Here we have a wonderful dream-come-true story, wherein a young woman in the UK with few prospects, no money, fairly pedestrian expectations, and only a vague dream ‘to travel the world’ finds herself doing just that, and being well paid for it into the bargain.
Betty Riegel (nee Eden) wasn’t particularly dissatisfied, or wretched, or restless growing up in wartime London, but once the war was over, and she went looking for work, she understood that there was much more to the world than her little burg could offer. She took a position with a small, puddle-jumping airline when she was just 18, and despite a bad case of airsickness, learned a lot more about what she wanted from life.
When the chance arrived to interview with Pan Am, at the time the world’s premier airline, she entered the interview with those same lowered expectations, but found herself in short order a newly hired ‘stewardess,’ which is, of course, what young women flight attendants were called in those pre-feminist days.
Betty Eden lived her dream thereafter, training in New York, passing one after another test, graduating from the Pan Am academy, and finally—pinching herself, and determined to be the best employee she could be—took her place in the cabin as a proud worker for Pan American Airlines.
The book outlines her charmed existence as a stewardess, her choice of domicile in San Francisco in order to fly the Pacific routes, and her interaction with other young women as they pioneered the business. After reading of Betty’s exploits on flights to Honolulu, Sydney, Tokyo, and even exotic places like Indonesia and Wake Island, we have a real picture of what early airline travel was like, and why it held so much appeal to young people like the author.
Also, reading of the way passengers were pampered in those early days highlights and contrasts with modern passenger air travel: The crowded cabins, minimal extras, shrunken seats, and especially the perfunctory attempts at inflight feeding compared with the lavish gourmet fare offered by Pan Am. Those truly were times when only the wealthy could afford air travel, and Betty Eden upheld the reputation of Pan Am as she pampered them, while she fulfilled her dream to see the world.
In the contrasting vision the author offers between air travel then and now, it’s easy to see why, with its laser focus only on passengers who could afford their service, the world’s premier airline no longer exists. Up in the Air
At some point in all of our lives there comes a time of reckoning. A time when we understand that we have no choice but to look at a long-cherished belief, to see its false promise—indeed, its pernicious grip on us—and to realize that we must let it go, as painful as that process might be. Robert E. Lee and Me is about one man’s arrival at that point, and his brutally honest exploration into the effects of his former creed, his past associations, and his cherished beliefs, indeed his conception of who he was. His conclusion is that all of that must be questioned and addressed. This is not an easy, or a casual reading experience. For any American, regardless of ideology, religious bent, acculturation, skin color, or social stratum, this is a book that will disturb any thoughtful reader. It should be used in early classroom situations, as we struggle with the ugly, the still deep seated racism that pervades this country.
The author’s background informs his writing. A historian by education and training, he spent many years in uniform teaching history at West Point. He describes his early life’s ambition as the traditional rise in society as, ‘a christian gentleman’ in the southern understanding of that term. In other words, Ty Seidule was a white man immersed from top to toe in the southern lost cause myth. He spent most of his previous life in adulation of Robert E. Lee ‘more deity than man’, and in full throated defense of the heroes of the insurrection against the U.S., despite his own dedication to the country as a member of its armed forces.
Seidule describes how, at every turn, whenever the idea of slavery as the true cause of the Civil War pushed forward for recognition, evil forces of southern tradition, the ‘sweet tea on the verandah’ narrative brutally suppressed that truth.
As if he’s peeling a particularly pungent onion, the author winces as each new revelation of this countries brutal racism shimmers into his view, and pens its way onto his pages: The retrocession in his hometown; his families frantic rush to change schools when integration loomed; the silence that surrounded lynching in proximity to his boyhood home in Georgia; finally, his awakening to the egregious presence of confederate souvenirs, monuments, and regalia adorning The U.S. Military Academy at West Point, items that glorified men who, in Seidule’s words, ‘killed U.S. soldiers’. Perhaps his most painful revelation is the realization that northern, progressive politicians—men like Franklin D. Roosevelt—pandered to powerful racists to curry favor, and to win legislative battles.
