The Rural Voice, 1998-09, Page 8FIRE
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4 THE AURAL VOICE
Gisele Ireland
For Super Wrench the old ways are the best
This particular Sunday afternoon
was much like any other spent in the
Ireland household. The energy -
deficient were lolling on the porch,
the mildly -exuberant were pitching
balls to the tots
and the full -of -
vim -and -vigour
were running
around the yard
trying to get
heat stroke. The
air was
punctuated
every now and
then by my dire
threats of
getting freckles
ripped off if the
ball went into
the flower bed
again. The ball
didn't do much damage, but the
thrashing feet and flailing arms were
another matter entirely. As usual, it
only stopped them momentarily, my
threats having lost their effect by
sheer repetition long ago. Super
Wrench was doing what he does best,
on Sundays only mind you ...
making a burnt offering of meat for
our supper on the barbecue.
Little did my daughters by birth
and marriage know their topic of
conversation and ensuing fits of
giggles were a forecast for stormy
weather ahead ... with Chief
Thundercloud, alias Super Wrench,
armed to drown their merriment.
What had the girls convulsing was
a book my youngest daughter picked
up at a yard sale. Acquired for a
pittance, it outlined the successful
marriage and running of a household
for a young wife and mother in the
1950s. I do admit I did chuckle out
loud when they read the part where
the young mother should have the
children bathed, fed their supper and
ready for bed before Lord Pompous
(their term) came home from a hard
day in the salt mines. The evening
meal was to be relaxing for him.
I eyed the exuberant crew
frolicking on the front lawn and
recognized mission impossible when
I saw it. My ambivalence was plain to
see and I can only wonder what
Grandma Ina thought of our antics.
Both of us still operated under the
"taking care of your man" generation
and had only a tentative grasp of
liberation compared to these self-
assured women.
Super Wrench was holding the
smoking platter of the charred
remains of what must have been
edible meat at one point and caught
the tail end of how you were to greet
your husband when he came home.
Have your hair combed, your lipstick
on, wearing a freshly ironed and
starched dress and have his slippers
and libation of choice ready as he
came in the door. The girls were
doubled over at this scenario and the
husbands were looking skyward
asking the Almighty where such
women were hiding, when Super
Wrench announced, "that's how it
should be".
The girls immediately launched a
defense to this statement and it went
downhill from there on. "Women
nowadays" Super Wrench stated
authoritatively, "have lost far more
than they've gained. Did you ever see
a woman in the '50s mowing the
lawn, painting the house or washing
the car? That was a man's job, just as
cooking, cleaning and taking care of
the kids was the woman's job."
One of the girls piped up with the
rejoinder that women didn't need
men to do that kind of stuff. They
were quite capable of doing it
themselves. It rapidly became
apparent that these liberated women
in Super Wrench's immediate family
didn't think much of his views and
didn't come right out and call him a
redneck chauvinist, but the
implication was certainly there. I
noticed the young husbands backed
away from the fray, mainly because
they had to go home with these
incensed wives and knew better. It
did not deter the Wrench.
"Women have made it quite plain"
he said, "that men are so imperfect
it's their duty to set him along the
right path. That's why," he continued
with his final jab, "they are like a
bunch of sheep dogs, neutered and