After living in tents for the summer of 1944 at a training camp for the Third Infantry Division in Italy, the American Red Cross clubmobile workers made it to France. They scrambled to catch up with the fast moving war and their boys in the front lines.
Flo (my mother, Florence Wick) and her coworker Liz Elliott traveled north from southern France trying to get to a place where they could go back to work serving donuts and coffee to the troops.
Flo captioned this “Lizzie’s sketches of ‘Life of a Donut Gal in France’“
They had been a crew of four, but Isabella Hughes and Dottie Shands stayed in Marseille. They expect to join Flo and Liz, but for the time being Flo and Liz are a crew of two living mostly in the clubmobile. Frequent rain has turned roads and fields to muddy sludge.
Liz and Flo and the clubmobile they lived in
They were originally assigned to the Third Division, but after a major evicted them, they moved in with the 6th Corps artillery unit near Vesoul for a time. Then they were allowed back in to the division as three regimental rest camps were opened.
Flo has met up with her fiancé Gene several times and she corresponds with him through the APO mail, although she complains often in her diary of “no mail.” He is with the 36th Engineers, the crew that rebuilds bombed out bridges and roads. But they are also forced into combat when foot soldiers are needed.
September 19-24 Flo’s diary (pinch out to read)
“Good to be back at work,” wrote Flo in her diary, after the Red Cross women had been allowed back into the Third Division.
“Gene way up on lines. No mail.”
“Served 30th Inf. Rest camp & 3rd Div band. Boys tired. Fun with band.”
Flo working in the field
On Sept. 21 she wrote, “ Served co. of 756 tank Bn. They had hard luck—several lost in Bn.”
Sept. 22: “Served in same area with many other div. Still no word from Gene. Jerry planes over town. Quite exciting.”
Sept. 24: “Served 1st Bn of 15th up in next town. Raining hard…dinner at 15th C.P.”
This is Audie Murphy’s unit and must be where they met. He remembered Flo served him donuts somewhere in France.
Long time community activists in Jackson Wyoming told me that the no Kings protest on June 14 was the biggest protest ever in that town. Hundreds of people filled the sidewalks around the town Square on a warm sunny day. My friend Leslie Levy and I were among the many tourists who participated in the rally. We were on our way from the San Francisco Bay Area to Yellowstone National Park and were glad to find a welcoming protest in Jackson. As we gathered under the antler arches, a speaker related news of the assassinations of lawmakers in Minnesota and said it is clear that the Trump regime has made violence a method in its madness. He admonished protesters not to commit violence and to stay peaceful and safe. Jackson is the Gateway to the Tetons national Park, and Yellowstone, just to the north. Its economy is dependent on tourism and the parks so people here are concerned about cuts to the National Park Service. NPS workers told me of layoffs and workers not being replaced. At the start of the summer season the system here is looking pretty ragged at the edges. There were one or two police cars parked near the demonstration, but there was no police action except to remind demonstrators to stay on the sidewalks. Two older women sat on horseback at one corner representing the Jackson police. They said they were volunteers and the horses belonged to them. The horses had no job except to allow many hands to pet them.
My three younger brothers and I all listened to our mother’s stories about the war and her two years as a Red Cross clubmobile worker in Europe. Of course, we each have different memories of her tales. I don’t remember her telling about the first time she tasted eggplant, but my brother Don does. I asked him to write about what he remembers. Here is his story.
Don Martin Remembers
2022. Recently my sister decided to start using emojis in her text messages. She is in her mid-70s and is not particularly a maven of popular culture, so her understanding of this youth-driven vernacular is limited. How do old people like us decipher the coded meanings of subtle facial expressions or the specific colours of hearts, for example? I try to keep up on these things, but I don’t pretend to understand the nuances. One day, however, she sent me a text with a string of eggplant emojis and I was confused.
“Molly, do you know what an eggplant emoji means?” I asked.
“Doesn’t it just mean eggplant? I like eggplants.”
“Oh, dear. I hope you aren’t sending eggplant emojis out indiscriminately. You really should google these things first.”
“I need to google emojis? So, what does it mean?”
I explained that the eggplant is now commonly used in sexting to represent male genitalia. To which she howled with laughter. But it started a whole conversation between us, (mostly about eggplants). I recounted a memory of the first time our mother prepared this berry of the nightshade family for dinner.
