Uncovering Stories of Women Making History

Next time you drive through a blinding thunderstorm, thank Mary Anderson. Because staying dry makes for better road trips.

Before I get to Mary’s story, here is a little backstory.

I’ve been working on a historical fiction novel for about five years now. More than half of that time has been dedicated to research, and a ridiculous amount of that research has involved going down rabbit holes into the minutia of early 1900s roads, maps, automobiles, trails, railroads, motorcycles, lodging, and roadside food. Basically the same topics involved in roadtripping today. The research takes twists and turns that sometimes even become relevant to my story.

The story of Mary Anderson did not end up in my book, but it’s worth telling.

Early automobile technology left out the ladies

Men get a lot of well-deserved credit for advancements in the world of automobiles. Karl Benz, for example, designed the first gas-powered auto in Germany, 1885. Eight years later Rudolf Diesel created a less refined engine fuel that needed no spark plugs, and named it after himself. Charles Goodyear figured out how to vulcanize rubber by heating it with sulphuric, making it flexible yet tough enough for auto tires, way back in 1839. And let’s not ignore Henry Ford, father of the modern assembly line, who kept the Model Ts rolling out the factory doors into people’s driveways.

Girls of this era, all too often, were nudged toward other skills instead of designing and test-driving sweet new engine technologies. So the stories of the women who broke out of the norms and fully embraced their capacity — these stories are important. Mary Anderson was one such woman.

Mary Anderson (From Getty Images, embedded with permission)

Rancher, Problem Solver, Inventor

Mary’s story began in 1866, when she was born into what would have been the life of a Southern Belle. Instead she was born into the chaos of a post-Civil war Alabama. So many men died in that war the women stepped into new roles previously not open to them, and Mary embraced the opportunity. She grew up without a father and never married, and learned to solve problems for herself. Her first part accomplishment as a young adult was to manage the construction of new apartment buildings in Alabama.

In 1893, at age 27, she took those management skills west, in search of adventure and a different life. Mary ended up in Fresno, CA, where she managed a ranch and vineyard — jobs that would require a strong character and a strong back.

Sometime around 1902, Mary traveled to New York City. This was her first winter snow storm, after spending most of her life in the Alabama and California. She got to experience the bitter winds and blinding snow of a Nor’ Easter blizzard, and she was not impressed. All the drivers had to stick their heads out the windows of their cars, and even of the trolley cars, because the windshields covered with snow.

I’m quite sure she muttered something like “Oh for heavens sake these drivers just need an automatic wiping machine … like this!” And took out a sketch pad to design the windshield wiper, something that all the auto engineers had overlooked.

Mary Anderson’s patent design (Public domain)

Less than a year later, Mary received a patent for her design. She had a harder time selling her design to the car companies, however. Windshield wipers did not become standard issue on automobiles for at least another decade.

Mary lived until 1953, a lifespan that witnessed a revolution in how humans travel across this land. Her idea made that travel more safe and comfortable. Mary Anderson was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame in 2011.

When I wrote the first draft of my first book, I thought that would be the hardest part of being an author. Then I went through the revision process. I ramped up the emotion and tamped down the telling, killed the precious babies or at least moved them to the use later file, and analyzed each scene for critical components. That process was just as difficult as the first, and surely the next stage would flow more easily. You see where this is going.

I’m now in the agent querying phase, which is laborious and requires fierce attention to details (what submission platform to use? what personal details will show I’ve researched this agent? what tiny omission or extra few words will trigger the reject button?) but the process hasn’t been difficult. Except for the realization that agents expect to see an author website. Even authors who’s books are yet to be published. Without a domain and some decent content, the author is is lost in a sea of wanna-be writers, all shouting for the agents’ attention.

The author website is part of the platform agents and publishers look for, if they have any intention of taking on an unknown writer. It holds whatever evidence the author can drum up to show their writing chops. For me, that includes what I write on Medium, plus examples of my freelance work in magazines and journals, and the few stories and prose I’ve submitted to other publications. But is that enough for an author website?

A website to highlight who I am and what I write

Several years ago a friend gave me her great-grandmother’s journal. She’d written it in her last years, as a way to look back at an adventurous life — the inside perspective on a life lived outside the expectations and norms set for a young woman coming of age in 1900. Since then I’ve been diving into research to understand her world, crafting the characters and events that shaped her character. Now its time to share this story with the world.

