beginning of this story: https://mollymartin.blog/2024/11/04/my-mother-and-audie-murphy/

Chapter 117: https://mollymartin.blog/2026/08/02/catching-some-culture-in-nyc/

Crossed Off

Welcome to the Face Plant Club

I’m illustrating this essay with pictures of a hike this week across the Bodega Dunes to Bodega Head. This is a unique ecosystem with cool native plants. Photo of me by Joe Tenn.

It was humiliating.

A friend texted and asked if she could come over to talk about the horse-packing trip we were planning. I assumed she wanted to discuss food, gear, or transportation. She had already added me to the group, and I was thrilled at the thought of getting back into the Sierra backcountry.

Instead, she came to ask me to withdraw.

She explained that she thought I represented a falling hazard. What if I fell and injured myself? What if the group had to call in a helicopter? I would ruin the trip, she said, and she would spend the entire week worrying about me.

Our native cobweb thistle with yellow sand verbena

I sat there stunned. I couldn’t believe this was how she saw me.

It couldn’t have been easy for her to come to my house and have this conversation. We aren’t close friends, but we’re neighbors who hike with the same club. She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was trying to prevent what she imagined could become a disaster.

True, I’d taken a bad fall stepping onto my deck a couple of months earlier and injured my ankle. I blame thick-soled flip-flops. Years before, I’d tripped over a root and landed flat on my face during a hike. My companions shrugged it off. “Welcome to the face-plant club,” they said. “It happens to all of us.”

Since then I’ve become a much more careful hiker. I switched to two trekking poles. I stop before taking a picture or removing a jacket instead of trying to multitask. I’ve even taken classes on how to fall safely. Every setback has taught me something.

My friend asked what I was doing to recover from my ankle injury. Had I added balance exercises to my daily routine? Did I do squats? Stand on one foot while brushing my teeth?

As if, after living seventy-seven years, I had somehow never heard this advice.

The yellow bush lupine was in bloom. Looking across Bodega Bay at the town of Bodega.

The irony is that I walk really well. I hike several miles almost every day with different hiking groups. Sonoma County is filled with wonderful trails through state and county parks and protected open spaces, and I rarely miss a chance to explore them. The longest hike on this Sierra trip would have been seven miles—a distance I cover routinely.

What I can’t do anymore is backpack. After two back surgeries, I know I can’t carry a heavy pack for days. That’s why this horse-packing trip appealed to me so much. The horses would carry the gear, leaving me free to hike.

I told her I wasn’t ready to resign from the trip. I felt strong and capable.

At first I was angry that she’d invited me and then, in effect, uninvited me. But as my anger faded, I began wondering how she had come to see me this way. As I write this, I realize I played a part in creating the image she has of me.

Among my hiking friends—especially the women my age—we talk openly about our health. Who’s taking Fosamax? Who opted for the Reclast infusion? (I did both). We compare bone scans, surgeries, aches, and physical therapy.

I’ve talked about my osteoporosis diagnosis and my back surgeries. At one point I joked, “It seems like my spine is crumbling.”

More recently, though, a bone-density scan upgraded me from severe osteoporosis to osteopenia. Had my doctor exaggerated my diagnosis to persuade me to take medication?

Perhaps I’d spent too much time talking about what was wrong with me and not enough time showing people everything that was still right.

Native beach aster and invasive ice plant. Volunteers are working at removing the ice plant.

The next day I texted my friend and withdrew.

What changed my mind wasn’t that I’d suddenly decided she was right. It was that I realized her anxiety would poison the trip for both of us. Even if I hiked every mile without incident, she’d spend the week worrying, and I’d spend it wondering whether every stumble or awkward step was confirming her fears.

That wouldn’t be much fun for either of us.

I’m deeply disappointed not to be going into the Sierra backcountry. More painful still is the realization that perhaps I’ll never get there again. Growing older means slowly crossing things off the list of what you can still do. Sometimes you choose to cross them off. Sometimes someone else does it for you.