It was the summer of 1959. Molly had just turned ten years old. I was seven. We lived in the all-white suburbs of a moderately-sized farming community in central Washington state. Our neighbourhood was like the little boxes on the hillside described by Malvina Reynolds in her song about ticky tacky post-war American life. The low-slung houses were close together and we were close to the families next door most with children our age. Our backyards were still unfenced so we kids had a block-long grassy playing field. The moms chatted as they hung their laundry out to dry in the desert air and the dads planned fishing trips over bottles of beer.
I remember we had a concrete patio off the back stoop large enough to accommodate a picnic table, a set of lawn chairs, and a charcoal barbeque. The table had a hole in the middle for an umbrella that provided shade on blazing summer afternoons. For this particular dinner Mom decided to cook outside. I remember she had a small prep table with a cutting board, two shallow bowls and the big square electric frying pan she used for nearly everything. I think Dad was grilling hamburgers or chicken, the aromas of which enticed the Yaden kids to come over and see what we were having.
On the patio in Yakima about 1955. Don (L) Molly (R), Tim on Dad’s lap
The Martins had always been a very meat-and-potatoes kind of family. Vegetables in our diet were limited to canned green beans and creamed corn. Sure, we had fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in the summer, but never had we eaten something as exotic as an eggplant. You didn’t see it in regular grocery stores back then. Too ethnic I guess. I’m not sure where Mom found it, maybe at one of the roadside vegetable stands run by Italian farmers in the Valley.
I loved to help mom cook, so when I saw her bringing the rest of the food out to the patio I left the other kids and ran over. The Yaden twins followed.
“What is that?” screamed Susan Yaden pointing at the large purple thing on the cutting board.
“That is an eggplant,” mom said. “We’re going to try something I had for the first time many years ago in France.”
“Ew,” giggled Susan’s sister Janet, and they both ran off.
I, too, was a little scared, but intrigued. I asked what I could do to help. As Mom peeled the eggplant and sliced it into half-inch rounds, she had me beat two eggs in one bowl. The other bowl was filled with cracker crumbs. She showed me how to dip the slices in the eggwash and coat both sides with the crumbs. Then she fried them in batches until they were golden brown.
“This is how a family I stayed with in France taught me to fix eggplant,” Mom explained. “I’d never eaten it before either.” She looked up from the sizzling slices and stared wistfully into the distance. “It was when I was in the Red Cross, sweetie, during the war. The other doughnut gals and I were driving north to catch up with the army and we had almost no food with us. We decided to stop at a farm house and ask for an egg or a little bread. Of course, we would pay them for it because we knew they probably didn’t have much food either.”
I brought her attention back to the present. “Mom, It think it might be time to turn them over. They look pretty brown,” I advised, still listening intently.
“Yes. There. Don’t they look good? Crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle.” She was deep in thought for a minute or two. “The French people were so happy to see us because they knew it meant the war might be over soon. This family made us a wonderful dinner and let us sleep there that night. It’s one of my fondest memories of that horrible time. Okay call your brothers and sister over. I think everything is ready.”
That is how I was introduced to eggplant. The vegetable. I can’t remember if everybody liked it, but Molly and I did. I remember feeling very sophisticated and a little closer to Mom.
The war was moving north fast, and the Red Cross personnel had to move fast to catch up. Isabella and Dottie had stayed in Marseilles, so Flo and Liz were on their own. They snagged a car, driving from Aix-en-Provence to Grenoble, and on to the QM area near Quingey, just south of the town of Besançon. Flo wrote, “Should not have come up, but Bill let us stay.”
I think she is saying they are too close to the front lines. Bill is probably Bill Shay, whose photo is pasted in the album titled Bill Shay ARC, maybe their boss. In letters and interviews, the clubmobilers complained that their ARC bosses were of little help. The women were generally tasked with figuring things out on their own.
Bill Shay ARC
Flo also noted, “Moved same evening to area beyond town. Liz and Bill came late, so slept in Major Goodwin’s bedroll.”
That might be the theme of Liz’s drawing.
Liz’s drawings of clubmobile life are pasted throughout Flo’s album
The next day, Sept. 10, Flo wrote, “Shopped in Quingey for pans to cook for boys. Saw 36th Div. gals. Slept under trailer tarp. Very comfortable. Cooked for donut crew.”
On Monday, Sept. 11 she wrote: “Moved near Besancon. Put up pyramidal tent (full of holes). Saw Frank Gates.”
