The Amazon Trail: A Generous Angerby Lee Lynch I know about the anger of gay people, but I never guessed at our generosity. I suppose both spring from the same fierce will to survive, because both serve to defend us in a world that seems, at times, determined to hate us out of existence. Several months ago, friends of Valerie Taylor, the lesbian writer whose work dates back to the early 1960s, sent out an appeal for donations to help her recover, in her seventy-ninth year, from a disabling fall. The response has been generous in spirit as well as dollar. "I wish the women [and men] who have/are still sending me money could know what is happening to it," writes Valerie. "Their notes and their thoughts mean more than the checks, except that the checks are necessary to my physical survival in health and decen- cy. That makes this small, obscure house a microcosm of that so- cialist commonwealth which would sustain all. (Sorry, any Repub- licans among my sisters who have contributed, maybe there is a better word for it. A culture of siblings?) I don't know that anyone has been kept as intensively by as large a group, unless it were Ghandi's followers who, he said, paid a great deal to keep him in poverty. My poverty is better described as simplici- ty." Valerie's humor has obviously thrived during her body's trials. Her fractured shoulder is healed. Her left leg, which was the cause of her fall, has strengthened to the point where she is about to graduate from a walker to a quad cane. Donations have given her back a future. She doubted that she would walk again, but the monetary support and encouragement have enabled her to continue physical therapy for the leg even though her "covered" injury has "healed." She has been able to install devices in and around her home that will assist her to continue to be mobile and independent. Though very careful with the funds, she has been able to hire people to temporarily help her cook and clean, to bring her groceries, and to transport her to therapy and medical appointments, an otherwise daunting endeavor. "How many miserable ladies in retirement bins could be looking after themselves if they had an hour of help a day? And just a little self-esteem?" asks Valerie. "Maybe our old dykes' retire- ment home ought to be a settlement of cozy little shacks with a couple of young sisters to do the heavy lifting?" Between progress reports and pearls of wisdom come bursts of ex- citement and enthusiasm. "You should see my transition shower bench. For the first time in four months I can wallow in being clean. An old multiple sclerosis friend who had one complained that the grandchildren wanted to play in it all the time. I'm on their side." There has even been enough money for Valerie to address another much-neglected problem. "I am saving money like a mission so that I can get my craggy teeth replaced after years of ugly crumbling. Probably your best way to tell the poor is by the condition of their teeth, and that the poor happen to be poets doesn't make a bit of difference. Otherwise," she continues, "I see the signs of better nutrition . . . and returning energy. So maybe even at up- coming 80 there is still, as they say, some sugar at the bottom of the cup. A terrible figure of speech for a diabetic however borderline." On September 7, Valerie turned a venerable eighty. Lesbian neighbors do Valerie's laundry. Kate Randall and Trudy Mills at Antigone Books (600 N. 4th, Tucson, AZ 85705) have been receiving, recording and delivering checks for Valerie with large dollops of caring attention and loaned books. A responsive gay media continues to run the appeal. While non-gay writers receive advances and mainstream kudos, the balance of Valerie Taylor's royalties are coming in late but with interest paid in love. Sim- ply put, Valerie thanks all of you. If lesbian nation and its supporters can overflow with love, so can its wrath sting. When I wrote some time back about my person- al boycott of L.L. Bean because of heir Linda Lorraine Bean's right wing proclivities, I didn't receive as much mail as Valerie has, but certainly as much as I've received on any other column. Clearly Bean gear is dear to the hearts of more queers than my- self. I am reluctant to be a mouthpiece for L.L. Bean, and thus far my own boycott decision has not changed, but given the reactions of readers as well as the potency of our sting. I want to share the reply of what appears to be one of the largest, albeit uninten- tional, queer outfitters in the world. Linda Lorraine, according to Catherine Harnett, Senior Public Af- fairs Specialist at Bean, "is one of twenty Bean descendants who own the company. She also serves on the Board of Directors with several other family members and company executives. She does not work at the company, and does not have an office here." Ms. Hartnett also shares that Bean's charitable donations go pri- marily to organizations like the National Wildlife Federation, The Nature Conservancy and the Appalachian Mountain Club. Although "No corporate funding is directed toward any PACS, reli- gious or social action organizations," she points out that Bean has "a non-discrimination policy, prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation." Bean's company AIDS education pro- grams instruct about "real and perceived risks presented by AIDS in the work place," says Hartnell, while carefully acknowledging that AIDS is not strictly a gay disease. Good work, Bean. Could Linda Lorraine be the only bad bean in the barrel? Still, I haven't been able to bring myself to send one red (lavender) cent to a company that even unintentionally fuels someone reported to be a supporter of the Christian Coalition and Jesse Helms' National Conservative Action Committee. That gay will to survive is strong, whether withholding or giving. In a tolerant world it is hate that would be aberrant, not the love that binds us to our heros. Given current societal attitudes, it is extraordinary that we are capable of being as generous with our love as with our . Boxing as Therapy for the 90s by Melissa Mather Raging Bull. A close, smoky room, people packed shoulder to shoulder, barely discernable in the bright halo of a ring in the center. A fist, gloved in crimson, comes out of nowhere and smashes the boxer's face. A shower of blood and sweat sprays out, sparkling in the darkness. The aesthetic of violence, Joyce Carol Oates calls it. A sweet science, the play, Boxiana, called it. Pure unadulterated tes- tosterone, we call it. This, we all agree, is boxing. Unless you are a boxing coach named Cappy Kotz. As she prowls the bright, airy dance studio in Pioneer Square where multi-color punching bags hang from stark metal hooks and chains that haven't been there long enough to rust or scrape, watching five women practice their left jabs and one-two combina- tions, she exudes a calm, powerful grace. No cigar-chewing, no barrel chest, no short temper. Under Kotz's tutelage, boxing is the therapy of the nineties. To Kotz, boxing is