The author describes the beatification of Robert E. Lee, his history as ‘a southern christian gentleman,’ his rise through the ranks in the U.S. Army, and Lee’s seemingly inexplicable abandonment of a promising future as a true leader of that institution. Seidule writes that Lee’s path, however, was not so inexplicable after all; Lee resigned his commission, and walked away from the U.S. Army that had given his life purpose, and meaning, and potential, for one simple reason: Like his southern peers, Robert E. Lee was enmeshed in the sordid business of enslaving men & women for profit. As clearly painful as it was for him to do so, the author calls Lee out for what he truly was: A traitor.
Finally, the book is about the mandatory reckoning we Americans must have with our racist past. For white Americans, we simply must face this brutal and ugly part of our history, or it will haunt us forever. So long as we refuse to face it square, call it what it was and is, remove the symbols that contribute to the perpetuation of the damaging ‘lost cause’ myth, the southern ‘tea on the verandah’ tradition, we will never move forward as one country.
Robert E. Lee and Me is not an easy book to read, especially if one’s background is based in the south. It is, however, a book that should be read by anyone who loves the United States of America as its author clearly does, and by anyone who has the courage to dredge up our racist past, and subject it to the cleansing sunshine of truth.
An afterthought: This reader wondered, in a bit of counterfactual questioning, where America might be today had Robert E. Lee followed his oath, and marched against those rebels that he instead chose to lead? Our history could have been truly glorious. And Lee’s position could have been truly exemplary and heroic, instead of the tawdry, carefully cultivated chimera of heroism that it is.
I love Annie Lamott. I really do, she’s a treat. And this little book is as well. Almost a hymnal, like many of Ms Lamott’s works, Dusk, Night, Dawn is the ‘adorably ageless’ Anne Lamott’s way of helping us all through the current crises: the pandemic, the trump debacle, loss of incomes, and homes, and jobs, and hope. It was written as Lamott, in her own words, ‘awaits the rain of frogs.’ (She adds that York Peppermint Patties also help. See why I love this woman.)
The setting for the book is (roughly) a Sunday school classroom, with Lamott as the teacher, a kind of convict returns to prison to warn others scenario. Like every Sunday school scene, there are prayers, and these prayers, otherwise known as Lamott-isms, take the form of snippets of wisdom that we’re asked to recite, short pearls of wisdom Lamott has gathered along the way. Referring to the healing need to tell others what’s going on with us, she writes ‘stories can be our most reliable medicine.’ If we’re feeling bad about ourselves, ‘the hardest work we do is self love & forgiveness.’ Hard to argue with any of that.
As one of her credentials, Lamott claims a ‘PhD in Morbid Reflection’, which qualifies her very well to write this book, at this time. We learn here that she’s been married now for two years to Neal, and their navigation of the relationship is another layer atop the blanketing of woes, another green downpour in that rain of frogs. Here’s a tip: If you happen to encounter Annie Lamott in the airport, or the public market, or in Sunday school, don’t ask her how married life is. You’re welcome.
Despite her own penchant for retreating into past destructive behaviors and negativities, the author encourages readers to avoid that: ‘if you want to have loving feelings, do loving things,’ she writes. And here’s the thing about the lurking hypocrisy in Lamott’s seemingly glib pronouncement: She’s not afraid to listen to accusations about that seeming hypocrisy, because she’s done the hard work required to hear them, and that ability has made her the wonderful writer she is. Here’s proof, in another Lamott-ism: ‘Perfectionism is the most toxic condition for the soul.’ Don’t you feel better already? I do.
Lamott refers to ‘forgiving ourselves’ (a common Lamott theme) as ‘senior lifesaving.’ Always looking for simplification, she quotes Ram Dass: ‘You only have to remember two things, your Buddha nature, and your social security number.’ Sounds easy enough. After writing that, she returns to her Sunday school class venue where, with her students, she celebrates ‘the sacrament of shrimp chips,’ Lamott’s students apparently approve, even though we’ve read that it’s a tough room.
Lamott writes of her quest to always ‘do Jesusy things,’ and how the nautilus shell is the perfect metaphor for growth, and how dealing with our restless, squirming, endlessly-seeking selves is ‘like putting an octopus to bed.’ She writes about ‘Dread’ as her constant companion, and as we’re attempting to get all eight octopus legs under the covers we must understand that ‘laughter is a holy and subversive battery charge.’
