VIKTOR DONOVAN

Friday, August 3, 2012

THE WAR ON WOMEN:
THE HORROR OF ILLEGAL ABORTION

At a time when fundamentalists and the ultra-conservative, Republican Party in America are launching an assault on women's reproductive rights including abortion, listen to Joan Crawford describe to Jean Harlow the horror of an illegal, back-alley abortion.

This text is taken from Donovan O'Malley's newly published (June 15, 2012) WOMEN WHO LOVE & OTHER STORIES -- The last story, JOAN AND JEAN ON PAGO PAGO deals with a fictitious meeting of the classic film actors, Joan Crawford and Jean Harlow. In it, Crawford describes to Harlow what abortion was like -- when it was illegal in the USA -- and the ensuing horror and aftermath of a back-alley abortion. In the story the elder Joan Crawford forces the younger Jean Harlow to act the part of the young, pregnant Joan Crawford also known as Billy Cassin:

"Ever seen an illegal abortionist's waiting room?" asked Joan... One thing they don't have at a back-alley abortionist's is magazines. One thing they do have is cockroaches. That's right, baby," grinned Joan-as-Billy as she saw the revulsion on Jean's face. "You're waitin' there in this back-alley butcher's waitin' room and a door opens and this young girl, she can't be no more than fourteen...this young girl comes out holdin' her belly and there's a slush of mascara and tears all over her empty little face and there's blood on her skirt and the skirt's back-to-front but she don't care about nothin'. As she staggers out she leaves a trail of tiny specks of blood that follow her out the door like the bread-crumbs that Hansel and Gretel, in that fairy tale, scattered to find their way back. But there ain't no way back for this bloody child who will die in the dark alley just outside. This child ain't no Gretel. And this ain't no Fairy Tale. Spread your legs, Harlow!"

Jean gasped, hesitated.

"Spread your legs, Billy Cassin!" commanded Joan.

Jean obediently spread her legs.

Joan became herself again -- the elegant gesture with her cigarette, the way she held her glass of vodka and crossed her still gorgeous legs -- it was all there, and she knew it. The pin-spot was again hers alone and she was perfect. That forty-foot movie screen contained no one but Joan Crawford as she whispered: "I lay there with my dress up to my chin. He looked down at me, grinned for a moment. I was glad it wasn't longer. He went to wash that child's blood from his hands and I thanked God for little favors -- he was at least washing his hands before he touched me. I looked around and I couldn't see the forest for the forceps...and the prongs and the knives and the little pincers and the big pincers and the scissors and the tiny, tiny, so very tiny hooked something-or-others that lay about that butcher's shop. LEGS WIDER, HARLOW!"

Jean was terrified but complied.

"Get ready!"

Jean squinched her eyes in horror. Joan grabbed a wire coat-hanger from her steamer trunk and twisted it till it became a long tool with a small hook at one end. Jean was oblivious, lost in terrified imaginings...

..."This illegal back-alley abortionist, this spurious doctor," hissed Joan, "this butcher, gives you a slug of gin from a dirty glass, pours a little more, drinks it himself then soaks his bloody hanky in it, and rubs it on his long, hooked wire. This man, this cruel but necessary criminal, was our only resort when a woman was poor and abortion was against the law"…

…"Billy Cassin's belly got bigger and bigger when it shoulda got smaller and smaller. Bigger and bigger 'stead of smaller and smaller. She thought it was a inflammation or somethin'."

"A inflammation?" asked Jean.

"Uh-huh," mimed Joan-as-Billy. "Or somethin'. A lot of lonely bleedin' was on her agenda."

"You bled a lot?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?! Then one fine morning a few months later I wake up in this cheap hotel on a real bloody bed, see? With this little thing beside me. I ain't quite awake so I don't know what the hell it is. But it moves and it looks at me with big, cloudy eyes and do you know what I say?"

Jean shook her head.

"I say," announced Joan, "I say What the hell is this?! It is attached to an umbilical cord thingy that trails right up into my..."

"Jeez! The abortion didn't..."

Joan became Joan again, said "I lifted the bedclothes to get a better look. I was foolishly curious in those days. The little thing...it was...unformed, made tiny noises, tiny, jerky moans. I pulled it next to me and it snuffled and made the tiny noises again. I put what might have been, should have been, its mouth, on my nipple but it didn't suck. Its mouth wasn't, didn't seem to be, developed enough to suck. I hugged it for awhile. Till it stopped breathing and it turned blue and it felt cold. Then I cut it free with my manicure scissors and I put it in a paper bag and I threw it away. That's what millions of women did when abortion was illegal. I was lucky. Thousands of others died."