(Gates is the ARC man who took them to Rome on the amphib jeep June 5. That seems to long ago!)
“(Gates) didn’t like our being around. Liz and I spent night under tarp with (donut making) machines. Made hot choc. For us all.
Flo’s diary
Sept. 12, Flo wrote, “Slept in tent on our German stretchers. Ord. gave us two cars—sedan & Ger. Jeep. Saw 36th E in town…” She doesn’t mention that she saw her fiance, Gene, who was with the 36th Engineers.
Sept. 13. Raining. “Spent wet night. Had fried chicken. Very good. Liz is KP & Flo is mess sgt.”
Sept. 14. “Frank Gates says Maj. Basilla wants us to get out, so we moved up to 6th Corps artillery unit.”
It seems like this means that Major Basilla was kicking them out of the Third Division. Some of the commanding officers were opposed to having the clubmobilers near the army. Gen. Mark Clark had been their advocate and protector in the beginning, but he was no longer there.
She wrote: “Spent night in French summer home. Wonderful beds. Both of us blue & orphans.”
Friday, Sept. 15 Flo wrote, “Left for Vesoul w/6th Corps artillery. Moved into small inn in Villers de Sac with Liz. Wonderful beds & kitchen to cook meals in. Fun. Drove down to QM in Ger. Jeep.
Sept. 16. “Cooking for 6th Corps donut gang. Madame Susan good to us. Fried 3 chickens & cut ‘em up myself. 11 for dinner. Danced in inn to phono. Raining hard.”
Liz and Flo plucking French chickens
Flo was very proud of herself for cutting up chicken and cooking meals. She had never been a cook. At home, she had worked at a job and her mother had done all the cooking. From the notes in her diary, it seems like she was getting in to her domestic side.
September 8, 1944. After several days in the small town of Aix-en-Provence, the Red Cross crew drove north in an effort to catch up to the Third Division. They stopped in Grenoble where they stayed for a night in what Flo called, “a lovely hotel, taken by 7th Army.” She noted: “Boy from Ballard (A Seattle neighborhood) gave me cinnamon rolls.” She described Grenoble as “lovely and modern—very mountainous.”
From Flo’s albumFrom Flo’s diary
Flo also pasted on this page of her album a newspaper story quoting Sgt. Louis Roberts about Nazi brutality endured by the French. Sgt. Roberts must be a Yakima native. From the Yakima Herald:
Atrocities Are Reported
Sgt. Roberts Avers France Bled White
Sgt. Louis Roberts who has been staying recently with a French family, has thus been able to get a better understanding of condition in France than most of the Americans and has the added advantage of speaking the language.
“It is hard to fathom how Germany bled France of resources,” he says. “From one little sector each month the people had to send 13 ½ tons of shoes, 10,000 head of cattle, tons of butter, milk, wood and other things plus a monthly payment of five million francs. It is incredible how much a small region could ever supply so much. These people have been thrifty and economical enough to endure this war.
“Being deprived of food and clothing did not bother the French so much as the brutal measures the Germans took. Often children had to suffer the loss of limbs so parents would take pity on them and disclose vital information about the F.F.I. (French Forces of the Interior. The French resistance) One town north of here was taken by the F.F.I. The Germans warned the patriots that if one shot were fired after 11 o’clock they would retaliate. The warning was not heeded and the Germans retook the town and set all the houses afire along the main street.
“Numerous incidents are constantly told about how the Germans would shoot our wounded prisoners. Women would cover the bodies of dead aviators or allied soldiers with flowers which would be scattered by the Germans who were on guard. If some persons would linger over the body of one of our soldiers to pray they would be driven away at the point of bayonets.
“These French are very sorry, indeed, that all of us cannot understand the language. Each of them has some grewsome story to tell, not necessarily how they suffered but how the rest, or all of France, has to suffer. I have seen results of such brutality and I feel even more sorry for the French still in German territory. I could write a book on what I have heard and seen.
Yesterday I went to mass—a special mass for the liberation of the town. The church was beautifully decorated with numerous flags and stretched out up over the altar was a huge banner ‘Honor and Glory to the Americans.’ The choir and music were also beautiful. It was like Easter at home.”
Sgt. Roberts and Miss Florence Wick, Yakima Red Cross worker, are in the same town and see each other at times. He adds that “even though people are bombed out of their homes they are most happy to be liberated.”
Beards and Bushes and Leg Hair Inspired by a photo of Cathy Cade.