emotional management: feeling different emo- tions, dealing with their source and turning this into a sport. It is about facing fears, both emotional and physical, and it forces people to bring their emotions in touch with their bodies. Boxers confront and conquer buried fears by working through them with the physical challenges presented in boxing. In Kotz's eyes, boxing ties all the fights of life together. Yes, some of it is about hitting and dealing with all of the implications that phy- sical confrontation suggests. But even more, this process in- volves the elegance and control of precise movement. Toward the middle of the practice, Kotz asks the group to shadow box. Each woman takes her space, facing the old brick wall, where weathered paint spells out "5" Cigars." The music is turned on, and they are left to their own. Kotz tells them to "channel" punches from the hips, and each one struggles to get a rhythm. After several minutes, Kotz strolls over to the stereo, turns off the music and throws a question into the air. "How pleasurable was this exercise for you?" she asks. The group is in a circle, and Kotz directs her bright, blue eyes at each one. The tan, lean, tattooed boxer in black Converses, bike shorts and a tank top didn't see the point of pretending to have a partner (Kotz corrects herself when she starts to use the word "opponent"). "Sunflare" (the women can choose "boxing names"), clad in black leotards and L.A. Gear white hightops, says that she was "lost in her moves," and clearly enjoyed the movements and the dance of the sport. A stocky boxer wearing black work boots looks completely at home in a pair of gloves and takes each exercise in stride. All of this began when Kotz, who will be sanctioned as a boxing coach in December, began a non-contact boxing fitness program about two years ago. Her students begged her to take their train- ing further, and thus, the "Seattle Contenders" were born. They are currently training for an all-gay boxing tournament, The Rainbow Invitational Gloves, sponsored by Team San Francisco's boxing club, on November 6, 1993. The tournament will provide them the opportunity to compete against other boxers, but will emphasize boxing skills and emo- tional control. The boxing in this tournament, and others in the gay circuit, is non-contact or sparring, in which the competitors compete for points. In fact, if a boxer knocks out a sparring partner, she/he automatically loses. Each boxer wears head gear and achieves points through different moves. Kotz had two of her trainees practice sparring for three minutes during a Thursday practice. She could see some frustration from the two since they could not actually punch one another, but she contends that they will learn that the moves themselves can be satisfying. In addition, she indicates that this frustration can mean that they have "another level to deal with in their own emo- tional management." In a world where gays and lesbians often feel threatened, boxing allows them to find their power. Kotz's intent is to challenge the aggressive, sometimes hostile, world in a way that teaches gays and lesbians to manage their emotions, power, and energy constructively. There are individuals in her program who are from abusive back- grounds and, indeed, this is an issue Kotz has had to address many times. Incidents from someone's past, when maybe they wanted to defend themselves from someone, either mentally or physically and were unable to, certainly can impact that individual's development as a boxer. But Kotz emphasizes that learning to manage your emotions in such a physical sport is empowering. Many people try to deal with their past in therapy, but boxing allows an individual to address fear or strong emotion in a dramatically different way. In fact, Kotz compares her gay and lesbian group to the boxing groups that are forming for inner city youth. These youth groups try instill a discipline of the mind, body and emotions in the young men they reach. Because many gays and lesbians struggle with the challenges of their past, they are also looking for a vehicle to self-discovery. Kotz believes that, for some, boxing is the answer. . The Unconventional People of Cherry Grove by J.L. Richesson Cherry Grove, Fire Island, by Esther Newton. (Beacon Press, 1993, 378 pages, $24.00) "It's a sense of strength, a sense of being free to socialize, that you can breathe free. You get off the ferry and suddenly feel the pounds drop off." Esther Newton, author of Cherry Grove, Fire Island, sipped tea at Il Bistro, as she conveyed to me the sense of freedom that Cherry Grove offers the gays and lesbians who have come to the resort for the last sixty years. "These people went through a lot to create a place free from harassment and oppression," she said. As a professor of anthropology at State University of New York, Purchase, Newton has written more than just a vacation and travel guide. By compiling the history of Cherry Grove, she has also chronicled the development of gay and lesbian society in America during the twentieth century and recorded the oral histories of those who pioneered Cherry Grove. In the 1930s, "unconventional people" from New York City, members of "cafe society," were searching for a vacation spot where they could be with compatible people. These were people with careers in the theater, design, publishing and advertising. They were tired of hiding and lying, and longed to have a place other than dark city bars where they could be themselves. Newton states that their migration to Cherry Grove is "one of the clearest proofs we have that sexual preference was becoming the basis for a complete social identity." Gays and lesbians began renting modest vacation homes, usually in large groups, and established partying and the afternoon cocktail hour as the social norm. Straight families in the Grove took note of the growing homosexual population: some were welcoming, some were condemning but silent, others formed the Cherry Grove Pro- perty Owners Association as a means to assert their rights. There were no mainland amenities in Cherry Grove, such as indoor plumbing, electricity and telephones and the very fact that Fire Island was isolated from the mainland became a "condition of its existence" as a spot for gays and lesbians. During the 30s word spread in the City that Cherry Grove was the place to be. In growing numbers, gay and lesbian day-trippers and weekenders came. Cottages and homes were built; board walks con- nected the houses, and the building encroached upon the dunes and beaches. In September 1938, a hurricane destroyed most of the buildings in Cherry Grove. In its wake, property owners had to choose between re-building or leaving their investments. Land and property values deflated, making it possible for "new people" to buy pro- perty. And they did. In 1939, Duffy's Hotel was built, and it became a place to gath- er, and sometimes, to dance together. Grove life revolved around heavy drinking, elaborate partying, and casual