Russian thistle with native bumble bee and yellow lupine

After I’d withdrawn, I wrote to her:

“I think what makes me saddest is that somehow I’ve made you think I’m an unsafe, incompetent hiker who is likely to ruin a trip. I don’t see myself that way, and I don’t think others do either. I only ask that you not promote that image of me to the other hikers. If you need an explanation for why I didn’t come, you can simply mention my ankle injury.”

She replied, “I’m feeling your sadness and feeling sad too. I appreciate your generosity in letting go. I do tend to be a worrier sometimes. Hard to say whether my worry or your optimism was more accurate.”

On the way back hiking up Salmon Creek Beach we encountered fishers.

I’ve thought a lot about what happened.

What we tell people about ourselves shapes how they see us. Repeated often enough, stories about our illnesses and injuries can become our identity in someone else’s mind.

There is a difference between acknowledging our limitations and allowing them to define us.

I don’t intend to pretend I’m younger than I am. My back has been operated on twice. My bones aren’t what they once were. I have fallen.

But I’m also someone who hikes almost every day, who loves being outdoors, and who still thinks of herself as capable.

Maybe the lesson isn’t to stop talking about my health.

Maybe it’s to make sure that’s not the only story I tell.

Lunch at Bodega Head with my hiking buddies. 7.3 miles out and back.

Going Home After 2 Years in Europe

Flo Boards the USAT George Washington at port of Le Havre

Chapter 115 My Mother and Audie Murphy

Flo and her cohort of Red Cross workers and G.I.s boarded the USAT George Washington at the port of Le Havre, France for the trip to New York. The ship was commissioned by the US Navy for troop transport in both the first and second world wars.

Orders. Flo was hoping to accompany her friend Janet Tyson on the ship home but it appears they missed each other. Flo wanted to visit relatives in Sweden first.

At the port of Le Havre where most US ships departed from

An ocean liner built in 1908 for the Bremen-based North German Lloyd, at that time the George Washington was the largest German-built steamship and the third-largest ship in the world. Built to emphasize comfort over speed, she was sumptuously appointed in her first-class passenger areas and could carry a total of 2,900 passengers. Intended for Bremen to New York passenger service, the ship was named after the first president of the United States as a way to make the ship more appealing to immigrants, who then made up the majority of transatlantic passengers and believed formalities on arrival would be easier on a ship with an American name. After a fire, the ship was sold for scrap in 1951.

USAT George Washington. Photo: NavSource

Chapter 116: https://mollymartin.blog/2026/07/12/on-the-ship-and-sailing-into-ny-harbor/

Flo in Paris for One Last Visit

She saw topless dancers, fashion shows, museums

Chapter 114: Continuing the story of My Mother and Audie Murphy

On March 6, 1946, my mother, Florence Wick, received travel orders to go to Paris from Kassel Germany by rail for the purpose of returning to the U.S. She had been in Europe almost two years working as a Red Cross “donut girl.” She must have been delighted to be going home, and also to have the opportunity to visit Paris one last time. It would indeed be the last time she saw Paris.

This is what as a child I remember Flo telling me about Paris. The fragrance on the overcrowded trams overwhelmed; people doused themselves with perfume to cover body odor. The public urinals were everywhere, except they were only for men. There was no place for women to relieve themselves. What were women supposed to do? she wondered.

One of the ubiquitous pissoirs. Photo: The Guardian

In the Louvre she got up close enough to the Mona Lisa to see that the painting was surprisingly small and covered with tiny cracks. She also said the only French most American soldiers learned was coucher avec moi, or “sleep with me”, probably asked as a question. But in general she was smitten with the romantic city.

She went to the Moulin Rouge and Tabarin where women danced bare-breasted. She visited famous museums. She saw fashion shows. And she recorded it all in her WWII album. She included pages from LIFE magazine’s feature about post-war Paris.