That means I need an author website. I had no other book length projects to give me credibility, and a small number of pieces I’ve published through different channels. Instead of relying on past accomplishments, I’ll need to show who I am and how I write. I had to let potential agents and publishers get to know me through the website. I knew that — but opening up and tooting my own horn is not my superpower. To share more of my self I decided to use some of my paintings from traveling, each with a short story or message about that journey.

To hire or DIY? Finding an approach that works

Task number one is to get your domain, and most people who live in modern society know how to manage that. If that seems too complicated to take on yourself, you’ll definitely want to hire a web designer for the whole kit and caboodle of creating an author website.

I’d rather put my money toward hiring a good editor for the book than a web designer, so I chose to DIY. The choice comes down to a balance between experience and the time/money you can invest. With some help from user-friendly platforms and the wealth of knowledge found on YouTube, it seemed possible.

Squarespace is a popular choice for author websites. It seems user-friendly to put together simple sites. But since I was already familiar with Wordpress, I started there. My first downfall was to get caught up in the many templates. So many options! And none of them exactly right. I kept switching from one layout to another, adding “wonder blocks” until the whole site became a wonder indeed — a wonder of confusion. My blood pressure blew up and I found relief only by deleting the whole site. I had to look elsewhere.

Years ago, I began using a simple platform called Journo Portfolio as an easy online portfolio of freelance pieces and a contact page. I’d ignored it for a while, because it seemed too basic. Now I was desperate for simplicity, so I took another look. (BTW this is not an affiliate kind of endorsement!) In the years since I began stashing stories on this platform, they’d overhauled the options into a more visually pleasing space with flexible modules for both art and writing. It took a few evenings to come up with the bare minimum of pages: About me, A Writing Portfolio, Travel Journal Paintings and Stories, and my Dive into Historical Fiction.

Because I feel very protective of my book until it is published, I don’t want to write about the actual story line or people. Instead, I chose to write about my writing process. The research, the character development, the story arc. How to add real people in to a real story, and how to create fictional characters as needed.

Is this the best approach, or even a good one? Honestly, I have no idea. But it feels like who I am, and the best I can do for the moment — until my book gets published and I need something new and improved.

For that, I’ll definitely hire an expert.

Sometimes I Treat My Laptop Like a Dumpster

Oh, the joy of a new pair of socks.

The fresh swaddle around your toes, the gentle squeeze around your arch, springy elastic hugging your ankles. Virgin vessels which no calloused heel or un-pedicured toes have explored. Lifting your spirits with every step. A small comfort that tells your feet you care about them.

Let’s be clear: socks can’t actually fix anything. They can’t unclog the sink, or get the bills paid, or give you the right words for a hard conversation. But I’m here to tell you that new socks can make all those tasks more comfortable.

New socks of any sort: ski socks, trouser socks, running socks, ribbed or plain, thick or thin, ankle or shin, I love them all. Cushy soft, folded gently together around the tiny plastic sock hanger, spooning inside their sticky label. Sigh…

I’ll admit I am a fickle lover — I am quick to cast off a pair just as we become used to each other. Too many washings and the elastic will sag, the heel wears threadbare, the sole roughens with crusty nubbins. I pray I am never held to those standards as I age. If I were judged by criteria that scorns sagging, crustiness, or graying, I’d surely fail the test.

But still..the potential they hold! My striped Darn-Tough merino blends say “Go climb that mountain!” My gray rag-cotton cozies suggest a book by the fire and a glass of wine. My snarky knee-high trouser socks printed with “Feisty Bitch!” are a secret reminder that I can indeed be just that, when needed.

In a new pair of socks, I can take on the world.

I had so many reasons not to scuba dive. I’m claustrophobic, for one–I sweat and gasp for air in crowds and small rooms. I yawn for days after a flight to unplug my ears. And I thought it could go wrong in so many ways: tubes could break, tanks could blow, masks could leak. I stuck with snorkeling as my boys grew up, and I loved it — until we had a chance to join some friends on a trip to Tahiti.

Staying on the surface would not be enough. How could I pass up the opportunity to get up close and personal with brain coral and parrot fish and manta rays? I signed up for the last spot in a dive certification course here in Central Oregon, in their final session of the year.