It was 1967, and I was a freshman at Washington State University, living in the dorms—tiny rooms where two people shared a space roughly the size of a generous closet. Once you pulled the beds out from the wall, you had about six inches of precious real estate between them. Cozy!
The bathrooms were shared among all the women on the floor. There was a communal bathtub where I’d perch, shaving my legs with a double-edged razor and a bar of soap. I hated it. I hated the shaving, I hated the blood, the injuries, the boxes of band aids needed for cuts. I’m pretty sure I clogged the drain more than once.
This was before the feminist movement really revved up, but some baby rebel deep inside me was already stretching her hairy legs. I decided to stop shaving. In fact, I committed to it scientifically—I posted a chart on the door of my dorm room and recorded the weekly growth of my leg hair.
What did my floormates think? I imagine they thought I was completely out of my mind. No one said much of anything, which either means they were too stunned to speak or too polite to comment on the inch-long leg hair I proudly tracked like it was a science fair project. Either way, I felt free. No more razors. No more blood. No more pretending to be a hairless woodland creature.
Later, in a collective house with three other dykes, we turned body hair into a competitive sport. Who had the hairiest legs and the most luxuriant bush? Our favorite outfit was just a vest. That’s it. No pants. No shirt. Just full-frontal follicular glory. Sadly, despite my natural abundance, I was not the hairiest. Mahaney’s glorious blond leg hair made her look like she was wearing angora leggings.
Years later, in another act of feminist rebellion, I ditched the bra. My breasts are ample and gravity is real, but so is back pain. Bras hurt my shoulders, and every one I tried felt like medieval armor built by men who’d never met an actual woman. At first, going braless felt like I was walking around topless at a PTA meeting. But eventually, I got used to the freedom—and the bouncing and the sweaty undertits.
Then recently, inspired by a New York Times obituary photo of the celebrated bearded dyke photographer Cathy Cade, I decided: it’s beard time. I’d never grown one before, though I’d thought about it. My chin hair was never cute, but now that it’s gone gray, it’s looking rather distinguished. Professor Dumbledore meets anarchist grandma.
I asked my wife what she thought. Her response—paraphrased for the sake of civility—was essentially: “If you grow a beard, I will disown you, move to another state, and possibly enter witness protection.” She was not a fan.
But of course, that only made me want it more.
Now it’s grown in, and it’s introduced me to a whole new world. It came in at odd angles, curly, wiry, determined to defy gravity. One side’s a little fuller than the other, probably because I got electrolysis in the ’90s when I still cared what strangers thought. Regrets? Maybe. I could have had a resplendent full beard by now.
Still, I love playing with it. I twirl it, stroke it, and now completely understand why men do that—it’s like a built-in fidget toy. Plus, it moves in the wind. My chin hair dances! Who knew?
So far I’ve gotten no positive reactions to my beard. I thought men might appreciate it, so I asked two old man friends for their opinions. One said, “Cut it off.” The other said, “Trim it.” Translation: “We hate it.”
The best, most diplomatic, reaction I’ve gotten was, “It’s not something I would choose.” Ouch. One woman told me, “I pluck mine.” Been there. Plucking is a full-time job, and I’m on permanent vacation.
Then at an Old Lesbians retreat I met another bearded woman. A sister! She has been rocking facial hair for years. I asked what bosses and parents thought. She said her family had taken it in stride. Her mother didn’t mind the beard, but she insisted my friend wear a bra when she visited back home. Her boss at a medical facility had been a gay leather man who’d protected her from the higher ups.
There’s this fantastic TikTok group started by a Black woman for menopausal and post-menopausal women—listing all the things we no longer give a damn about: bras, makeup, body hair, expectations, decorum, patriarchy. I’m joining. I might even get the vest out again.
Summer (and Winter) Solstice will be June 20, 2025
For years, these pagan holiday letters have followed the rhythm of the Northern Hemisphere. So it’s about time we turned our gaze south. What is the summer solstice for us in the north is, of course, the winter solstice down under.
In Aotearoa (the Māori name for New Zealand, often translated as “Land of the Long White Cloud”), the winter solstice is marked by Matariki, a celebration that signals the Māori New Year. In 2022, Matariki was officially recognized as New Zealand’s first indigenous national holiday — a milestone in honoring the traditions of the land’s first people.