Paris was occupied by Nazi Germany from June 14, 1940, until its liberation on August 25, 1944. The occupation was marked by strict regulations, food rationing, and significant hardships for the civilian population, including the persecution of Jews.

Despite the oppressive conditions, a network of resistance groups emerged, engaging in acts of defiance against the occupiers. The liberation of Paris began on August 19, 1944, with an uprising led by the French Resistance and the Communist Party, culminating in the city’s liberation by Allied forces on August 25, 1944. This marked a significant turning point in the war and the end of the Nazi regime’s control over the city. To read more, I recommend the book The Liberation of Paris by Jean Edward Smith.

It Belongs Also to Parisians: Photographs for LIFE by Edward Clark
Quoting from LIFE: “Paris, the grand courtesan of cities, is all things to all men, and this may be one reason why American soldiers and Parisians have been getting along so badly since World War II. The G.I. grew up in a generation when Paris to most Americans was a cheerful bawd: the Paris of Maxim‘s, the Ritz bar, the Moulin Rouge, the Scheherezade, and Boeuf sur le Toit, the Folies Bergéres, long-haired Montparnasse, feelthy pictures, the Quatz’ Arts Ball, and the Sphinx. To the young man who had seen this Paris in pictures who had read about it in Fitzgerald and Hemmingway, who had overheard wise conversations between his father and his uncle Tom, the Paris in which he found himself these last two winters was a grim and depressing disappointment. He found people who were cold, hungry, confused and tired–above all tired–who were too busy keeping themselves alive to bother much about entertaining him, who, because they were proud and sensitive to the shame through which their country had passed, resented his slurs and his swagger. And the G.I., in turn, felt cheated. Where was the Paris he had heard about? Where were the naked women?”

Paris was the capital of the fashion world. The industry started to come back to life in 1945 after the war. There was one fashion show but too little fabric. Then in 1946 the shows were bigger and better with a wider choice of fabrics. Flo attended several fashion shows and included stories about them in her album. It’s interesting to learn about the fashion industry scene right after the war. Paris was worried that it might move to the U.S. where it had moved during the German occupation.

Paris Makes Fashion Comeback

Quoting from LIFE magazine: “The haute couture of Paris, in a do or die bid for fashion leadership of the world, last month held its first complete fashion showings in seven years. During the fortnight in which the season reached its peak fashion, starved Parisians, important customers and a few foreign buyers were dashing to half a dozen shows a day from Lelong to Maggy Rouff to Rochas to the new wonder boys like Fath and Balmain.

The showings brought back the elegance of years that seemed long past. There were champagne and delicacies and soft music. French princesses came as did the Duchess of Windsor and the King of Egypt’s sister. What they saw made the experts feel that Paris had successfully regained the world fashioned leadership, which had passed by default during the war to the U.S. An analysis of the portfolio of photographs by LIFE‘s Nina Leen, first to reach the U.S., shows that the general trend is away from the “woman-cut-in-two” look toward a better proportioned silhouette. The new clothes follow body contours. Daytime skirts are a little longer and less full. Jackets dip in back. Shoulders are more natural. In afternoon and evening dresses the deep-cut fronts and bared shoulders (“bathtub decolletages”) reveal almost as much bosom as Restoration fashions. Reversing itself, Paris this year showed more colors and patterns than solid blacks. The luxury and glitter of the Paris showings made a strange contrast with the arrival in Washington of Léon Blum to beg a $2 billion loan. But, actually, the fashion export business is a big item in France’s trade. Last week all Frenchmen hoped that the prodigal shows would pay off in orders from all over the world, especially the U.S.”

