STANDING WITH THE MOTHERS

Today was a special day because I had to cook, and I wanted to cook. There was a turkey carcass with thick broth frozen on the back porch, and a box of apples from a neighbor.

As I picked the meat from the turkey bones, I felt the presence of all the women in the world who pick meat, turn fruit into pastry, butcher their own meat and bake their own bread. We are the ones that will stretch a chicken into three days of dinners, who make stock from every little shred of vegetables we have (and bones), and who begin focusing on the evening meal first thing in the morning.

On my journal I have taped a picture of a tall, slender black sister wearing beads all over her head, and a draping, flowing dress. She is kneeling at a fire pouring hot camel milk and spices into a tin cup, smiling softly. There are four other cups awaiting her attention sitting in the fine dirt. A few years ago I had taped it to my kitchen wall. My then-10 granddaughter came in and asked who it was. I replied, "Oh, that's my sister. She lives in Africa." Sarah's brown eyes widened. "But you didn't tell us about her. Is she the one that raises dogs?" I pulled her to me. "Sarah, she is my sister because she is feeding her family, just like me, only she cooks on an open fire."

Last summer Sarah and I camped in the mountains, and I was cooking over the campfire. She started checking things out. "Nana, you could actually cook here all the time, couldn't you? I mean like this is like a kitchen!" I assured her that millions of women all over the world were cooking just like we were, only they didn't have a regular stove to go home to.

Standing in my small kitchen I felt the presence of those women in a dimension we share in service of our families. I had privacy and music to listen to, but they might be dealing with an elder walking through, a baby crawling on the floor, flies, or the sun suddenly blinding them when it bursts from the shade trees. Many had to gather their fuel and walk to the well for clean water before beginning their cooking. Remembering their lives develops my authenticity, my authority. They lead me to speak up for women and children, object to budgets that unfairly cut badly needed services for them, encourage women to speak out, and above all, to vote.

I am the privileged one. I have refrigeration, endless variety for meals, and the quiet to contemplate my world this day. But I've been there, using a hatchet on ice to get to live water. I've collected "squaw wood" for our cook fires. I carry all my sisters, whether living close with the land or turning on the tap. I carry them in my heart. And I will not, cannot, forget.