Our check out dive took place in Cultus Lake, a high alpine lake that’s a gem all summer long, but this was late October. The 48’F water temp was warmer than the air (it was snowing. Really.) We stuffed ourselves into 13mm neoprene farmer john suits, plus booties, gloves, and hoods, which made buoyancy a challenge. A few crayfish and old beer cans dotted the sandy bottom, but we weren’t there for sightseeing. The good news was that my ears and my claustrophobia were manageable–but so far it felt like lots of work with little reward!

Four months later, tropical turquoise seas replaced that frosty slate-colored lake, and I finally experienced the zen of scuba. Once the gear was in place and my ears equalized — both of which take time and attention — then the zen begins. There’s a shift, a calmness, a slowing of the breathing and the brain. Waves may toss around the surface, but everything below just sways. Fish as vibrant as a black velvet painting, anemones and corals that fell right out of a Dr. Seuss book, a puffer fish that spikes out and scoots away, adorable yet toxic. You have to stay fully present, just to take it in.

Slow the breath, keep the hands still, paddle gently. Inhale to rise up, exhale to drop deeper, every movement deliberate. Stay quiet when you glance up to find a flock* of eagle rays gliding above you like slo-mo bats, even though your heart is racing. Wonder at the school of glitter fish that flick away in synchronized motion, then snap to attention when you recognize the bullet-nosed shape of a lemon shark resting below you. Slow the breathing again.

Zen.

• a group of rays is actually called a squadron, but that seems too military for these gentle, flowing creatures. Bats live in colonies, but that word doesn’t fit either. Flock? Family? Pod?

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Here’s a story about the ocean’s upside-down world, AKA the desert…

Joshua trees are not really trees

Ditch the plastic with these old-school cleaning products — they work!

Eco-friendly cleaning can be more than lemon and vinegar

Is 2024 your time to quit tossing so many plastic containers into the landfill/ocean/recycling barge lost at sea?

By now, anyone who is paying attention understands that plastic recycling is an oxymoron. Like deafening silence and jumbo shrimp, a phrase of two opposite words that becomes a bit of a joke. And plastic recycling is just that — because no matter how badly we want to believe our pop bottles are remade into fleece jackets and decking material, the numbers tell a different story. (Scroll to the bottom to find the EPA’s data on plastic recycling. Spoiler alert: it’s depressing.)

Last year, I looked for a few simple substitutions, replacing cleaning products packaged in plastic for equivalent products packaged without plastic. Here are four easy swaps I’ve come to appreciate. These are all common household products that have been around for decades. They’ve had staying power because they work well, and none of them come packaged in plastic bottles.

I hope they work for you too!

DISHWASHING SOAP: Old-school powder or new-fangled pod?

Dishsoap pods offer convenience, no extra elbow grease, and double the plastic. Not only is the container so sturdy that will be around for a thousand years, the pods themselves dissolve into a plastic goo that will clog pipes and waterways for eons. Is it worth it to give dishes an extra rinse before loading them, and go to the added effort of opening a little spout on the box to pour out powder? I think it is.
The winner: Go old school with Cascade Dishwasher Powder in the green cardboard box.

HAND AND BODY WASH: Pump bottle of liquid soap or old-school bars of soap?

I’m a fan of soap. Aren’t we all? Liquid soap has it’s place — like in public bathrooms when no one wants to touch the same bar of soap. In that case, a refillable bottle is a good option (like my fancy rum bottle given a new life in our powder room.) Otherwise I go for bar soaps. Especially natural goat milk soap, which has the same pH as healthy skin. I’ll add a link here to my favorite Bend Soap, made just outside my hometown on a little goat farm. One less plastic bottle in my shower and in the landfill, plus they smell so fresh. Bar soaps win!

SCRUBBING CLEANER: Old school powders or liquid soft scrubs?

Marketing experts nailed it with plastic-packaged cleaning products. They seem so easy, and so much better. Yet the old school cleaners can still be found, usually on the lowest shelves of big box hardware stores and grocery stores. They cost less too, maybe because there’s no marketing to pay for.