Rooted in ancient Māori astronomy and storytelling, Matariki revolves around the reappearance of a small but powerful star cluster in the early morning sky — known in Māori as Matariki, and in Western astronomy as the Pleiades or the Seven Sisters. Its rising marks a time of renewal, remembrance, and reconnection — with ancestors, the earth, and each other.
The date of Matariki shifts slightly each year, determined by both the lunar calendar and careful observation of the stars. Māori astronomers and iwi (tribal) experts consult mātauranga Māori — traditional Māori knowledge systems — to ensure the timing reflects ancestral wisdom. In precolonial times, the clarity and brightness of each star helped forecast the year’s weather, harvest, and overall wellbeing.
Unlike the linear passage of time in the Gregorian calendar, Māori time is circular — woven from moon phases, tides, seasons, and stars. Matariki is not just a new year, but a return point. A moment to pause, reflect on what has been, and plan how to move forward in harmony with the natural world.
At the heart of Matariki is kaitiakitanga — the ethic of guardianship. It’s the understanding that humans are not owners of the earth, but caretakers. We are part of the land, sea, and sky, and we carry the responsibility to protect and sustain them.
When Matariki rises just before dawn, it opens a space for both grief and celebration: to mourn those who’ve passed, give thanks for what we have, and set intentions for the year ahead. It reminds us of the interconnectedness of whānau(family), whakapapa (genealogy), and whenua (land).
The name Matariki is often translated as “the eyes of the chief,” from mata (eyes) and ariki (chief). According to one well-known Māori legend, the stars are the eyes of Tāwhirimātea, the god of winds and weather. In grief over the separation of his parents — Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother) — Tāwhirimātea tore out his own eyes and cast them into the heavens.
In a world that often values speed over stillness, Matariki offers a different rhythm. It’s a celestial breath — a reminder that time moves in cycles. That rest and reflection are just as important as action. That the sky still holds stories if we remember to look up.
The 9 Stars of Matariki
Each star in the Matariki cluster has its own role and significance:
Matariki – Health and wellbeing
Tupuānuku – Food from the earth
Tupuārangi – Food from the sky (birds, fruits)
Waitī – Freshwater and the life within it
Waitā – The ocean and saltwater life
Waipuna-ā-Rangi – Rain and weather patterns
Ururangi – Winds and the atmosphere
Pōhutukawa – Remembrance of those who have passed
Hiwa-i-te-Rangi – Aspirations, goals, and wishes for the future
For Māori, these stars are not just celestial objects — they are guardians. They watch over the land, sea, and sky, and in doing so, remind us of our responsibility to them.
As global conversations about climate change and sustainability grow more urgent, the values of Matariki — care, reverence, reflection, and renewal — feel especially resonant. It’s a time to return to what matters, to honor the past, and to move forward in a way that honors both our roots and our shared future on this earth.
North Bay Rising
In Santa Rosa and across the North Bay, we’re mad as hell—and we’ve taken to the streets. From the Hands Off! protest in April that brought 5,000 people to downtown Santa Rosa, to thousands more mobilizing in surrounding towns, resistance to the rise of fascism in the U.S. is fierce and growing.
Some of the signs from our protests
Here in Sonoma County, protests are a near-daily occurrence. Demonstrators are targeting a wide range of issues: U.S. complicity in the genocide of Palestinians, Avelo Airline’s role in deportation flights, Elon Musk’s attacks on federal institutions like Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid, the gutting of the Veterans Administration, the criminalization of immigrants, assaults on free speech, and—by us tradeswomen—the dismantling of affirmative action and DEI initiatives.
The Palestinian community and its allies have been gathering every Sunday at the Santa Rosa town square since October 2023.
Weekly actions include:
Thursdays: We the People protest in Petaluma.
Fridays: Veteran-focused rallies protesting VA budget cuts.
Saturdays: Tesla Takedown at the Santa Rosa showroom, and a vigil for Palestine in Petaluma.
Sundays: Protest at the Santa Rosa Airport against Avelo Airlines, and a Stand with Palestine demonstration in town.
Tuesdays: Resist and Reform in Sebastopol.
Ongoing: In Cotati, a weekly Resist Fascism picket line.
In Sonoma Plaza, there’s a weekly vigil to resist Trump. Sebastopol hosts a Gaza solidarity vigil, along with Sitting for Survival, an environmental justice action.
Beyond the regular schedule, spontaneous and planned actions continue:
A march to raise awareness of missing and murdered Indigenous women.