Corduroy: A lowly, rugged fabric is used in new and elegant Paris styles

From LIFE: “For the past hundred years corduroy has been the sturdy, dependable fabric for work clothes. From the farms of Missouri to the vineyards of France, farmer and peasant have chosen it for its warmth and ruggedness. Made of cotton with raised ridges, it is almost indestructible. Like the tread on a tire, the ridges, which are called wales, protect the basic fabric against wear and tear. In the early 20s U.S. college boys began to wear slacks of corduroy and later college girls adopted it for jackets and skirts. But it retained its lowly character.

This spring the French haute couture took a good look at corduroy and discovered it offers more than wearability. It also has beauty. It has a velvetlike pile and good design possibilities in its ridges. Furthermore Cosserat et Cie., which since 1850 has been making all the corduroy in France, this year came out with bright new pinks, yellows and greens. As a result corduroy has now become a fabric for elegant Parisian clothes.”

Where the correspondents hung out

**From the LIFE caption:** The Scribe Hotel barroom is the headquarters and the hangout of correspondents in France. Here artist Floyd Davis found old acquaintances of the Time and LIFE European staff. At the table in center the New Yorker’s Janet Flanner, broadcaster William Shirer, and novelist Ernest Hemingway. Every other day, the bar served brandy, and then the place was crowded with correspondents who drank the brandy, they insisted, just to keep warm. Correspondents rushed out to the front to get stories. Disheveled correspondents rushed back from the front to file their stories. At any time, reporters could be heard complaining about sensors, brass hats, editors.

Where the naked women were

From the Tabarin playbill saved by Flo

To start at the beginning Chapter One: https://mollymartin.blog/2024/11/04/my-mother-and-audie-murphy/

Chapter 115: https://mollymartin.blog/2026/07/07/going-home-after-2-years-in-europe/

Our First Dyke March June 21, 2026

Generations Unite at Sonoma County’s Dyke March

There might be a higher percentage of lesbians in Sonoma County, California, than anywhere else in the world. So, even though we’ve had gay pride parades and celebrations since the 1980s, it’s surprising that only this year did we have our very first dyke march.

Organizers say it was about time.

An estimated 600 people participated in the march and “Lez-a-Palooza Street Fair on the Square” in Santa Rosa, the county seat. Cries of “We’re here, we’re queer. Get used to it!” resounded in the city streets on June 21.

Movement Origins

Dyke marches began in 1993 in Washington, D.C., organized to confront lesbian invisibility and erasure within both the broader LGBTQ+ movement and society at large. Rejecting corporate sponsorship and respectability politics, dyke marches centered grassroots power, direct action, and community care. Built on a demand for visibility, justice, and collective strength, the movement quickly spread to cities including San Francisco and Chicago, becoming a powerful tradition of lesbian-led activism and celebration.

Organizers say the Sonoma County Dyke March proudly carries forward this legacy, uniting generations and creating powerful common ground across the queer community. A dyke march is not a parade. It’s a community-centered march focused on visibility, history, and connection. The Lez-a-Palooza street fair creates intentional space to uplift dykes, lesbians, queer, non-binary, and the sapphic and trans community, while standing in solidarity with the broader LGBTQIA2S+ community.

Organizer Pam Adinoff, 72, said, “As a lesbian who has been out in Sonoma County for 53 years, my identity has been really important to me, but I have felt more and more invisible over the years as an aging lesbian. We have a very, very large senior lesbian community and a lot of them showed up for (last year’s) Pride and they were all marching under different organizations. But nothing said the word ‘lesbian.'” So Adinoff, along with a number of like-minded women, decided to address that sense of invisibility.

Pat Andreine, one of the organizers, said the best thing about the march was that it was intergenerational. Along with her partner, the historian Tina Dungan, she staffed the Sonoma County LGBT history timeline booth. Pat said they had lots of interest from young people.

Radical Inclusion

It’s an event meant to both elevate and celebrate lesbian culture and history, organizers said. Crucial to its success and its mission are the people who span ages and identities who have been recruited to help get the first-ever event off the ground.

