I Am Missing the Days of Rosie

During World War II we were free to be men; we were even encouraged to be. Every one of us took on jobs as riveters, assemblers and machinists. We built bombs by day and tended to our victory gardens by night.

We had all proven ourselves capable. But after the war we womenfolk seemingly became an enigma. We were reduced to “just a woman” in a man’s job. Deemed unnecessary in the fight of competitiveness that began about the time we left the factories. Our place was to be back in the kitchen—we were told to bake cookies. They said we’d no longer useful in working machinery.

Assembling a hearty breakfast for my husband at cockcrow, and packing his lunch is now my post war time effort. Bearing a child was an expectation society now laid upon me…it is something I endlessly have a dispassion for.

Milford made a predictable 5:30 am appearance at the table. Seated, he grabbed the gazette opening it to the first page. Taking a nippy break before looking at the unfavorable sports results, he said “You look pretty today, Emma.”

Interrupting my focused laying of the food in his lunch pail I turn, fronting a smile and nodding in thanks. I espied his overalls. They were buttoned right through the fly with a straight leg. They possessed big patch pockets on the chest for keeping things handy. Lust filled thoughts began to flood my head space…

I once donned coveralls made of blue denim myself. They had breast pockets to keep small tools in as well. My cuffs were forever tied responsibly tight keeping them from being caught in machinery.

I disagree with his well-meant compliment. My dress is far from “pretty.” Instead, it inhibits my ability to be a woman. I miss my pants. They belong to me as well, and I need to make every effort to wear them once again.