In Windsor, women-led organizing for immigrant rights.
A multi-faith rally at the town square on April 16.
Protest musicians and singers are coming together to strengthen the movement with art.
Trump’s goons are jailing citizens, and fear runs deep, especially among the undocumented and documented Latinx population—who make up roughly a third of Santa Rosa. But fear hasn’t silenced them. They continue to show up and speak out.
I’ve joined the North Bay Rapid Response Network, which mobilizes to defend our immigrant neighbors from ICE raids.
Meanwhile, our school systems are in crisis. Sonoma State University is slashing classes and programs in the name of austerity. Students and faculty are fighting back with protests, including a Gaza sit-in that nearly resulted in a breakthrough agreement with the administration.
Between all this, Holly and I made it to the Santa Rosa Rose Parade. The high school bands looked and sounded great—spirited and proud. Then, our Gay Day here on May 31, while clouded by conflict about participation by cops, still celebrated us queers.
And soon, I’ll hit the road heading to Yellowstone with a friend. On June 14, we’ll join protesting park rangers in Jackson, Wyoming as part of the No Kings! national day of action—a protest coordinated by Indivisible and partners taking place in hundreds of cities across the country.
On the Solstice, June 20 in the Northern Hemisphere, we expect to be in Winnemucca, Nevada, on the way home.
September 5, 1944. From Murphy’s autobiography To Hell and Back:
In a short while they are back in the thick of battle. The forward units knife through German lines, leaving pockets of resistance for the mopping-up crews. The noise of combat rises from every direction.
The swift advance has drained their energy and their supplies. Hungry and exhausted, they collapse along a roadside to wait for orders. Artillery thunders over their heads. They lie on their backs, listening to the shells crash forward into the hills.
Murphy and his crew seize an opportunity when a German supply truck rattles into view. They ambush it and find it loaded with bread and cognac. For a brief, stolen moment they eat, drink, and sing, the battle seeming almost far away.
The town of Besancon from its citadel. You can see the bombed bridges.Photo: Dogface soldiers.org
That night they crash into Besançon and fight until morning. Within a few days the city is secured, and once again the pursuit of the retreating Germans begins.
Murphy’s platoon brings up the rear when a roadblock stops the company. Mortar shells begin peppering the earth. Murphy pauses to speak to a small group of soldiers, several of them nervously pale replacements, waiting for the fire to ease.
Nearly killed by a mortar shell
A mortar shell drops in almost without sound. It is practically under Murphy’s boots before he registers its arrival. He has just enough time to think, This is it, before the blast knocks him unconscious.
When he comes to, he is sitting beside a crater with the shattered remains of a carbine in his hands. His head throbs, his eyes burn, and he cannot hear. The acrid, greasy taste of burned powder coats his tongue.
FFI fighters. Photo: NARA
He runs his hands down his legs, methodically checking. Both limbs are there. But the heel of his right shoe is gone, and his fingers come away sticky with blood.
A voice filters dimly into his fogged brain: “Are you all right, Sergeant?” He wipes the tears from his stinging eyes and looks around. The sergeant who spoke and the young recruit beside him are dead. Three others are wounded. All had been farther from the shell than he was.
When a mortar detonates on contact with the ground, its fragments shoot upward and outward in a cone. Murphy had been standing close to the base of that cone and caught only the lightest edge of the fragmentation. Had he been three feet farther away, he knows he would not be alive.
During World War II, concussions resulting from mortar attacks were a significant source of traumatic brain injury (TBI). Soldiers experienced symptoms like headaches, dizziness, poor concentration, and memory problems following exposure to blasts, even without visible head injuries. The term “shell shock” was originally used in WWI to describe these symptoms, but was later replaced with terms like “post-concussion neurosis” in WWII. Head injuries from mortars contributed to a significant percentage of medically treated wounds during the war.
Murphy spends a few days in the hospital, not because of his brain injury, but because his foot was wounded. Then he’s back in the lines.
I had such a good time at the protest today. Met some wonderful people and I got to sing old protest songs with the Indivisible singers.
Avelo Airlines has accepted a $150 million contract to operate deportation flights, aiding in the illegal removal of individuals without their right to a fair hearing or due process. This is not only inhumane but a direct violation of our Constitution.
We’re calling for a full boycott of Avelo Airlines and organizing a weekly protest at our local airport. For more information and to join us: https://www.mobilize.us/mobilize/event/779651/
tradeswomn musings 