outdoor sex. Theater people and writers, such as W.H. Auden, Carson McCullers, Janet Flanner and Christopher Isherwood were Cherry Grovers. During the 1940s and 1950s, gay sub-culture grew. World War II provided opportunities for solidarity which overcame the sometime frictions between gay men and women. Lesbians became more visible in the country during the War, and more came to Cherry Grove. As an "antidote to the pain of mainland life," Grove life valued "excess and ecstasy, as well as home ownership and community ac- tivism." Theatrical gender-bending expressed itself in the formation of the Cherry Grove Arts Project, whose purpose was not only to pro- vide a means for renters to have a collective participation in the community, but a venue for producing arts reviews. There were opportunities to express drag and high camp sensibilities. Grovers attended one grand theme party after another. Cherry Grove was not utopia, however. There continued to be ten- sion between straights and gays, and there were arrests, mainly for nudity and indecent exposure. The 1949 murder of Robert Duff, and the subsequent arrest of his partner, John Robbins, provided a momentary opportunity for straight Grovers to crack down on "immoral behavior." This could have been a return to oppression but the profit motive prevailed: many straight property owners were making money from gay renters. In addition, the Grove's lack of social institutions (schools, churches, synagogues and a police force) soon cooled the immedi- ate negative sentiment. In 1953, the Pines-a community next to Cherry Grove-was developed as a haven for heterosexuals only, however affluent or famous gays bought at the Pines. Cherry Grove became more accessible to middle class gays. After her tea at Il Bistro, Esther Newton went to Beyond The Closet Bookstore on Capitol Hill for a slide show of pictures old time Grovers had shared with her. Her audience was mostly young. A man asked, "What's Cherry Grove like now?" Newton explained that The Grove continued to be a haven to congregate and associate, for gays and lesbians, but there exist- ed ironies. While gays sought a place for freedom of self expres- sion, there were also expressions of intolerance. "There were class variations," Newton says, "based on income, status, race, ethnicity. The first Grovers were upper crust, wealthy or theater people," and were not welcoming of working class, blacks, or Hispanics. For years, heavy drinking and drunkenness were not only the norm, but expected. One story had it that "until you've fallen off the board walk, you are not really a Cherry Grover." "It was difficult to write about the prodigious drinking and al- coholism," said Ms. Newton. "Some still deny the fact that al- coholism was one result of the extreme partying." In the 1960s, electricity, a water system and telephones came to the Grove, diminishing its isolation from the mainland. The Grove grew in ethnicity and class diversity. More bars and gay businesses opened. The National Seashore Act protected the dunes and beaches from further development. Age, AIDS and alcoholism have brought a new face to the Grove. Some of the old timers are gone now. The lesbian population has grown and the phenomenon of gay families has some old time Grovers concerned about the presence of babies. "I would not want to see the Grove become all lesbian," says New- ton. "The Grove needs to remain a microcosm of our gay subcul- ture." As an outpost of New York City, the cultural capital of America, Cherry Grove had an overall influence on gay and lesbian culture. It remains a place where, for a weekend or a summer, gays and lesbians can let down their guard and claim their right to be who they are, without restriction, judgment, or harassment. . Scenes from the Country by Megan Ardyche The man standing at the door tells me the car is on fire. I look skeptically at the car and, sure enough, smoke is billowing from it. It's my girlfriend's car. Panic sweeps over me. I have vi- sions of the gas tank exploding, the rented house catching fire and everything burning to the ground. I'm afraid the volunteer firefighters are all away from the village, logging in the woods. But, the firefighters arrive in a timely fashion, the gas tank doesn't explode (although the fire is quite dramatic), and the house doesn't catch fire. It turns out that my girlfriend, Rose, had been trying to thaw the lines in her car with a blowtorch. She had gotten hungry, and laid the torch on the front seat. I guess she had neglected to turn the valve off all the way. The man who had delivered this news has actually come to deliver a load of 8-foot lengths of firewood, which he dumps in a great ungainly heap beside the house. It would be up to Rose and me to crank up the chainsaw and, bracing our bodies and spirits against its menacing roar, "chunk" this wood into stove-lengths. That wouldn't be the end of it, however. We'd split the chunks into smaller pieces, an exercise that generated so much body heat and sweat that we'd soon be stripped to our shirtsleeves. Later, we carried the pieces of wood into the house for burning which, in the winter, often meant digging them out of the snow, chopping off the ice that had caked on them, letting them thaw in the house-which meant mopping up the puddle later-all before they could be burned. Needless to say, with all this work, we didn't suffer from being cold unless we actually got to sit down for a few hours in the evenings, a luxury which we didn't experience too often. Relaxation time was even more scarce when we started to build our house, an experience no self-respecting country dyke wants to forego. We hired one master carpenter, Joe, and the agreement was that I would work with him full-time. Joe informed me that his work day began at 7:00 a.m. and went until 5:00 p.m., and that there were no variations from this timetable. Fine.I quickly developed muscles I hadn't even known I had, but I loved the work. My father had been a carpenter, and I have many fond memories of going to work with him when I was little. One of my favourite smells is that combination of sweat and sawdust that every carpenter comes home with at the end of the day.I worked on that house from bottom to top. One day, Joe and I were working on the deck of the second floor, a long way from the ground because the house was on the top of a knoll. There were no walls up yet. I was standing at the edge of the building, about three feet away from Joe. He picked up a sheet of plywood. I was supposed to grab the other end.Now, one of the benefits of living at the top of a knoll is that there is almost always a breeze. Well, true to form, there was a brisk breeze blowing, which served to keep us cool during our labours. However, at that moment, the breeze lofted the sheet of plywood in Joe's hands; it hit me square in the face. I was knocked backward and would have toppled off the deck had Joe not reacted with lightening speed. His hand clamped my arm like a vice. The rest of the