I changed to baking soda for scrubbing my kitchen sink, refrigerator, stainless steel appliances, and most pots and pans. Baking soda is made of sodium bicarbonate, a natural mineral. It’s harmless and cleans gently. It also comes in a paper box. Who can argue with that?

For bigger scrubbing jobs, Bartender’s Friend is also my friend. Like baking soda, it’s an easy-to-use powder packaged in a cardboard cylinder, like a giant salt shaker. There’s a little more chemistry to know here: it’s made from oxalic acid, which is great for stubborn rust and baked-on stains. Great for metal cookware, glass, porcelain, and amazing on oven doors. It can scratch countertops though, and some ceramic coatings on bakeware. It’s not toxic for the environment at all, but can irritate skin and eyes.
So long, soft scrub!

LAUNDRY SOAP: Watery liquid encased in plastic or detergent strips delivered in a paper envelope?

What’s better than lugging gallons of (mostly water) liquid laundry soap home from the supermarket? I’d say having an envelope of laundry soap strips delivered every month wins that match-up. The strips are dry, rubbery rectangles that rehydrate in the wash to make suds. There are plenty to choose from — here’s a run-down on the different brands I found helpful. (Thanks, Isa and Laundry Guru!)

Just as with the liquid stuff, sometimes a detergent strip is not enough to get everything smelling fresh and looking good. A person could rely on a liquid stain remover made from a long list of toxic chemicals. Or…you guessed it…an old school option does the trick just as well. Oxyclean is biodegradable and non-polluting, and a couple tablespoons is all you need.
Dirty socks, meet your new bosses: detergent strips and oxyclean.

Why switch away from plastic packaging?
Because recycling doesn’t happen.

Here are those numbers, hot off the press at the US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Actually, the stats are from 2018, but I’m guessing they’ve only gotten worse since then. Turns out plastic recycling is the crash landing of the environment (another oxymoron — did you catch it?)

• 35.7 million tons of disposable plastic was generated in the US in 2018.
• Of that outrageous amount, 27 million tons ended up in US landfills. This mind-blowing number makes up over 18% of all the municipal waste we tossed into the trash.
• Less than 9% of all plastic considered recyclable actually did get recycled into a new, usable product.
• PET (the translucent, glassy kind of plastic) and HDPE plastics (like milk jugs) win the most-recycled award, each coming in with 29% of the thrown-away containers getting recycled.

It hasn’t always been this way. Sixty years ago, when plastic disposables were just a gleam in the petroleum industry’s eye, only 390,000 tons of plastic was generated and thrown into a landfill. Math is not my strong suit, but that is about 1/100th of today’s plastic production. Before the disposable plastic revolution took hold in the 70s, we managed to get along just fine without all this throwaway plastic glutting up our world.

I take that to mean that we don’t have to live this way. We can survive and thrive with less plastic. Even if it happens one laundry jug at a time.

More stories on living lightly on this beautiful blue marble we call home…

• Here’s my hack for a luscious lawn
• Joshua trees are not really trees
• Climate change broke my arm.

First let me tell you I’m no yoga expert. I’ve practiced (off and on) for almost twenty years — but no one with me in a yoga class would think, “Wow, that’s a graceful yoga flow!” In other words, this story is not about how to do yoga well. In fact, it’s the opposite: despite all the wobbles and grunting and stiff hamstrings that are part of my yoga life, there are a few amazing life lessons that have sunk in over the years — and these are worth sharing.

These lessons each relate to a simple asana, one of the basic yoga moves found in just about any yoga sequence. Child’s Pose, Pigeon, and Downward Dog — each of these have come to represent a mental reminder that’s become useful for accepting life’s challenges. Even (or especially) when I’m nowhere near a yoga mat.

Photo by Conscious Design on Unsplash

Child’s Pose: It’s okay to give yourself a break

Also known in yoga-speak as Child’s Pose is always there for you.

It’s a phrase that is easy to poke fun at — like at any moment, a person could curl up on the floor, rest their belly on their knees, stretch out their arms, lay their heavy head on the mat. And no one would freak out. Everyone would understand they just need a moment to breathe. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Yoga is the one place that happens. Child’s Pose is a solid choice, not a lame cop-out, whenever things feel like too much. Instead of straining some body part or crossing into the misery zone, it’s okay to rest. To reset body and mind, and just breathe. Exhale what you don’t need, inhale what you do need. It’s still yoga. It’s serving a purpose. Especially when what you need most is rest.