Opening a deeper vein than perhaps she ever has, we learn that Lamott has survived a lot of crises in her life. That’s not to say the current ‘flung-fecies fest’ is less deserving of her pen, because it certainly deserves every inch of ink she devotes to it. But reading about her past difficulties, her drunken sojourn, her near death at Esalen while ‘capital I inebriated’, her slogging recovery, her search for resolution with her estranged parents, and her interactions with, ahem, sinful men, we feel how far she’s come, and realize that we have come a ways as well. (See self-forgiveness i.e. senior lifesaving above)
Leave it to Anne Lamott to rely on a comedian for what may be the best takeaway from Dusk, Night, Dawn. This is Duncan Trussel: ‘When we first meet someone, we’re really meeting their bodyguard.’ Somehow meeting this author, either at Dusk, Night, or Dawn, we feel we’ve met the real deal. In conclusion, we’re offered a tender branch of hope in these parlous times, when she says, ‘The center may hold after all.’ As long as we have forgiveness, and York Peppermint Patties, and don’t ask Lamott about her married life, we’ll be fine.
Here we have a simple little book, with an even simpler message, the secret to astounding success. What is it? Giving. That’s it. Full stop.
The Go-Giver took this reader an hour to finish, and its message affirmed a lot of what I already suspected & knew.
The authors have crafted a narrative about ‘Joe’, a young-ish stockbroker heavily enmeshed in the hamster wheel of corporate climbing. Joe’s metric for success is based on the standard wisdom, and oriented around the standard marker, namely money, its acquisition, and its relentless, soul-killing pursuit. In other words, ‘getting.’
Then Joe is introduced to Pindar, a yoda-like master of success, who takes Joe under his wing like Master Po to the young grasshopper, teaching him in ways no B school ever did, or perhaps ever could. Joe is astonished, not only that the wealthy, lavishly-successful Pindar has deigned to even meet with him, but that the wealthy man is anxious to share the true secret of his success.
We meet graduates of the Pindar school of success, and the ‘connector’ who brings all of the protagonists together, and various Pindar acolytes who have embraced his teachings, and spread their success like pebbles on a pond.
No spoiler alerts, but of course there’s a happy ending. Even if ‘giving’ is the true secret of success, I’ll not ‘give’ the ending away. You’ll have to ‘get’ a copy of The Go-Giver and find success for yourself, grasshopper.
A very short post this time reference the current Derek Chauvin trial taking place in Minneapolis. As if this needs to be said, the trial is to decide the culpability of Derek Chauvin. It is NOT to decide George Floyd’s guilt or innocence. Since 1619 we’ve seen such misdirection by various entities when a Black person runs afoul of our laws, a white person interacts with them, and the Black man ends up dead. For 402 years it’s been happening, that, inexplicably, Black people stand trial for the very inequities whites have perpetuated for too many years.
I don’t watch the news, but I don’t live in a cave, either. So I know what’s going on around this trial, and how certain media are depicting it. I’m utterly and wholly disgusted by certain implications I’ve heard, not just from Chauvin’s defense attorney, but from people discussing the trial, and from unavoidable media commentary implying that George Floyd was responsible for his own demise.
George Floyd is dead. George Floyd is not on trial. It beggars belief that I even need to write those words. Allow me to present the following questions. (I’m looking at you, my white colleagues.)
1—If Derek Chauvin was Black, and George Floyd was white, would Floyd still be on trial?
2—If Derek Chauvin had been the victim, would his health status be evidentiary?
3—If George Floyd had been white, would his rap sheet be an issue in this trial?
4—If Floyd’s death had never been recorded, would we be having this trial at all?
From the top: 1— if Black Officer George Floyd had knelt on Derek Chauvin’s white neck, suffocating and killing him, I think we all know what could have happened. The city could have descended into chaos, as white citizens demanded Floyd be arrested and charged, or at least that possibility exists. I’ve been a white guy long enough to know exactly what the reaction would have been. By way of indirect example, we saw white men rampaging through our nation’s capitol in January, and they plundered away unmolested. I shudder to think what the reaction would have been had those men been Black. It would have been a bloodbath in that building, and many people would claim the violence agains them was justified.
