Skip to main content

Sunday Birthday--Carrie Nation

Carrie Nation was born on this day in 1846, so happy birthday to the old woman.

Carrie Moore's first husband, Dr. Gloyd, was a severe alcoholic, so she left him and turned her attentions to the temperance movement. She believed God told her to smash up saloons, so she gathered up rocks and destroyed what she could. After her second husband suggested she switch to hatchets because they would be more effective, she began a campaign of what she called "hatchetations," going from saloon to saloon, hacking up the places and shouting, "Men, I have come to save you from a drunkard's fate."

Carrie was 6 feet tall and weighed 175 pounds, and she liked to say she was "a bulldog running along at the feet of Jesus, barking at what He doesn't like." She was arrested more than 30 times for vandalism--smashing up bars--and she paid her fines with lecture fees and by selling souvenir hatchets.

It's interesting to note there was a history of mental illness in her family. Her mother suffered from delusions and often believed she was Queen Victoria. Do you see the resemblance?

Cheers.

Comments

dive said…
I wonder what she thought about the wedding feast at Cana?
Scout said…
HA. Dive, if she was taught was I was taught as a kid, then she believed it wasn't actually wine but something that fooled the guests into thinking it was wine, making the miracle that much more spectacular.
dive said…
Oh how bizarre we humans are, when we twist even the words of the Gospels to suit our own agendas.
Hee hee.
Gina said…
I do believe I see the resemblance!
Anonymous said…
I had that dreaded third gin & tonic last night. My head is hurting so badly today that I'm thinking Carrie Nation might have been on to something.

Mrs. G.

Popular posts from this blog

Am I Stupid, or What?

In two weeks, I will climb up into a charter bus, take my assigned seat, and ride 22 hours straight to Orlando, Florida. I will be a chaperon with the high school marching band, which will perform at Disney's Magic Kingdom--me and 180 people on four big buses for seven days. We will travel together, eat together, play together, fall down exhausted together--and after 22 hours, I suspect stink to high heaven together. Because of the crazy schedule, we will leave Ohio at 6 pm, travel all night and most of the next day, and spend several hours at MGM Studios before ending up at the hotel sometime after 7 pm. After I check in with the eight girls I am to supervise, I intend to shower and shower and shower. I intend to wear clean clothes and socks and brush my teeth until my toothbrush wears out. Of all the things I could be concerned about on this trip, being dirty seems to weigh heaviest on my mind. One of my eight charges could run off and do bad things with her boyfriend, but I'...

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

An Offending Pile

So, I'm standing in my living room letting my mind wander for a minute or two as I stare out the window and watch the day go by, and I see my neighbors walking their dogs down the street. They are nice neighbors who are always friendly and responsible with their property. That is to say they aren't like the other neighbors who heap rubbish behind their house like Ma and Pa Kettle and let their dogs bark for thirty minutes at a time . Anyway, I see the nice people walking their dogs, a big golden retriever who is as sweet as can be and as dumb as a post—he once ate a sock and nearly died before it was surgically removed—and a new golden retriever puppy. Then I see Neighbor Wife suddenly run down the street with the big dog. Then I see Neighbor Husband stopped in front of my house with the puppy on its leash. And then I see the puppy taking a huge dump in my grass. Let me tell you, that is not done in this town unless the dog owner has a plastic bag handy and is ready to pick up ...