project, I'm happy to report, continued without incident. During that house-building summer, Rose and I slept in our tents and ate in a small trailer we had set up on our property. When the water in the water bucket started freezing overnight, we ack- nowledged that winter might set in before the house was livable. A couple from the village offered us a bedroom in their gorgeous home, and we were spoiled, fed and generally catered to until we were able to move into our own house, unfinished though it was. By this time, Rose and I had been in the community of River John, Nova Scotia for almost a year. She was, and still is, a doctor and we started a practice there. I managed the office, so our neighbours saw equal amounts of both of us. They knew right away, through the small-town grapevine, that we lived together. While we were building the house, we had a regular stream of drive-by or drop-in Sunday afternoon "tourists' checking on our progress. Although we never said the word "lesbian" to our neighbours, they realized that we were a couple, and they treated us accordingly. I was always amazed at the level of tolerance they seemed to ac- cord us. I am tempted to say that Rose's position as a doctor did much to mitigate people's homophobia, but I don't think that's entirely true. Lesbian farmers lived in neighbouring communities, and they too seemed to be accepted. I think the acceptance had more to do with our willingness to be a part of the life of the community than anything else. We went to church suppers and local dances- yes, we danced together-and we visited with our neighbours. They liked us, even though we were "from away." Of course, some liked us more than others. When we first moved to Nova Scotia, to a rural area called West New Annan, we lived in a small house nestled among rolling hills. On a farm about five miles down the road, there lived a bachelor farmer and his moth- er. Raymond was 38 years old when we met him. He had several speech impediments, and understanding him almost required learn- ing a new language. Raymond's mother, Isabel, was in her late 60s. She kept house for Raymond. Isabel always cooked on a wood stove; she said her kids bought her an electric stove once, but she just couldn't get used to it. We first went to visit Raymond and Isabel because we wanted to buy milk, and they adopted us. They became our mentors and very good friends. We could always count on a bracing cup of hot tea at Isabel's house. The teapot sat on the back of the wood stove all day, with the teabags in it. It was tea that made you sit up and take notice. Isabel didn't drive, so she didn't come to visit us very often, but Raymond became a frequent visitor. I suspected that he was infatuated with Rose. After we had been living near Raymond for seven months, Rose left to work for six weeks in Manitoba, leav- ing me "alone on the farm." Raymond became a regular evening visitor at that point. Our conversations became quite intimate and I came out to him, but he had already figured it out. I asked him whether he was in love with Rose; he admitted he was, but he realized that she was in a relationship with me and so he wouldn't press her. However, during those spring evenings, Ray- mond decided he was in love with me, too. He thought it would be ideal if we could all get married. That way, he could have both of us, we could still have each other, and everyone would be hap- py. Raymond remained a strong friend, even when we moved some 20 miles away to River John, where Rose and I set up the practice. He is probably still a friend of hers. He has since gotten mar- ried and my lesbians friends who have met his wife approve of her; she is apparently as open and accepting as Raymond is. For the past five or six years, "Wild Womyn Don't Get the Blues" has taken place in one of Raymond's hayfields. "Wild Womyn" is a summertime lesbian event that Rose and I started our first year in Nova Scotia because we wanted to get to know the dykes. It started out as a party and ended up as a weekend-long camp with about 50 women present. It has continued since then, and this year was the 11th Annual. Raymond knows the women who attend are lesbians; I imagine he refers to them as "his women," in his in- nocent way. I think he's quite proud of his connections to the lesbian community. All these experiences and many more seemed quite normal at the time; as I write them now, they sound extraordinary. I feel blessed. I also miss the country desperately. I get bored in ci- ties, whereas the country provides endless learning opportuni- ties. I can listen to myself in a much different way in the coun- try than I do in the city. I hope to return some day. . Lavender Legacy: A Four-Hotel Kinda GalPat CarlI'll be the first to admit it: I'm rustically challenged. Not only do I prefer city life over country life, but I have been known to try sickness, work-related necessary overtime, and even death in the family (my fish), in order to avoid forays into the country. The only thing which saves me is a rather loose-knit group of other rustically challenged dykes. We commiserate concerning the fact that we all seem to be partnered with rustically fluent wom- en (one of those tricks of fate), all of whom test our love by insisting that we participate in that oft glowingly described, fun summer-weekend-ritual called the camping trip. My current partner, Megan, had been lobbying for some time about going camping before we finally spent a weekend at Manning Park in Canada, or more accurately, inside Megan's tent at Manning Park in Canada. We were locked in by what the friendly Canadian Ranger called unseasonably thick fog and one cloud burst after another. At this time, we discovered that the fly over Megan's tent was anything but waterproof. Not a timely discovery. Of course, even our very damp tent must have been dry in com- parison to the out-of-doors. At least, that's what I guessed since several critters tried to join us inside, in the comfy- cozy. The first time I heard the scratch-scratch of persistent paws along the perimeter of the tent, I awoke Megan from a sound sleep. "Do you here that?" "Hmmm?" "That. That sound. What is it?" "What sound?" Megan said, "I don't hear anything." "Listen. Listen. That sound," I said. "Pat, that's just some little an- imal, like those chipmunks you think are so cute." Megan rolled over. But, I poked her in the arm several times with the nail of my index finger. "Whaaat?" she growled, rolling back over, reluc- tantly, to face me."It's still out there. That chipmunk." "Of course it's still out there. It lives there," Megan said, trying to reason with me. But, I was beyond reason. "Why doesn't it go live somewhere else right now? Like in a burrow." Finally, up on her elbow looking down into my very wide-open eyes, Megan snarled, "Some butch," and harrumphed as she rolled over for a final time.To be fair, Megan really compromises about camping. If it were up to her, she'd pack-in to extremely seclud- ed areas but, in deference to