2—If Black Officer George Floyd was on trial for killing white Derek Chauvin, would Chauvin’s poor health be an issue in his demise? Would we be saying that, since Chauvin neglected his health, he basically killed himself? If you believe we’d be having that discussion, I have some mountain view property in Florida I’d like to sell you.
3—If Officer Floyd had killed Derek Chauvin, would we be pointing at Chauvin’s rap sheet, his misdemeanors and even his criminal behaviors and basically saying he deserved to die? Since when have our police officers had the power to not only arrest, but to try, convict, and execute citizens? Did I miss that memo?
4—If the video of this despicable act had never surfaced, if it had happened before hand-held video cameras found their way into our individual possession, does anyone really believe the observers of George Floyd’s death would have been believed over Derek Chauvin’s word? Really? Do we have anything in our collective history to support that scenario?
Let me be very clear about this: I give no support to those who want to defund police departments. I do support redirecting funds away from basic law enforcement into community action programs, which is what the ‘defund’ slogan actually intended, until right-wing media distorted its message. Also, I believe the overwhelming majority of police officers are fine, upstanding, hard-working, conscientious women and men. I also believe they have the toughest job there is. I salute all those who put on the blue uniform every day, do their very dangerous job in commendable fashion, and keep the bad guys away.
But here’s a story that weighs on my unequivocal assumption that the police always act in benevolent fashion, especially toward our Black neighbors & friends. Many years ago I served in the Ohio National Guard with a (white) fellow who was a retired Columbus cop. He told me that at that time, again several years ago, it was routine for police officers to carry an unmarked, untraceable weapon with them as they patrolled the beat. The purpose of the contraband weapon was this: If they were to shoot and kill a Black man, for whatever reason, then discovered he was unarmed, they discharged the hidden gun, then placed it in the victim’s hand, and claimed self-defense. It was common practice.
Another story, related to that one: Days after the LA freeway chase of OJ Simpson, I heard two Black women chatting with each other about Mr. Simpson’s seemingly errant behavior. Here’s what one of those women said: ‘Of course he ran away, he’s innocent!’ Now…as a white man in this society, her statement seemed outrageous to me. If OJ was innocent, I thought, why would he feel the need to run? Then I remembered the Columbus PD practice, the assumption police forces make about the guilt of Black men in America, and how that assumption informs their too often derelict behavior.
Back to George Floyd. There is no reason Mr. Floyd should be dead. None. Not to prejudge Derek Chauvin, he’s entitled to a fair trial, of course he is. But to see George Floyd being tried for his own demise is simply incomprehensible to me. Why does any of his background, his health, his rap sheet, his behavior that day, or the color of his skin matter? And if it’s simply the last factor, the color of his skin, then why do so many of my white friends and family still need to ask why we need a Black Lives Matter movement?
Derek Chauvin killed George Floyd. Derek Chauvin is on trial. As he should be. RIP George Floyd. Here’s hoping your death finally wakes us up to the inequities that exist in this society. I believe 402 years is enough.
Here we have a collection of stories that offer a range of insights on topics from contraband flown in from Colombia to Florida, just not at all what one expects (and no spoilers here, although this reader wondered if Viagra may have been a better choice! Or perhaps a stool-softener? Or could that be Shonda?).
We move on to the quintessential object of U.S. capitalistic imperialism: Bananas. Who knew there was such an intense interest in them? The author could have included their uniformity in U.S. markets, despite the variety grown elsewhere, and the reasons for this, (thank you ever so much United Fruit Company.
Good rendition of the SF haunted house, and here again this reader wondered why no mention of Carlotta Monterey, O’Neal’s long-time paramour?
The pieces cover all kinds of subjects & geographies from cow-chip tossing contests in Oklahoma, to geology in ‘Cutthroat Gap,’ to a seeming version of the Scopes trial with the admonition to ‘never sleep with the attendance lady.’
We move on to northern France, and a study of WW1 battlefields, and then a kind of scavenger hunt for Dan Brown, and how that author’s literary works have upended the once bucolic countryside now overrun with Brown-artifact seeking tourists.
Through the individual works we get a sense that the author has a deep understanding of each topic, along with a misty nostalgia for a long ago past that once saw him ranging these very landscapes, making love with these very women, and drinking life to its top.
