Women's History Month

 

In the spring of 1942, a young Dutch woman named Marion Pritchard was doing something completely ordinary. She was riding her bicycle to class through the familiar streets of Amsterdam — streets she had known since childhood.

Then she stopped.

Outside a Jewish children's home, Nazi soldiers were conducting a raid. But this was not a quiet arrest. Marion watched in horror as soldiers grabbed young children — babies, toddlers, kids no older than eight — by their arms, their legs, even their hair, and threw them violently into the back of a truck. Two women who tried to stop them were dragged away too.

Marion could not move. She stood there, tears streaming down her face, helpless.

But helpless was not who she would stay.

That single morning transformed her entirely. Marion, a social work student from a respected family, made a decision that most people never have to face: she chose to risk everything — her freedom, her safety, her life — for strangers.

She joined the Dutch Resistance.

Over the next 3 years, Marion built a quiet, dangerous world of secrets. She found hiding places for Jewish families. She collected forged identity papers and ration cards. She smuggled children in backpacks, hampers, and suitcases. She knocked on the doors of strangers and asked them to hide a child — and somehow, many of them said yes.

She also did something that, in those days, carried enormous personal shame. Marion walked into town halls and registered herself as the unwed mother of Jewish newborn babies, claiming them as her own children so they could be placed in safe, non-Jewish homes. She later called it her "mission of disgrace." She did it over and over again, without hesitation.

Her most daring act came when she moved into a friend's country home outside Amsterdam to personally shelter a Jewish father, Fred Polak, and his 3 young children — including a baby girl named Erica. For nearly 3 years, they lived in constant fear. Every time a vehicle approached, the family would disappear into a hidden pit beneath the floorboards. Baby Erica was given sleeping powder to keep her quiet during raids.

One night, Nazi soldiers and a Dutch collaborator came to search the house. They found nothing and left — but the Dutch collaborator returned alone, half an hour later, just as the children had climbed out of the hiding place. He had seen them. He knew.

Marion had a small revolver. She had never planned to use it.

She used it.

The Polak family survived the war. Fred Polak went on to become one of the Netherlands' most respected futurists and scholars. The children he and Marion had protected grew up, lived full lives, and carried her story forward.

In total, Marion Pritchard helped save approximately 150 Jewish lives — most of them children.

After the war, she worked in displaced persons camps across Germany, helping survivors find their footing in a shattered world. She later moved to the United States, raised a family, became a psychoanalyst, and spent decades teaching the next generation about what ordinary people are capable of — both in darkness and in light.

She died in December 2016, at the age of 96.

In one of her most remembered reflections on her wartime years, Marion said simply: "Most of us were brought up to tell the truth, to obey the law and the Ten Commandments. By 1945, I had lied, stolen, cheated, deceived — and even killed."

She never called herself a hero. She called it "the right thing to do."

And perhaps that is the most powerful lesson she left behind: that courage is not the absence of fear. It is choosing to act anyway — even when everything is at stake, even when you are just one person on a bicycle, on an ordinary spring morning, on a street you have known your whole life.

Some moments change us forever. Marion Pritchard let hers change the world.

Morning Reflections

 

Shamrock TX

Shamrock TX 2024

Shamrock TX Murals 2017

November 2012 - Shamrock TX
March 2013 - Shamrock TX

We drove through Shamrock on our west and east bound trips IN 2012-2013.

Shamrock got its name from the first postmaster of the town; an Irish immigrant named George Nickle, in 1893.

The Tower Station and U-Drop Inn Café is located along historic Route 66 in Shamrock. Built in 1936 by J. M. Tindall and R. C. Lewis at the cost of $23,000, this gem of a building got its start in the dust when John Nunn drew his idea for the station on the ground with an old nail.

With its Art Deco detailing and two towers, the building was designed and constructed to be three separate structures. The first was the Tower Conoco Station, named for the dominating four-sided obelisk rising from the flat roof and topped by a metal tulip. The second was the U-Drop Inn Café, which got its name from a local schooolboy's winning entry in a naming contest. The third structure was supposed to be a retail store that instead became an overflow seating area for the café. The Tower Station was the first commercial business located on the newly designated Route 66 in Shamrock, and is one of the most imposing and architecturally creative buildings along the length of the road. 

Until about the late 1970s, the Tower Station and U-Drop Inn Café was light brick with green glazed tiles. Now refurbished with light pink concrete highlighted by green paint, it still looks much the same as it did during the heyday of the Mother Road. The towering spire above the service station still spells out C-O-N-O-C-O, a reminder of the booming business that the Tower Station and U-Drop Inn Café once saw.

Women's History Month

 

Julia Gillard did not plan to make history that day.

It was October 9, 2012. Julia Gillard, Australia's first and, to this day, only female Prime Minister, rose in Parliament to oppose a motion. It was a routine political moment. There were no cameras specially positioned for a landmark speech. No speechwriters had prepared elegant paragraphs. What came next was largely unscripted, delivered in real anger, built from two and a half years of accumulated experience.

And it would be watched by millions of people around the world before the week was out.