Jean tore herself from Joan and leapt up with a hand over her mouth and rushed to the bathroom and vomited.

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NEW BOOK!

Much of human activity is centered around food. We think of food whether we’re hungry or not. We spend a great deal of time buying it. We take hours preparing it (well, some do). We talk about it. We read about it in cook books. We watch television when chefs talk about it (sometimes to excess). When we socialize, it is often centered around the communal intake of it. We give it as gifts. Food, we can’t escape it! Some people become keenly interested in preparing food for themselves and others; many have become what we call “good cooks”. Usually a degree of creativity is involved together with a keen interest to entertain and a need to take care of others, to be a good host. It is such people that one remembers, and that is how I got started on Food & Folk, remembering, for example that excellent couple, Beatrice and Clayburn La Force on their ranch in Alpine California. After that I just kept going.

MY HOMETOWN GOTHENBURG

A series of closeups (224 photos) of Gothenburg, Sweden. Language: English and Swedish.----- This book consists of a series of closeups of Gothenburg. It is no history book but, hopefully, it will generate some curiosity about our city. When you walk in a city like London you are struck by Britain’s colonial past and its enormous wealth which manifests itself in buildings and institutions all over the city. When you walk in “Little London” as Gothenburg is often called, one is keenly aware of its importance as the best fortified city in Northern Europe. Two forts still watch over it. Remnants of the seventeenth century wall, and the meandering moat are a reminder of the city’s military past. Positioned on the West coast of Sweden, Gothenburg was once a world leader in ship building and shipping and evolved naturally into a merchant’s city. The English and Scottish heritage here is very important. There are clues and traces everywhere. One has only to look.

A GARDEN IN MY HOMETOWN

A book in English and Swedish about the Garden Society of Gothenburg--TRÄDGÅRDSFÖRENINGEN -----The Garden Society of Gothenburg is one of the best preserved early 19th century parks in Europe. It is situated directly downtown, offering lovely walks in the park or in the shaded woodland areas along the canal/moat, waterfront. The garden recently went through a major renovation under the auspices of Ulf Nordfjell, the internationally known landscape designer. The aim was to bring the garden back to its old nineteenth century glory. Carpet bedding returned and five new woodland areas were designed by five international garden designers. A superb new rose park was added, a successful blending of historical roses and perennials.

Love letters from my Swedish grandfather Folke to my American grandmother Olga 1909 - 1961

My American grandmother, Olga, met my Swedish grandfather, Folke Jonsson, in Brussels in 1909. Olga was 18 and Folke, 23. They settled in Gothenburg and Särö, Sweden. Olga, being American, had her family in Florida, and Folke soon came to realize that if you marry a woman from another continent, and this woman is charmingly independent, innovative and brave, and has her own means to boot, she is bound to want to visit her native country some time -- or several times -- or more than several times. To Folke, a sensitive soul, the long separations were quite painful and he suffered till his darling Olga returned. He “talked” to her in his frequent letters. Olga saved all his letters, in their original envelopes, in neat little bundles held together with different coloured ribbons. They were a treasured lifelong testament of his love. Olga and Folke corresponded in English as Olga was American and preferred writing in English. Had my grandfather Folke married a Swedish woman who had stayed at home, there would not be this stack of his letters today. He never intended the letters to be shown to others, but more than one hundred years have passed since Folke wrote them to his darling Olga. I have enjoyed getting to know my grandfather in this manner and I think others, not only relatives, should also share that privilege.

A pictorial Companion to the letters in the book above: 150 pictures of Olga & Folke 1909-1978

NEW BOOK BY DONOVAN O'MALLEY

REVIEW: "...O'Malley continues to prove that he is one of the more important writers around, a writer who with every book brings into our lives some very strange, often exceedingly humorous, and now, frequently very lonely people. His ability to create language for each of his characters is sharp, well studied and written, and without belittling anyone he, in language, shows the difference between class, and education, and exposure. Likely that comes from his experience in writing plays where characters are alive and moving, but with his considerable literary skills he makes his written page people morph into real life folks. He is in top form here ... " Grady Harp, June 12 (Hall of Fame reviewer)

Friday, August 3, 2012

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