“In writing our mission statement, we met with different groups of people, trans, non-binary, ‘How does this mission statement sound? Is there anything we need to change and do you feel included and do you feel seen?'” Adinoff, of Petaluma, said. “Visibility is one of the only things that we all want, we are all so different. But we wanted to create a warm embrace in a time when our community is facing immense (threat).”

“Part of the intention of this march is to make a strong statement of protest because the queer community is very much under attack. Trans lives are being targeted, non-binary people, marriage equality, and we want to make a statement that what is happening in the country right now, aimed at the queer community, is not OK,” said organizer Nancy Kelly, 68.

Santa Rosa natives Bonnie Hogue and my wife, Holly Holbrook, agreed that it was revolutionary to be part of the first dyke march in their hometown. Holly said that, if when she was younger there had been this kind of lesbian visibility, she would have figured out her sexuality a lot sooner.

Holly (L) and Bonnie, Santa Rosa natives

Reclaiming the Word

And that word “dyke” was intentional, too. “The word ‘dyke’ definitely used to be a slur,” said Kelly. “One of the things that the gay and queer community does is … take a slur and put it on themselves and reclaim it. So dyke used to be a derogatory word, as did queer.”

Much work was done in the organizing coalition to open the event to all identities, organizers said. “…There was a term – TERF, trans exclusionary radical feminist – meaning only people that were born women can identify as women,” said Alicia LeCompte, 38, of Santa Rosa. LeCompte, who hosts regular queer kickball and climbing events, wasn’t interested in supporting an event that wasn’t welcoming to all women. “A lot of my friends who are non-binary were asking, ‘Are they going to be inclusive to all genders and all queer expressions?'” she said. “Are they the type of people that we want to collaborate with, are we on the same wavelength?”

The answer was Yes. The event’s motto: All identities, all orientations, one march.

Bridging Generations

“It’s so energizing to be in an intergenerational community,” said organizer Frances Fuchs, 72, of Santa Rosa.

For Diana “D” Getko, 28, of Sebastopol, much can be learned from older women who have lived through, and learned from, fights for civil rights and acceptance. “I don’t think many people of our generation realize just how much the dykes have carried us through the formative years back in the ’70s,” she said. “Community is what got us through back in the ’70s and ’80s and we are going through another hard time. Community is what is going to get us through again.”

“It’s about building community,” Kelly said. “There is a part that is very serious and it’s a protest but part of it is just fun and joy. Both sustain us.”

The community has many challenges. In the opening days of his second term, President Donald Trump moved swiftly to target transgender and nonbinary people, limiting medical care, stating the federal government recognizes only two unchangeable sexes: female and male, denying requests for passports that use gender markers that don’t conform to the administration’s new definition. It all makes gathering in solidarity all the more important.

And love is at the heart of the event, organizers said. Allies and supporters are welcome. “People say ‘How can you call it a dyke march if it’s open to everybody?'” Fuchs said. “And basically we’d have to say the times are changed. We don’t need to put a fence around it to protect ourselves. We need to open it to protect ourselves. This is about bigger community and bigger connections and having a broader base to stand on.”

A participant in the drumming corps, Sistah Boom, which reunited for this event

From the mission statement:

Sonoma County Dyke March is an inclusive, grassroots, intergenerational movement bringing together Lesbian, Queer, Transgender, Non-Binary, Sapphic people, the full LGBTQIA2S+ spectrum, and our allies to resist attacks on our rights, bodies, and lives.

We honor the legacy of the Lesbians and Queer women who have been the backbone of social justice movements. We uplift Elder Lesbians, reclaim the word Dyke as a symbol of pride and defiance, and bestow this legacy on the next generation.

We organize in a moment of immense and escalating backlash—against trans lives, queer rights, reproductive freedom, marriage equality, racial justice, our immigrant communities, and democracy itself. Our goal is to complement and strengthen Pride by offering an intergenerational inclusive space for visibility, celebration, and belonging.