To understand why that speech hit so hard, you have to understand what came before it.

When Gillard became Prime Minister in June 2010 at age 48, she made history as the first woman to hold that office in Australia. She had immigrated from Wales as a young child, worked her way through law, entered politics, and climbed through one of the most demanding political environments on earth. The achievement was genuinely remarkable. The response, however, was unlike anything faced by the male leaders who had come before her.

From the moment she took office, the scrutiny was relentless and deeply personal. Politicians attended rallies where signs read "Ditch the Witch." Radio hosts made crude comments about her appearance. A Liberal senator called her "deliberately barren," suggesting her choice not to have children disqualified her from leading the country. Her unmarried status was discussed as though it reflected on her fitness to govern. Her hair, her voice, and her clothing were regular topics of media commentary. Her partner was subjected to demeaning descriptions in the press. And through all of it, the obvious comparison was never far from anyone's mind: no male Prime Minister had ever faced questions like these.

While all of this was happening, Gillard was actually governing. She was doing so in a hung parliament, meaning she had to personally negotiate every single vote to keep her government alive. She delivered the Gonski education reforms, overhauling school funding to better support disadvantaged children. She introduced a price on carbon emissions, one of Australia's most significant climate policy steps. She brought in a national paid parental leave scheme. When male leaders had navigated similarly fragile parliamentary situations, they were called skilled negotiators. When Gillard did the same, parts of the media called her government illegitimate.

On October 9, 2012, the Opposition Leader Tony Abbott rose in Parliament to condemn the Speaker of the House over a series of deeply offensive text messages that had become public. He presented himself as a man of principle, outraged by sexism and demanding higher standards.

Gillard had been listening to Tony Abbott for two and a half years. She had heard him tell her to "make an honest woman of herself" by getting married — a remark he would never have directed at a male Prime Minister. She had watched him stand in front of protest signs calling her "Bob Brown's bitch" and "Ditch the Witch" without distancing himself. She had sat across from him in Parliament as he made comments questioning whether women were suited for positions of power. And now, this same man was standing up in Parliament to deliver a lecture about misogyny.

She stood up to oppose his motion. And then she began to speak.

For fifteen unscripted minutes, Gillard did something that had rarely been done at that level of public life. She did not speak in vague terms about inequality or make broad philosophical arguments. She named specific comments. She quoted exact words. She pointed directly at the man in front of her and held up a mirror to his own record. She said what the evidence showed.

The chamber went quiet. The words came fast and clear.

She told him that if he wanted to know what misogyny looked like in modern Australia, he did not need a motion in the House of Representatives. He needed a mirror.

In Parliament that day, the vote went mostly along party lines. Abbott's motion was defeated by 70 votes to 69. The immediate Australian media reaction was largely dismissive — several major newspapers described the speech as a political mistake, a sign of poor judgment, an act of desperation.

Then the world got hold of it.

The video spread first in Australia, then across the United Kingdom, the United States, Europe, and beyond. Women shared it with a single instruction: Watch this. Because what Gillard had done was not just call out one politician in one parliament. She had named something universal. She had described, with evidence and precision, the experience of being judged by standards that were never applied to the men around her. The exhaustion of being scrutinized for the things that had nothing to do with the work. The frustration of being lectured about standards by the very people who had been lowering them.

World leaders contacted her. French President François Hollande mentioned it at an international summit. US President Barack Obama referenced the speech when Gillard called to congratulate him on his 2012 election win. Hillary Clinton later said she found the speech striking and that Gillard had faced outrageous sexism. In 2020, readers of The Guardian Australia voted it the most unforgettable moment in Australian television history. The Macquarie Dictionary updated its definition of the word "misogyny" in its wake. It is now studied in universities across the world and referenced in leadership discussions in fields far beyond politics.

Gillard's prime ministership ended in June 2013, when she lost a Labor leadership challenge. She had governed for three years under conditions that would have tested any leader — a minority government, a relentless media, and a political opposition that made her gender a daily weapon. She left Parliament shortly after.

The speech outlasted all of it.

It lasted fifteen minutes. It was unplanned. It was honest. And it gave language to something millions of people recognized but had never heard spoken so clearly in a room with that much power. She did not lecture. She did not perform. She named what she saw, backed it with evidence, and refused to pretend it was acceptable.

Australia's first female Prime Minister made history once by reaching the top. She made history a second time by standing up and refusing to accept the rules she had never agreed to play by.

Not now. Not ever.

Morning Reflections

 

Is it dead yet?

 

Tuesday Treasures

 Tom hosts Tuesday's Treasures.

Toronto ON

Sunday laws in Ontario in 1911.

In early 20th-century Ontario, specifically regarding 1911 Sunday laws (also known as "blue laws" or "Sunday closing laws"), the word "labor" was frequently spelled without the 'u' ("labor" instead of "labour") due to a combination of American influence, cost-saving printing practices, and earlier variations in British/Australian spelling. While "labour" is the standard Canadian spelling today, the American spelling "labor" was common in many Canadian newspapers and legal documents from the 1970s and before.