As we, the mothers down at Brady's Bombs, spend this day away from the plant to remember the true meaning of Christmas -- family, sharing, peace on Earth and good will toward men -- we wish everybody a "Very Merry Christmas."It's so wonderful to take pause with dear friends and loved ones to celebrate another beautiful Christmas. And yes, tomorrow we'll be back to it at Brady's where the work is hard and often strenuous (those little bastards are heavy!). None of us makes a killing at it but it's a living. A labor of love!
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Dada attribute: A very special Christmas package was opened last eve. It's the kind of package that only comes from rare places like Eugene, Oregon.Among the gifts therein was this photo with the following notation - "Bomb Ladies: This curious photo has hung on the wall at QQ for at least fifteen years with no appended explanatory information. Judging by the hemlines, hairstyles, and oh yes, the giant explosive device, we are guessing it is from the World War II years. Anyone know the story behind this picture? Write us or send e-mail to quarterly@uoregon.edu."
While I have no idea of this photo's background, I thought I'd make one up. ~Dada
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8 comments:
Clearly, back in the day, they would have thought this photo to be "a blast". Little did they know what that would be a precursor to....
I like to envision these ladies now on the protest lines, with signs saying *Whatever happened to the Roadmap to Peace???" or "Support our troops- Bring 'em home NOW". They were young & naieve.
Best wishes to you & yours. What does editor Sam think of this thing they call Xmas?
Fran: also in the Eugene package was a bold bumper sticker: "Fire the Liar!"
Hope you and yours had a great Xmas too! I should blog about Sam's day and evening yesterday. He did great. All day long I was having flashbacks of "Susan" (our first dalmation) as I was laying out Sam's presents, teaching him to snoop (but not open!) until the evening when all the suspense gave way to new toys and treats. He was perfect!
(He would often disappear into the living room during the day. After a reminder or two not to open the pkgs yet, he snooped w/o supervision the rest of the day.)
Oh thanks for stopping by Let's Talk God. I've seen your comments on a few other site and always ment to take a look at your Blog.
I'm adding you to my sites if that's OK.
Dada, your line "none of us makes a killing" inspired this:
Of course, Prescott Bush owned the bomb factory. His smiling photo was hung on the employee lunch room wall with the inscription, "YOU may not make a killing, but I do". This was the same photo emblazoned on the very slim weekly pay envelopes. Every evening, the night janitors had to wipe off a mishmash assortment of lunch glop spewed at the picture by emp'ees. Many mornings, the day janitors would find more glop on the picture, this time resembling a hitler moustache, under which was carved in tapioca pudding, "my son Geo HW went to war to avoid an agressive dame named barbara. If all you peons produce enough bombs, he may stay busy so long that she'll lose interest in him. Then you can proudly claim to have saved the world from fascism & my son from a lifetime of pain & woe". Shortly after the war ended, when the factory was sold to a young start-up company named H.Burton, Prescott's secretary identified the tapioca handwriting as that of Prescott himself. She said, he always did work both sides of the fence, practicing reverse psychology when it suited him. That's P's secretary standing in the very center of the bomb photo, surrounded by the glop-spewing factory workers who proudly proclaimed, "all of our bombs were duds. We sabotaged them just to spite Prescott & make his son come home & marry that b*tch." Contacted 55-yrs later, the survivors pleaded, "Please, please forgive us for hating the man so much, we couldn't believe his future grandson would ever amount to much."
All of which goes to show, a picture is worth a thousand glops, but tapioca pudding is evil.
ps, way to go, Sam! What restraint! xmas comes but once a year.
Merry merry Christmas...and happy New year dada...I am so grateful for your blog here in Blogatopia....may Peace and Joy be in the future for all of us and you and yours...all of us....namaste...
about that photo: I do know that in WWII Bombs were made in abandoned Ballrooms in Bellingham Washington....by moms....others worked in the coalmines there with the Indians....but all photos of them Bomb Moms have long been dissappeared....
I spent a jolly Xmas dinner (well BBQ and salads) with a new acquaintance here in the sub-tropics. Being well bought up I asked this bloke about himself and his interests.
Turns out he is just a humble metal worker who works for a local business that designs and builds prototype robot military equipment.
The strange bit here being that he was as benign as your Brady moms. But very proud of the weapons of destruction he was involved with.
Well I guess I would be too if robots were going to take over the business of war. But that is not a thought I shared, I was content to simply listen.
Let's Talk (and all):
Wow....sorry I'm so long in getting back to this (maybe it's the post holiday descent from christmas delirium) but I wanted to first of all just say to "Let's Talk"....THANKS! I appreciate the offer to be listed among many wonderful blogsites you recommend. That's always a humbling honor, the timing of which is excellent, i.e., these repeating phases of waxing passions, waning enthusiasms that come in ever more frequent recurrences leave me pondering weather to just slit my wrists or, in a sudden fit of enthusiasm, buy a gun! (Sorry, in light of today's news out of Pakistan, I realize how ill-timed it is to say that here, to say it now.)
d.k. - Thank you so much for your interpretation of the Brady's Bombs moms photo. More truth than fiction, I'm sure, yet, seasoned such that smiles result reading it. (And tears...but I didn't detect any onions in there--definitely a sign of good, subtle, seasoning.)
to enigma: Thank you dearest for the wonderful holiday wishes. You and 6-6 hold a special place - not just in my heart, but the hearts of many, many others, including a housemate locally along with a blog editor dog. (grin)
p.s. A sidenote of empathy from the weak hearted: Less than a week into it, I realize what a flippin' pansy I am, i.e., I'm so sick of winter already with it's temps in the 50's and windgusts the same! (I know, I know, I can hear you sobbing for me all the way from the shores of those Great Lakes.)
Cartledge: As if confessing my puniness in the forgoing wasn't enough, I find myself drifting out of my body (to the resounding protests of those I'm leaving behind to "Wake up! Dada, Snap out of it! Don't leave us! Breathe, breathe!" as the increasing harshness of the fists pressuring my heart to resume beating becomes increasingly more annoying. Annoying only because the images of barbeque on Christmas day somewhere in Australia have me caring not if I ever return to the real world of harsh realities and bone chilling winds.
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