me, we car-camp, which means we choose a sight in a campground, unload the car, and pitch the tent. Still rustically challenging, as far as I'm concerned, despite our proximity to public restrooms, garbage pick-up and running water. Now, don't get me wrong. I love to hike. And I'm not at all op- posed to hikes so challenging that the next day my legs ache and my knees throb from the effort. I can identify various hardwoods and softwoods (though pines all still look pretty much the same to me), the flowers in alpine meadows, and especially birds (though I still want to call every small bird a wren). But, in my soul of souls, I prefer spending my nights indoors, away from critters and on a firm matress. In addition, I prefer using a flush toilet as needed rather than holding it until morn- ing or braving inclement weather in order to pee. I can also reasonably prepare myself for the rustic experience. For instance, I see my chiropractor for an adjustment before the trip and make another appointment for the day after my return. In addition, when need be, I can organize the food for camping, though the only kind of organizing I usually do around food is the eating part. Shopping, cooking, preserving and even having the right utensils to do any of those things does not easily fall within my food-related skills. That's why the macaroni salad I prepared for our last camping trip tasted exactly like the egg salad. And, speaking of our last camping trip, the campground in which we stayed was filled with other wilderness seekers, their chil- dren and their dogs. Not to mention the planes from the Whidbey Island Naval Base which buzzed the campground at all hours, day and night. If I wanted drunk, obnoxious adults, their noisy chil- dren, assorted packs of barking dogs and low flying aircraft, I'd never have left Capitol Hill. So, now, I'm lobbying for an even more serious camping comprom- ise: Megan and I will continue woodsy activities together, except she'll camp and I'll stay at a four-star hotel. . Dear LRCCN: Would you be interested in hearing from a "normal" Lesbian? I am sorry, but I say bull to Pat Carl's article in the 9/93 LRCCN. I've been in a relationship for 8 years. We have had our moments, especially early on, of steamy, non-stop, wonderful sex. After 8 years that part of the relationship has slowed down, but the in- timacy has grown stronger than ever. Initially, my partner was hesitant to make a commitment due to a whole bunch of reasons I won't go into. But after she realized that I was sincere in my commitment (I asked her to marry me in a Chinese restaurant), she decided to take the plunge. After a shaky start (most of all re- lationships have those), we are together better than before. Sex is part of our lives, but intimacy, consideration, respect and trust play equal parts now. It's not boring or stressful, it's comfortable and safe. We know that we have each other to rely on. So Pat, sorry, but Bull. Sincerely,Rise Wright Dear LRCCN: I found the Hot Chixx video advertisement offensive for the sim- ple reason that, to me, this is not lesbian erotica. It appears to be leftover male-oriented lesbian imagery from Penthouse. Where are the women of color? Where are the women with other shapes? Why was at least one video directed by a man? Where are the models with short hair? I recall vividly, thinking to myself the first time I discovered male pornography, "these depictions of women do not have anything to do with me." They did not look like me or act like me. Why not advertise lesbian erotica with models who look like your editor, for example? All of the other advertisements in the Sep- tember LRCCN had models who looked like people I might meet. Those are the kind of women I fantasize about. I myself want lesbian erotica to show people who look like 1990s lesbians, not these bleached blonde, mascara-laden, silicone- injected "vixens" who simply reinforce stereotypical thinking that women who do not embody "traditional" forms of femininity are somehow now women or are less that fully female. Let's not support the very businesses that created anorexia and self- mutilation. I applaud the LRCCN for addressing these issues and allowing room for disagreement. Lisa C. . LINER NOTES When I went up to Lopez Island to interview Julie Ramos for this issue, she asked what made me think of doing an issue on Rural Lesbians. And I confess, I can't remember exactly. It's something I've been thinking about since I was hired, but I don't recall what first prompted the idea. I suspect it has to do with the all of the conflicting images and feelings I have about rural living. The national mythology is that small towns are like one big fami- ly, that residents all know and look out for each other, that life there is more simple and honest and . . . pure, somehow. As part of the lesbian and gay community, we hear that rural areas are seething beds of bigotry and intolerence; we hear that rural areas are where the battle against anti-gay initiatives will be won or lost; we hear that rural areas are lonely, scary dreadful places to be lesbian or gay. I found myself responding to the idea of rural life with a re- flexive horror; it was something I couldn't comprehend or fathom. Some of the lesbians I know talk about getting out of the city at some point, living somewhere smaller and quieter. The thing is, there's almost always a "but . . ." But . . . it would be hard to give up the community here. But . . . it would be hard to have to be more closeted. Of course, there are lesbians and gay men who do choose to live in those places I was afraid to even imagine. I wondered if that choice meant that they necessarily had to relinquish some funda- mental part of themselves to satisfy another fundamental part, that one or the other had to be sacrificed. And, from the rural lesbians I talked to, the answer is yes . . . and no. It's as bad as we hear, and it's not. It's not possible to be out safely, and it is. I guess that didn't really surprise me; truth is rarely uniform and absolute. Perhaps the only thing that actually surprised me was me. I hadn't expected to enjoy being at the farm as much as I did. Now, I'm not about to trade my car in for a tractor, but I'm also not certain I want to spend the rest of my life in a city. It was nice to discover that maybe there really are other options. Terri L. Smith . Pretty, Witty and Gay-and so much more! by Carla Stevens Puerto Rican lesbian comic performer Marga Gomez is much more than Pretty, Witty and Gay. Think otherwise and you're liable to get Memory Tricks. Born to Latin performers who worked the stages of Manhattan's La- tino theaters, Gomez grew up sharing scenes with the family Chihuahua in her parents' comedy shows. An only child, Gomez was absorbed by the fascinating world of her flashy, ultra-femme mother and charming, but dotting father. In time, she came to feel that she was "heir to their throne." A combination stand-up comedian and dramatist, Gomez has won the Cabaret Gold Award as San