In the final, eponymous essay, a German operative ‘Crazy Heinie’ seeks to destroy the world through a monopolistic scheme centered on rubber of all things. ‘When you’re out to destroy the world, someone’s going to hear about it.’ Indeed. And then write about it. The Basics of Rubber: Amblings and Selected Short Stories
Here we have a story of one woman’s escape from a fanatical father, the circumscribed life he demanded of her, and the simple life of the ‘Plain people.’ Once Ms Bear frees herself of the constraints of her childhood, and navigates away from crushing self-doubt, she rises to the pinnacle of achievement.
Reminiscent of Tara Westover’s ‘Educated,’ Ms Bear’s book takes us behind the scenes of an often violent and disruptive childhood, to her triumph after many harsh realizations, and finally her understanding that she is worthy of far more than her violent and judgmental father believes she is. The awakening is not easy, nor is it pain free. As she writes, ‘being frozen is uncomfortable, but it is nothing compared to the burning agony of thawing.’
Bear writes beautifully, and her story, heartrending at times, infuriating at others, will resonate with anyone trapped in a cultish environment.
The story takes us to a bucolic place and time, with few of the amenities of current life. The author sprinkles in references to lush farm life, the smells, the foods, and the promise of a simple life in her Mennonite community. When her father’s irrational anger against the church boils over, and that life is destroyed, her determination to find something better drives her to succeed. One distinct phrase from her father chills her soul: “You’re on your own,” he says.
Alone in a field one day, newly aware that his words are both warning and liberating, she sees very clearly that she must escape. She hears another voice: “You will have a bigger life.”
The author avoids politicizing her situation, or demonizing the church she grew up in. Indeed, she expresses a degree of gratitude that she was born when she was, a time that offers opportunities unimagined by women her mother’s age. ‘Had I been even ten years older, this path would not have been presented to me. I bow my head in gratitude to my courageous…sisters who preceded…and blazed a trail for every woman who followed.’
Finding painful irony in her situation, and hearing again her father’s admonition, she knows she is indeed ‘on her own,’ and realizes that, without her father’s anger and selfishness, she would not have had the impetus to achieve what she did.
The author ends the book triumphant. In an addendum, she advocates for those who speak up, and who refuse to ‘just get over it,’ as she writes. Her treatise on truth, likely learned at the church of her childhood, and reinforced by her father’s emotional abuse, contains instructions for others who wish to escape as she has. In the author’s words: (avoiding the truth) bypasses justice that might be restorative for everyone, including the perpetrator. Or perhaps because it patronizes the injured and overtly suggests they should “just get over” what was done to them, because it’s becoming inconvenient for the rest of us to hear about.”
Ms Bear certainly ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth.’
Ms Huffman Polson’s engaging book is not what I’d expected, but it’s better. I anticipated a memoir/war story/there I was tale. It is that kind of book, partly. Mostly it’s a deep study into what motivates people, or should, and the various things that hold people back, especially women in a man’s world.
The Grit Factor, when one acquires it, allows them to succeed, often despite their self doubts, the ‘imposter syndrome’, their focus on the obstacle rather than the goal, and in general peoples’ ‘grit and determination’. The author was the first woman to fly and deploy (to Bosnia) in the Army’s AH-64 Apache attack helicopter. She knows whereof she speaks, because she tried a few of the traditional routes for success, found them wanting, and discerned her own. The Grit Factor details that path.
Huffman Polson cites the admonition from Isaiah, ‘to whom much is given, much is expected.’ She was privileged growing up, and she took that biblical mantra to heart, finding a life of service, in the words of Frederick Beuchner ‘where our deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger coincide.’ Her deep gladness was service, and particularly toward women who’d mentored her, many of whom were interviewed for the book, and for those younger women in need of mentoring.
She writes about Katie Higgins, first woman to fly with the Navy’s elite demo team the Blue Angels. She tells us about General Nadja West, first black female surgeon general in the U.S. Army. Alda Siebrands, a Coast Guard helicopter pilot, Edna Davis, who flew Martin B-26 bombers during WW2, Bessie Coleman, Angel Hughes, even Uhura, the black female navigator on Star Trek.
