An old friend of mine owns Volcano Press. Volcano Press has published books on domestic violence and women’s health for over 40 years. I recently discovered that the 92-year-young owner of Volcano Press took a “bad spill last year in which she broke her right ankle, knee and shoulder. The recovery process has been long and arduous.” Will you add Miss Ruth to your prayers or send some healing vibrations her way? Back when the “women’s movement” was barely more than a handful of small shelters, Miss Ruth was a visionary and pioneer. She is one of the many women who helped bring about changes in our society. In the last forty years, so many things have changed. My goal as a child was to grow up and be either a “MOMMIE, a secretary or a stewardess” and I was expected to accept the moments my Dad or husband hit me! I remember my pastor advised me that “it is a duty to turn the other cheek, and to obey the Head of Household to ensure a harmonious home!” It was women like Miss Ruth and her contemporaries who helped change our world. Now, we are protected by Joe Biden’s federally funded Violence Against Women Act, and women like Hillary Clinton have run for the Presidency and served as Secretary of State! Miss Ruth is “feisty”, like we are.
Sadly, I never had the opportunity to come to know Miss Ruth as much as I wanted to; but the short time we shared, she influenced me greatly, she inspired me to change the “cycle of violence” that I was born into. Part of who I have become is due to Miss Ruth’s influences. I’ve read many of the books she publishes on child abuse, rape and domestic violence. I’m planning on ordering a book or two about “Women and Aging” that are available.
If you’ve experienced trouble locating a book about women’s health, violence or aging, check out Volcano Press!
The following is a poem Volcano Press shares. I hope you enjoy it!
Hugs and love!
We’d Like to Share a Poem
“My ’63 Plymouth Belvidere” by Candace A. Hennekens
In 1978, that ’63 Plymouth Belvidere was already old but it ran. Your mother had gifted the car to me on her death bed. Two years later, I drove away, the back seat piled with clothes, our daughter in her car seat. I forgot shoes, winter coats. You mailed those and anything else you could find that was mine in an enormous box–my grandmother’s wall vase,
college papers, cut crystal, all mixed up. I vomited in my mother’s basement toilet, knowing you had touched all my things. The night we escaped, I decapitated a goose on some dark country road; the state patrol ticketed me for speeding. I pulled into my mother’s driveway, my eyes dilated, panting, reeling, like a prisoner released after a long sentence. My mother touched your hand prints on my neck
and wept. The Belvidere had a 318 engine. I knew how to change oil, replace spark plugs. I pushed buttons on the dash to make her go. Painted bright yellow I never drove anonymously. Sometimes I search for that car in the classifieds. If I find her, I’ll buy her back, restore her to mint condition, and keep her as a memorial to my freedom that all these years later is still precious, a gift from your mother to me.
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