Crone on, sisters.

In literature at least, women are often lumped into three categories, divided by age: maiden, mother, crone. They’re also sometimes divided by proclivity into Madonna/Whore, but that’s a false dichotomy invented by men, that has more to do with THEIR proclivities than with any real sense of women.

I freely and proudly admit that I’m entering (have entered? am well into?) my crone years. And I’m LOVING it. In spite of the surprises wrought by gravity and a few decades of a carb-heavy diet, being a crone has advantages:

1. Lack of estrogen and a slowing metabolism mean that crones often take on a wee bit of weight. If one lives in the north, putting on a few extra lbs for winter provides necessary insulation. In addition, thigh friction adds extra heat and does not, as is often believed, spark fires.

2. People listen to crones. I suppose some think wrinkles = wisdom, or that experience and time have tested our theories and practices, so that we’ve winnowed things down to only what’s true and workable.

3. People don’t listen to crones. Older women become invisible, which has two important advantages: (1) It proves my theory that we’re all just animals, and that once past reproductive possibility, crones are of no interest to younger people except as nannies/grannies (ironically and falsely, older men are often considered MORE wise/dignified/worthy of respect and even veneration in their “golden” years – and I would dearly love to smack whomever came up with that “golden” expression); (2) It allows crones to say and do pretty much whatever the heck we want, so long as it doesn’t harm anyone else or draw the attention of the constabulary.

4. Crones can comfortably hold contradictory views.

5. Heavy, pendulous, crone-y breasts make a decent “third hand” when gathering up armloads of small items that pile up on the dining room table and that must occasionally be redistributed to other parts of the house.

6. Crones have loads of ready excuses for NOT engaging in the hard-body exercise required of desirable youth, including but not limited to arthritis, new hips/knees/ankles/shoulders, exhaustion, swooning, and vapors.

7. Crones’ “hobbies” are seen as quaint. This is good cover for the fact that I could knit a straightjacket from which you’d never escape, or that I could be burying anything in that jungle of tomato and cucumber plants, or that I’m teaching one of my le petit canaries to attack on command (a la Hitchcock).

8. Sky’s the limit when it comes to crone wardrobe. Wanna wear white shoes after Labor Day? Have at it. In fact, wear white go-go boots. Wanna wear a crocheted halter top? You’re invisible, remember? Do it. Wanna wear a moo-moo with an all-over chili pepper print? Can you find a head wrap and handbag to match? Some summer days, I like to don a Sophia Loren headscarf and huge sunglasses, put on a bikini (I tuck in as much of me as possible—I’m not a monster) and high heels, and stroll on the beach…in another town.

My great grandmother Effie.

9. Crones can take advantage of the super early morning Covid shopping hours, when we don’t have to worry as much about unmasked, unvaccinated idiots (I've lost all patience and understanding for these willful infectors), bumper carts, or aisle rage.

10. Carl Jung postulated that in our post-childbearing years (he said one’s 40’s), we “reclaim ourselves,” that we rediscover our own selfhood, including our interests and our beliefs/spirituality. Since 60 is the new 40, I’m excited to be in this phase. So far, I’ve rediscovered napping, wine, Troll dolls, and sunflower seeds in the shell. I’m exploring my atheism and how that squares with my absolute belief in an intelligent Universe—pantheism maybe? And I’m pretty sure tap dancing is in my “rediscovering” future, so I’ll let you know when I have a recital coming up…

September Squirreling

Recently, the nights here in eastern South Dakota have been dipping below 50 degrees. We throw open the windows, happy to hear the owls and breathe in non-air-conditioned night air. But these cooler nights of early fall also trigger a strange annual phenomenon in many prairie people: September Squirreling.

It might start with something really innocuous—you make two lasagnas instead of one, and you freeze the extra “in case of company.” Or, you impulse-buy 5 lbs. of steel cut oats at the food co-op. You order three bottles of high-potency Vitamin D. Then, before you’re really aware of it, things ramp up—you freeze 12 ice cube trays of pesto; you buy lugs of peaches and spend a long, messy day making and canning jam; you can 60 quarts of every conceivable tomato product—roasted tomato and veggie sauce, raw-pack tomatoes, whole roasted Romas and Sunsweet cherries; you dehydrate a gallon bag of basil. You’ve turned your home into an industrial kitchen, and you might be speaking a little street Italian under your breath.

But wait. You’re also freezer-stashing gifts: loaves of lemon poppyseed bread, apple pies, birthday cheesecakes, chocolate chip cookies, Chubby Chipmunk truffles. When you open the freezer door to find room for another 4 loaves of zucchini bread your brilliant baker friend brought over, you notice 1 lb bags of Vietnamese cinnamon and ground cardamom, a 12-pack of 6” unscented beeswax candles, bags of holy basil and minced onion flakes, and 5 lb each of regular and decaf Café Altura coffee beans. Who the heck ordered all this stuff? Oh wait…YOU did.

Winter chili, spaghetti, shrimp creole...

Peppers the size of a quart jar.

Peach preserves for winter toast.

Stocking the larder.

If you read literature set in the 1800’s on the prairie (I highly recommend a short story called “Winter” by Kit Reed), you’ll discover the hereditary, maybe genetic, origins of September Squirreling: As Jon Snow says, winter is coming. Every hardy plains dweller worth her salt (Note to Self: Order 5 lbs of Celtic salt ASAP) knows you need to STOCK THE LARDER NOW!! You’ll need provisions for when the snow is piled higher than your doors & windows, cutting off all light and your access to the outside world.

Nevermind that you live in town, in the 21st century, where the city plows keep your streets clear all winter, and that your snowblower gives you unfettered access to everything year-round, 24/7. Nevermind that you can have curbside delivery of groceries, hardware, lumber, or anything Walmart sells, all winter long. Nevermind. Because you’re really just a higher-order squirrel, burying nuts and seeds in the yard. “Putting by” is in your pioneer, homesteader DNA.

So today, in early September when the high will be 88, I’ll be divvying up 20 lb bags of canary and parrot food into gallon bags for the freezer, so we’ll have plenty of avian antics for entertainment during “the dark time.” And if I make waaaaay too much goulash for dinner, well, I know what to do with the leftovers.

Wendel worries, will there be enough?