In real life, in the world off the mat, it would be weird to do this. At any stressful moment in the office or on the street, dropping into child’s pose would definitely not have the same restorative affect. There would be some splaining to do. But..at any moment, you can privately take a mental child’s pose. Take 30 seconds to close your eyes, exhale, relax your shoulders, inhale, stretch where you can, exhale. Repeat as needed.

Then open your eyes and carry on, as you can.

What if we taught this to our kids? What if a timeout in the corner came with breathing, with the intention to start over, with the understanding that we all need to reboot when life gets complicated.

It’s okay to give ourselves a rest, to step out of the chaos for a moment to exhale. To start over.

In yoga, every breath is a new beginning. Out with what no longer serves you, in with what sustains you. How many breaths do we take in a day? That’s how many chances we have to start fresh. Child’s Pose can give you that opportunity, on or off the mat, in the studio or just in your head.

Pigeon Pose: It’s okay to be uncomfortable

For me, pigeon pose is just barely bearable. That’s why I keep doing it.

Lying face down on the mat with one leg chicken-winged underneath you, your foot somewhere near your hip bone and knee jutting out below your ribs. It is nowhere near the realm of comfortable. Yet you lie still, relaxing into it. Your mind wanders away from the ache. Or sometimes your mind goes deeper into it. Those few moments stretch on, and on, and then it’s done.

Human nature makes us avoid the uncomfortable in all kinds of situations. We squirm and wiggle and create diversions, anything to get back in our comfort zone. But embracing uncomfortable stillness helps in all kinds of situations.

For example… those difficult conversations when you want to babble through awkward silences (as I tend to do.) Maybe quiet acceptance of this uncomfortable moment would allow others time to think, instead of react. Maybe it would take the intensity down a notch. Maybe I’d be able to listen better. Maybe it all becomes less uncomfortable.

A few years ago I had to pivot in my work life. It was a painful transition and I found myself spinning from one hare-brained idea to the next. A friend said “Maybe you should just sit with this change for a bit, and do nothing.” I quickly gave her several reasons why that was a terrible idea, and I needed to DO SOMETHING NOW.

I avoided that uncomfortable inertia like a whirling dervish. Until I couldn’t. Then I sat with it, uncomfortable. Like Pigeon Pose inside my head. It was dreadful.

Slowly, reluctantly, the frenzy calmed. And I realized that all along I’d been writing. That through the hard parts of life, writing has always been my release valve. That most of the time, I couldn’t define my feelings until they poured out of my fingers and onto a page and I read the words back to myself and said “Oh! Now that makes sense.”

Out of this uncomfortable stillness I chose to pivot toward writing. To be honest, I’m still uncomfortable with this choice every day. But each time I sink into it, the writing comes more easily, goes deeper, feels more true.

Maybe we need to look at where in our lives we feel uncomfortable. What are we squirming to get away from? What if we keep Pigeon Pose in mind as we settle in, ignore the distracting voices, and see what bubbles up?

Downward Dog: Be grateful for the body you’ve got

Fans of vinyasa yoga flow through Downward Dog countless times each class. It’s that good. Just like a puppy ready to play, your butt is in the air and all four paws (AKA hands and feet) are solidly planted. In between, you lengthen your spine, pull your shoulders away from your ears, and stretch yourself into a better alignment.

Sooo good. Except for one thing. Downward Dog gives me a view of my thighs and knees that can be downright alarming. When did my knees get so wrinkly? Why are thighs so lumpy? Where did that giant throbbing vein up my calf come from?

And yet there I am. My arms might quiver on the chaturanga, the slow lowering into upward dog, but they are holding me up now. Thanks, arms! My legs might be furrowed as an elephant’s but they feel strong and steady. My butt takes up more space than seems proper, but dang if it’s not holding me all together as it should, the hinge that gives me both mobility and stability.

What’s the lesson here? Be grateful for the body you’ve got. Whatever kind of imperfect, flabby, misproportioned, sweaty, hairy collection of bones and muscles you’ve got, be thankful. You get to move and bend and dance and walk yourself onto a yoga mat as often as you can.

Like my butt, that is no small thing.