Huffman Polson writes about ‘the 5 whys’, changing the narrative to bring success, about ‘tailboom counseling,’ and ‘muddy boots leadership’, and listening skills that are a key to leadership, because we’re all hard-wired toward a bias for action, which pressures us to do something, instead of just listening. The Ask—Listen—Pause treatment can enrich and embellish a decision, she says.
As for advice, she offers this: That we need to ‘draw the circle,’ to figure out who our friends are. We must actively search for mentors, a difficult obstacle for women, she says, because asking for help can be seen as weakness. She advises that the tough navigation is steering clear of negative people, because they bring nothing helpful to the table. In a surprising discovery, she advises women in positions of power over men to be cautious of jealous wives and girlfriends who may feel threatened. In addition, she advises women not to try pleasing everyone—something women find themselves doing—but to be their authentic selves, however difficult that is. She quotes Eleanor Roosevelt here: You not only have a right to be yourself; you have an obligation to be yourself.
The good news, for women, about the last bit of advice is that, as the author says, good leaders always care for their people, something that women seem to be better at than men. As for facing failure, she offers another interesting finding: Don’t be afraid to find people who have failed, she says, because you’ll know how they reacted to that failure.
This reader found an answer in the book to a question that has persisted for more than 50 years: How to explain my ambivalence about Vietnam? Huffman Polson may offer that it’s because I was unable to take ownership of the rationale and conduct of that long-ago war in South Asia. That few of us who fought there believed in it enough to make it our own, and to embrace the benefits that would have followed. Finally, she states that, as every pilot knows, facing into the wind equals lift. Likewise, facing our fears, the wind in our faces, creates the same affect, lifting us just as surely on our personal wings.
Highly recommended. In an aside to the author, I thought the book review essay idea for OERs was excellent.
Consider this: Rendering plants accept road kill, and their end product is used in cosmetics and pet food additives. Feedlot cattle are cannibals, insofar as they eat remnants of cow parts that aren’t saleable. Fully 15% of that non-saleable cattle food contains fecal matter. E-Coli bacterial infection from eating tainted meat kills nine thousand Americans every year. In a USDA study, 99% of broiler chickens tested contained E-Coli. (Note: The USDA is not consumer oriented. USDA takes its direction from the food industry)
It takes 16 pounds of grain to create 1 pound of beef, and fifty gallons of water to create that same pound of beef. Fully 80% of the grain grown in the U.S. is used to feed cattle. Cows fart. A lot. Worldwide, each year 150 trillion (with a T) quarts of methane are released from feedlot cattle. This methane accounts for 50% of greenhouse gas emissions. The rainforests lose 1 acre of land every second, and that removes a vital source of CO2 capture and O2 production from our ecosystem.
It takes one gallon of gasoline to make 1 pound of beef. A family of four uses 260 gallons of gasoline each year consuming the average amount of beef they eat. That burning hydrocarbon releases 2.5 tons of CO2, the equivalent of driving a car for six months.
Mr. Lyman, the Mad Cowboy, knows his stuff. He was a Montana cattle rancher for many years, until he had an epiphany following a medical crisis that nearly killed him, a cancerous spinal growth that was successfully removed. The medical issue forced him, as near-death experiences are wont to do, to examine his overall life and values, particularly what was on his plate. Almost overnight he abandoned his corporate, pesticide and herbicide-enhanced 4,000 head cattle ranch, a business that had been in the Lyman family for four generations, to find a way back to his roots, and to return the farm to the way it had been when his ‘Grampa Dad,’ first tended it.
It was not a pleasant, nor was it a successful endeavor. Lyman found himself—like every other cattleman in Montana, and indeed everywhere else in America, running faster and faster to stay in one place. Trying to outsmart nature at every turn, he spent thousands on herbicides, which made cattle sick, then thousands more on vet bills and pesticides to kill the flies that swarm around cow flop, then even more money treating the feed to discourage the flies, and as Seinfeld used to say, yadda, yadda, yadda. Still, he was losing money. He eventually lost his farm.
But the real heartache for Lyman was seeing his once pristine family farm evolving into a corporate behemoth that he no longer recognized, and certainly couldn’t control. He wasn’t alone. As he states, in 1983 there were 1,260,000 family farms in the U.S. When he wrote Mad Cowboy in 1998 there were 400,000, and most of those farms were near bankruptcy.