Silence is not an option.

Too many have sacrificed too much for us to stand by while our rights erode.

Holly and I with old friends. My T-shirt reads This is What an Old Lesbian Looks Like

Thanks to reporter Kerry Benefield for quotes from coverage in our local newspaper, the Press Democrat.

Midsomer Hails to Vikings’ Time

My Regular Pagan Holiday Post

Summer Solstice (Litha) takes place this year on June 21

The pagan Scandinavian summer solstice festival, like winter solstice, was appropriated by christians. But, unlike christmas, the takeover never really stuck. They tried to turn midsummer into a birthday party for John the Baptist. Bonfires that once warded off evil spirits and celebrated the sun’s strength became “St. John’s fires,” but the essential ritual survived unchanged. As they did in pre-christian Viking times, Swedes, Norwegians and Danes continue to make flower wreaths, dance around the maypole, sing, eat, drink and light giant bonfires.

I identify as Swedish because of my grandmother Gerda, who instilled our family’s culture. My grandfather Bernt was Norwegian, so we absorbed some of that tradition too.

In her 90s Grandma Wick dressed in her Swedish costume

Growing up in Yakima, Washington, we simply picnicked and ate outdoors all summer, perhaps an American substitute for the ritual. But my brother remembers our mother, who was born at Midsommer, hosting parties in June with a maypole for us kids to wind ribbons around. She had never been to a Midsomer festival, but her Scandinavian parents had impressed upon her the importance of this holiday.

Flo took this picture and the one at top raising the maypole at a Swedih Midsomer festival when we visited in 1979

Swedes gather at big communal and family events. Norwegians build fires. Oslo’s most dramatic public showcase occurs at Sukkerbiten, the sauna wharves on the fjord, where massive burning displays light the water. The Slinningsbålet in Ålesund ranks among the world’s tallest bonfires—a striking coastal tradition. In some places a figure is built and then burned. Think Burning Man.

This year, we’ll mark the solstice on June 21 at Sonoma County’s first dyke march—marching, singing, eating, and drinking. Living in a fire-prone region, we’ll celebrate without bonfires, but the spirit of communal gathering remains.

Skål!

Love, Molly and Holly

My Silver Linings Playbook

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

I should have canceled the hiking trip to Morocco and Portugal after falling on my deck. The X‑ray showed my ankle wasn’t broken — just a small fragment of displaced bone — and I convinced myself the pain would subside. They fitted me with a walking boot, and I left the hospital with cautious hope.

The trip was filled with mishaps, and so I have begun to frame it as a succession of silver linings. First thing: I forgot my passport and missed my flight. Unable to get on another, I took BART back to San Francisco, had a lovely dinner with old Bernal Heights buddies Judy and Diane, and slept on Judy’s blow‑up bed.

Judy K and I, Diane in her garden with Bernal Hill in the background, dog walking the next day at Holly Park with Judy K and Judy S

The next day, back at the airport with time to kill, I explored SFO’s International Terminal and found its quirkiest attractions: a low-rider bicycle exhibit, a roast‑your‑own coffee machine and a tiny theater showing shorts that felt like art‑school therapy. At a bar near the Lufthansa gates, the bartender poured a consolatory 20‑ounce IPA and chatted with me — mostly because I was the only customer. Lufthansa pilots were on strike and so their flights were canceled and the bar empty.

At SFO: part of a low rider bike exhibit, roast your own coffee

Standby meant more waiting, more near‑misses. I missed another flight because it was full, then met Lynn, a retired flight attendant of 35 years, who’d also left her passport at home. We were directed to the swanky Air France lounge, an oasis of free food and booze. Sometimes fortune favors the passport‑less.

At the Air France lounge in my boot, new best friend Lynn, 3 kinds of water

My injured leg earned me VIP wheelchair treatment at airports. But the boot was not a fun accessory on the 12‑hour flight.