Francisco's "Entertainer of the Year." She has been featured on public television's "Comedy Tonight" with Whoopi Goldberg, and A&E's "Good Times Cafe." If you missed her there, you may have caught her the last time she was in Seattle, when she opened with Monica Palacios ("Latin Lesbo Comic"). In late October, after winding up a national tour, Gomez returns to Puddletown as part of Alice B. Theatre's 10th Anniversary Season to do both of her one-woman performance mono- logues, Marga Gomez is Pretty, Witty, and Gay and Memory Tricks. Pretty, Witty and Gay promises to be one of Alice B.'s funniest, most outrageous looks into a lesbian bedroom. Though not obvious to the audience, part of the piece was created from a vacation Gomez and her lover took to Seattle in 1991, and touches upon a hilarious lovemaking scene in the window of the Westin Hotel. Gomez's gyrating, from-the-hip humor has packed houses in San Francisco and won rave reviews from the San Diego Gay and Lesbian Times, The Washington Blade, NYQ, and The La Jolla Light News. Gomez's second piece, Memory Tricks, is a penetrating tragicomedy that chronicles her relationship with her flamboyant showbiz mom through her mother's spiraling struggle with Alzhiemers. She be- gan writing Memory Tricks in 1991 after she was approached by the UC San Diego Multicultural Theatre Festival, who asked her to perform what they thought was an already written piece about her mother's illness. Two weeks later, she stepped onto the stage to perform Memory Tricks.Gomez, who has been haunted by her mother's illness, admits to waking from bad dreams and worrying that, could her mother still speak, perhaps she might be "pissed-off" at some of the things in the show. But Gomez quickly counters that scenario with the fact that her mother wanted fame, and now will have it. Memory Tricks has just been optioned for a movie by American Playhouse and has played to sold-out audiences every- where. Though she is flattered by the recent national attention she is receiving, Gomez loves the loyal following of fans who have stayed with her from her earlier years in San Francisco's comedy clubs. Future plans include a piece about her comedian father, then "maybe a lounge act that includes ventriloquism, a little song, fire twirling . . . something silly, low, and tacky." Marga Gomez will be at the Broadway Performance Hall, October 27-31. For tickets and other information, call Alice B. Theatre at 322-5723. . You Never Know Lin S. Goodman The phone rang. I glanced at the clock as I reached for the re- ceiver. It was 8:35 p.m. "Hello?" "Hi. How are you feeling?" It's my companion and we talk for awhile and then she reminds me to take one of my I.V. antibiotics. I've been spiking a fever of 103 degrees or higher. Closer to 104 some nights. And my head!?!? Don't get me started. So, I roll over in bed and turn the light on so I can see what I'm doing. And I totally flip out. There's blood everywhere! It's on my shirt, my pants, my hands, my legs and now that I'm stand- ing up, it's all over the floor. It takes me about a minute be- fore I realize I have to close the clamp on my hickman to stop the bleeding. Then I called my companion back, although I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe some company, some reassurance, someone to be frustrated with me. After all, if she hadn't called to wake me and I had slept through the night, I probably would have bled to death. You see, once I calmed down enough to look at what happened, I realized that the whole thing could have been avoided, had my (ex)nurse done her job properly. Let's go back two days. It's Monday, Labor Day. Monday is the day my cassette runs out of morphine, so that's my day to get the cassette changed. Well, she is supposed to come at noon but often comes earlier, so I thought it possible that, being Labor Day and all, she could be late, too. But by 4:15 p.m., I couldn't wait any longer. I called the answering service and left a message. My nurse called back, say- ing she'd be here in a half an hour. Great. She'll come and go and I can go back to dozing in and out, on and off. After she gets here, she tells me they couldn't find a "T Con- necter," which is what connects my hickman to my morphine pack. For the second week in a row, she tells me we'll have to use the old connector I already have on. Nope, I'm not happy in the least bit. And then came the topper. She tells me if holidays didn't fall on weekdays, she'd have no trouble with her patients, she'd always get to them all, each on their own day, and there'd never be a problem. Have I completely lost it, or does that sound crazy to you, too? I say, your Monday people are your Monday people, holi- day or not. And if you want a day off, ask for one, take one, call in, whatever. But these home healthcare nurses' visits are of primary importance to a lot of people, too important for them to mess around. Sometimes, they're the only visitors a shut-in patient might have that day. Now, back to the bleeding. What happened was, a part of the "T Connector" simply broke completely off. And the blood was just steadily dripping right out of that broken piece. Nice, huh? I had already called the night answering service, explaining what was happening and a nurse was supposed to be on the way. Meanwhile, I cleaned as much as I could with a temp of 103, and my companion kindly cleaned the rest, which, to be honest, was most of it. The nurse came; I'd never met him before but he seemed pretty nice. He told me he couldn't find a "T Connector," either, and it got worse. "Well, you can either be hooked up to your fluids or your morphine, it's up to you." Are all these nurses a little off the wall or what? There's no way that I could choose to take my fluids instead of the morphine because by morning, I'd be in the grips of withdrawal. What the hell does he mean, I can choose between fluids and the morphine? And why can't I have both, like I'm supposed to? By now, I'm ready to either dump them or sue them. My doc's nurse tells me they'd prefer to stick with them because it cuts down on a lot of paperwork. I've been sick about two weeks now with this and my doctor called me Sunday night. "Is this, Lin "I'd rather die than go to the hospital' Goodman?" You got it. He tells me he's going to add another antibiotic so, basically, I'll be on antibiotics for at least an entire month, if not days more. It's been kind of good timing, because Bosco got spayed so she's a bit quieter and sleeping a bit more. My mom thinks I'm crazy because I walk Bosco at night, even with my fever. But that's o.k., I think my mom's crazy, too. Bosco has really recovered quickly from such major surgery, but animals deal so much better with pain. Animals are amazing, I really love them. I'm glad I have Bosco, sometimes it would be a lot lonelier without her. I've always associated autumn with changes and growth. I guess it's a throwback from the old schooldays, schoolways. I think I make my resolutions now, not the first of the