The reason is the proliferation of factory farms, and the ills they present, from overuse of grain products, to degradation of the land, disposal of waste products that foul streams and rivers, to greenhouse gas emissions from feedlots and their farting cattle, to overuse of chemical additives which end up in our food chain, to exposure from chemicals that leads to cancer, heart disease, obesity, and various autoimmune diseases that are killing us faster, and driving up national health care spending which is now nearly 20% of our GDP.
Lyman mentions the animal cruelty factor, a part of the equation he says his great grandfather would be particularly appalled to see. Family farms have long had a dedication to humane treatment of animals. Modern killing floors, and the animal abuse they engender have dismissed all that humane treatment in the frantic race for more profit, and more product.
Lyman also writes about the legislative purchasing power of current corporate farming interests. Together with Oprah Winfrey, he was sued after giving some of the above facts and figures about meat on her show, after which Ms Winfrey announced that she’d no longer eat hamburger. Evidently stung by Winfrey’s exercise of her first amendment rights, the beef cartel sued, using a so called ‘food disparagement’ law, a law that’s on the books in several U.S. states. In another illustration of corporate power over our legislature, Monsanto (successfully) sued certain milk manufacturers who’d placed ‘No BGH’ labels on their product. BGH is Bovine Growth Hormone. Monsanto didn’t like those milk producers calling attention to BGH, even though a study Monsanto paid for found no evidence of its danger to humans. BGH is, in fact, a Monsanto product used to increase milk production.
Further, Lyman writes of corporate-friendly government oversight of public lands, and the laughably inexpensive rental fees the behemoths of the food industry such as Cargill and others pay to use land that belongs to all of us. U.S. taxpayers and citizens are subsidizing our own ill health, the ravaging of our public lands, and the long-term health of the climate for the enrichment of a few corporations and their shareholders. Those corporate interests are never required to assume the externalities of their actions. Instead, they pass those costs along to us, their customers in the form of tax breaks. Adding insult to legislative injury, of 109 so called protected areas in the American west, 103 are cattle grazing lands.
If a reader manages to wade through Mad Cowboy and decides to continue eating meat, it won’t be because of repugnance at the data the author presents. It will be because of long-standing tradition, and the simple resistance to changing ones diet. The bottom line, for all of us, thanks to the Mad Cowboy, is very simple: Eating meat from cows is not sustainable.
Here we have a collection of stories about women pilots, an (almost) complete compilation of the sheroes who have blazed a trail across the skies for other women who aspire to the cockpit.
Inspiring Words for Sky and Space Women fills a major gap in our knowledge of women in the history of aviation. Most Americans, asked to name names of female aviators, can perhaps remember Amelia Earhart, possibly Jacqueline Cochran, or Sally Ride. This book highlights so many more women, and it’s good to see them finally getting their due.
Did you know author Patricia Cornwell is a helicopter pilot? Neither did I, and I’m a helicopter pilot! Did you know super-model Gisele Bundchen is a helicopter pilot? Me neither. Angelina Jolie, and Martha McSally, yep, pilots. Senator Tammy Duckworth is a UH-60 Blackhawk pilot, (and purple heart recipient)
Here are a few other obscure names in aviation, women who should be enshrined in pilot halls of fame, including a few who are enshrined there: Vernice Armour, first African-American female Marine pilot to fly a Cobra gunship; Beverly Bass, first female captain (of a 777) at American Airlines; Olive Ann Beech, co-founder and president of Beech Aircraft Corporation; Bessie Coleman, first licensed African-American woman pilot; Eileen Collins, first woman to command a shuttle mission on STS-63; Harriet Quimby, first American woman licensed to fly. The list goes on and on.
The author is dedicated to affirming young womens’ aspirations to fly, and she’s included a lengthy bibilography, and an extensive list of on-line resources aimed at that purpose. Any young person, especially young women, who dream of a life in the sky should read this book. The underlying theme, not just from Hamilton, but from several of her contributors is a message for any who doubt they can fly: ‘Yes you can!’
Only four stars because there’s no mention of Jerry Mock, the first woman to solo around the world, and also no mention of the author’s own personal journey to the cockpit.