Stopover in Paris: arriving, rated highly, Charles de Gaulle had the coolest toilets

Midnight in Marrakesh: I swapped currency at the airport, shared a taxi to the old town medina with an amiable French couple and met Ali, the hotel night man, who navigated the medina’s narrow alleys like a supernatural GPS. I could never have found my riad (hotel) without him. Ali seemed never to sleep. He served us breakfast in the morning.

In the old walled city medina: cats and motorbikes, donkeys. No cars will fit

This all-women trip, sponsored by Lewis and Clark College, introduced us to Moroccan culture in ways that didn’t require hiking. I was delighted to chat with English language students whose cosmopolitan takes deepened my cultural understanding.

In the medina: door and interior, the only graffiti I saw

We met Nora Fitzgerald Belahcen, founder of the Amal Women’s Training Center, whose mission is to train indigent women to earn a living. Highlights included a tagine cooking class and a delicate tea ritual using herbs plucked from the garden. Dinner was cooked and served by a crew of deaf women in the Sign Language Café, one of many projects inspired by the Amal culinary school for women*.

On a seven‑hour drive to the Atlas Mountains, motion sickness upgraded me to front‑seat conversationalist; the female Moroccan guide and I talked about Islamophobia, women’s roles in Morocco and architecture. I was amazed at the earthen buildings and walls. “We call this adobe,” I said. “What do you call the building material?” She replied, “Mud.”

On the way to the Atlas Mountains

Limited mobility changed the trip but didn’t ruin it. I discovered lounging is an underrated travel activity. As my cohort hiked, a van whisked me to scenic spots so I could sit and be part of the (stunning) landscape.

Exploring the old kasbah. These mud buildings last hundreds of years.

Indigenous guides introduced us to Amazigh (Berber) culture, inviting us for meals and entertainment in women’s homes. The women dressed us up for a mock wedding, drew us in to the song and dance, and in those moments we ten Americans weren’t tourists, we were favored guests.

Our guide Fatimazahra dressed up for the mock wedding

Three of us traveled on to Portugal, visiting Lisbon, Sintra and mountain schist villages. A highlight for me in Lisbon was the Resistance Museum where I could sit and take in the history of the Portuguese 1974 revolution and the concurrent freeing of their African colonies.

Driving out of the city, we were surprised to see the mountains planted in eucalyptus (for paper production), which burned in a terrible fire in 2025. Then, early this year, a huge storm knocked down trees and power lines and flooded villages, damaging the hiking trails. We Californians recognized this familiar pattern of climate’s cruelty and poor land use decisions.

Burned signs in the Portuguese mountains

We persisted; my ankle felt a bit better and I was able to hike among the old schist villages with the help of an ankle wrap and hiking poles.

On the way home and back in the boot, at the Madrid airport (I can now say I’ve been to Spain), planes were delayed and gates shuffled, yet an army of orange‑vested attendants formed a conveyor belt of compassion for the disabled. We were a support group on wheels. On packed planes I miraculously avoided catching anything despite the coughing babies.

Lisbon’s bridge looks like the Golden Gate

The grand finale: midnight in Santa Rosa, about to be dropped off at the airporter bus stop, I strategized how to get home. Plan A: Lyft—no reply. Plan B: taxi—too late. Plan C: a heroic 2.5‑mile pilgrimage, halted when the bus driver passed me a phone number and I met Eric, the night driver‑cum‑savior who rescued me from walking‑home doom.

Silver linings: reunions that felt like coming home, friends new and ancient, strangers who became angels, tiny airport luxuries, lessons in culture, and real, workable tweaks for travel with an injury. But perhaps the best was bonding with my sister travelers and our knowledgeable guides.

No regrets. If anything, I’m grateful I muddled through—because the mess made room for unexpected warmth. I’m glad I didn’t cancel.

*If you’d like to support the Amal Women’s Training Center, consider donating: https://www.amalnonprofit.org

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