new year, not the rebirthing of the earth, each spring morning. And so there are things I want to change, things I want to do. I don't know if you've ever heard of it, and I promise not to preach to you here, but I am studying something called A Course In Miracles and it's been opening me up. I'd like to try to go to some meetings. And I want to totally devote myself in the most serious way to my writing, whenever I can. Take poetry workshops, work on my book, with some help. I think I've mentioned before that I want to come from a more loving place. I want my heart to open and dedicate my heart and soul to my Creator, "The One Who is Waiting," the Holy Spirit, call It what you want, It's all the same. It's where Who we came from it's Who we will return to on the next path of our journey. As for now, I better take my temp like crazy. A nurse called me today and told me I better take this all a whole lot more seri- ously because what I have could be "fatal." I've heard that one before, more times than I could remember. Anyway, as the leaves do their special magic color shows and the trees and all the furry creature down here and up in the moun- tains get ready for winter, I wish you warmth. And the Great pumpkin. And good health and lots of fun. It's a cozy time of year. Enjoy it. I'll see you next month. Until then, I bid you and yours peace. . Those Buckin' Dykes by Melissa Mather and Mindy Schaberg It was an event for lesbian babies. Casey, a one-year-old blondie in a stylish purple straw cowboy hat, dressed in a purple bandana and a button proclaiming "Born Butch," wandered toward two horses, saying "dorsey, dorsey" while a lesbian volunteer tried to both channel her away and teach her the correct word: "No, HORSE, HORSE!" Finally, mom Jan Dyer scooped her up and threw her to the lesbian cowgirl on horseback, much to Casey's and the cowgirl's delight, and they sat in the saddle, beaming broadly. Two lesbians from Bremerton had heard about the rodeo on the news (or, more specifically, about the controversy stirred up by the rodeo) and decided to bring their son, Anthony, to the event. They like to come to as many gay/lesbian events as they can, be- cause they live a quiet life in Bremerton. Anthony also got his chance on horseback, with Penny Parrish from Pedley, California, and didn't want to get off. It was an event for cowgirls. Naomi Barcelo of Long Beach, Cali- fornia, was competing in her third rodeo, but the stars had con- spired against her on this one, it seemed. The lottery system that determined which animal the contestants would ride had turned up the same ornery steer for her two days in a row. The steer pinned her in the chute, numbing her leg. As she climbed off the animal, she was decidedly blue. It was the end of the rodeo for her. Her next chance to ride was weeks away at the San Diego rodeo. It was an event for drag queens. Resplendent in full make-up, chili pepper earrings, and chili pepper cowboy shirt, Anthony Valdez, d.b.a. Miss IGRA, buzzed around the grandstand all morn- ing flirting with the boys. Then, suddenly, there he was in the middle of the chute-doggin' competition (in which one puny human has sixty seconds to wrestle hundreds of pounds of steer to the ground and pin it for a full six seconds). Chili peppers and all, he skidded though the dirt, arms locked around the steer's horns. The crowd rose to their feet screaming "Hang on!!! Go, girl!!!" as he successfully pinned the steer-the only contestant of the afternoon to do so. Two gay male spectators shook their heads in amazement as they returned to their seats, "Those drag queens!" The first Greater Northwest International Rodeo was sponsored by the Northwest Gay Rodeo Association (NWGRA) and attracted 16 wom- en and 54 men to the rural town of Enumclaw from as far away as Surrey, England to compete. The season runs year round, with com- petitions dotting the map from San Diego to Chicago to Washington D.C. Participants try to rack up enough points to be eligible for the International Gay Finals Rodeo in Fort Worth, Texas this month. NWGRA, the local chapter, was formed in 1990 "to support and promote the western way of life in the lesbian/gay communi- ty." Currently, four women serve on its sixteen-member Board of Directors. In rodeo lingo, the events include: rough stock (riding the steers, bulls, and bareback broncos, and chute dogging), roping (with a team, or roping calves on foot and mounted breakaway calf roping) horse (barrel racing, pole bending, and flag racing) and the camp (steer decorating, goat dressing, and wild drag race). In this day and age, most cowgirls begin their careers in the stands as spectators, and cut their teeth on the camp events. Barcelo, the blue cowgirl, began attending rodeos five years ago. She worked with a man who was a member of the Golden State Gay Rodeo Association (GSGRA). He urged her to participate, even though she had no riding experience. She currently competes in steer riding, the "tamest of the rough stock events" and chute dogging, and she placed in the steer decorating competition. She is taking riding lessons and hopes to expand her repertoire to flag racing soon. She said that there are more women in horse events and that at the Bay Area Regional Rodeo, almost one-half the contestants are women. Jeannine Tuttle, of Pedley, California , is a twenty-six year rodeo veteran and competes in every event except rough stock be- cause "my honey doesn't let me." In fact, Tuttle lost four teeth in a rodeo not long ago, so she received an ultimatum from her partner, Penny Parrish, that she either give up the rough stock events or "find some other woman to date." Jeannine chose to stay off the steers, bulls and broncos, but she kicks up the dust on her horse. She placed in the barrel racing, pole bending, and flag racing, with her partner hot on her heels. One rough stock event that does remain popular with the cowgirls is chute dog- ging. At least half of the lesbian participants tried this event, with one or two near successes. Those participating exclusively in the gay rodeo circuit often find support from veterans, ranging from sharing equipment and horses, to advice, to a hug for a missed event or bad luck. But for those who compete in the mainstream circuit, competition is cutthroat. "There's no way to be out," says Lani Dorman, who rode for 20 years in straight rodeos, "Think of the worst stereotype of straight men -- the cowboys are worse. They don't even think wom- en should be participating. They think women take away energy and prize money." Those in the mainstream circuit can come across as arrogant and distant in this "family" event. The pros stay deep in the closet out of necessity-if they are suspected to be gay, verbal and phy- sical harassment and sabotage of their equipment or horses could force their retirement. One professional woman rider's events were prefaced by an announcement to the media not to take photos. Predictably, these athletes ride to win, and they don't share their secrets. Like any gay gathering worth its salt these days, the rodeo gen- erated controversy from both liberals and conservatives. Despite massive media coverage of Enumclaw locals' threatening rumbles, the only protest visible Sunday morning was graffiti scrawled across the road: "Fags Leave Now." By the afternoon, a handful of teenage boys had shown up to bear the torch of morality. An Enumclaw restaurant owner who had set up a booth across from the Lesbian Resource Center table came across to invite the volunteers to her restaurant that evening, "I told my boys, Don't say anything rude. Don't call 'em buttfuckers. I want 'em to be welcome in my place. I'm all ready for a crowd!'" Most rodeo folk, however, bypassed Enumclaw and hightailed it for the city. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals were also in evidence with signs saying, "Yes to Gays, No to Cruelty!" And despite an occasional bull climbing the bars of the chute or running full tilt into the chain link fence, the animals did appear to escape unscathed. In fact, during the roping events, the calves made a beeline to the holding pen across the arena. After trotting hope- fully back and forth in front of the pen, they would take off for the pens behind the chutes. Organizers attempted to allay the fears of animal rights advocates with the assurance that "spon- soring rodeo organizations of these celebrations are uncondition- ally committed to the health and welfare of all participants, re- gardless of species of origin." There was something else at the rodeo that has become an om- nipresent part of gay events. The procession of the riderless horse during the Grand Entry which kicks off the rodeo seemed a metaphor for the loss the community has endured. Amidst the pageantry, the colors, the galloping horses and the fluttering flags of the opening ceremony, the appearance of a lone, saddled, shining palomino quieted the crowd. They watched, hats in hand, as Toni led the horse slowly around the arena. The procession of the riderless horse is a traditional rodeo tribute to those who have died. For this community, devastated by AIDS, the tribute had a particular resonance. Two men, Tim Gaither and Jim Louma, who were instrumental in the organization of this rodeo, had not lived to see it. As the horse made its slow procession around the oval, Gaither's partner, dressed in the red shirt of a rodeo judge, sobbed in the arms of a friend. . Close to the Source: Rural Lesbians at the heart of it all by Terri L. Smith In Washington, we have a variety of rural environments. There are the flat, open expanses of Eastern Washington that are a midwestern sort of rural. There's up-on-a-mountain rural, coastal rural, and forest rural. That doesn't include the slightly out- side of the city suburban pseudo-rural. And, naturally, there are lesbians in every sort of rural you can find. I lived, for a short time, in The Land Beyond Streetlights (although barely . . . I could see down the road where the streetlights started), but I confess I don't have much experience in The Land Beyond Addresses. Well, perhaps not beyond addresses, but where addresses are only relevant if you are a postal car- rier. Lopez Island is one such place. Julie Ramos gives directions to her Lopez sheep farm in terms of landmarks and approximate dis- tances, and you know you have arrived when you spot a weathered old sign which insists, in no uncertain terms, that dogs are not allowed. The sign is a relic from a prior owner and now is almost a jest, as there are five dogs running around the farm (though one is only visiting). For the energetic Ramos, the lengthy journey that led her to this small island is something of a return home. The New Zealander, who grew up on a sheep farm, lived in London before hopping over the Atlantic to live in Wyoming, Colorado, San Francisco, Seattle and, for the past two-and-a-half years, Lopez.Clearly this is where she belongs. Ramos's blue eyes sparkle when she talks about farming. "It's my passion," she says. "I truly love it." She is committed to "small-time farming," and is disturbed by the predominance of corporate agriculture in this country."If we're going to care for the Earth, we need to start with our suste- nance, our food," she says. "How it is produced is primary." Too much farming is done by working against the land, rather than working with it. For instance, sheep are the best use of this land, she says, because of the small amount of rainfall Lopez re- ceives. To raise crops here on a large scale would require the kind of wholesale irrigation that sucks water tables dry.Corporate agriculture also distances people from their food sources, and people begin seeing food as something that comes from a supermarket, rather than something that comes from the land. She would like to close those distances."Somehow, I want to find a way to open this place up and have women come and stay here," she says. She notes that while earlier generations may have had granddad's farm to visit, today many people never have that opportunity. "I'd like to provide that for people, that ex- posure, that experience, that connection."She smiles when she talks about sending someone out to the garden to dig up potatoes for the first time in their lives and seeing how their uncertain- ty turns to "glee when they come back with a bunch," and sharing their joy at watching a newborn lamb.Eventually, the lamb will become two products, a hide and meat, and then "the cycle starts all over again." Although Ramos acknowledges it as the most dif- ficult part of her work, she slaughters the animals herself."I basically don't like the way other people do it. A lot of the guys slash their throats and walk away, then come back when they're dead," she says, squinting her eyes against the late afternoon sun. "It's disrespectful. I think you need to be respectful and need to honor the animal." She says the fact that her animals do not get put in a trailer, bumped down the road and butchered when they are scared and in unfamiliar surroundings is all part of being concerned with the process, with how things are done. Currently, the 55-acre farm she leases is home to an assortment of fowl, a couple of pigs, some borrowed cows, and 50 ewes. Soon, she will be trading for another 20 ewes. In fact, Ramos does quite a bit of trading, much of it with the oldest farmers on the island. "With one guy, I use his butcher shop and I castrate his pigs, another I shear his sheep in exchange for use of his shearing equipment." She prefers bartering rather than always having to exchange money; trading is more direct, more human, in a way. The farmers she trades with all know she is a lesbian, and it hasn't been a big problem. The land she's on has been women's land for about 15 years and a series of lesbians have farmed it, so the locals have had time to become accustomed to the idea.And, although Lopez is by no means an idyllic community, Ramos re- ports, there is a definite gay presence on the island. The best place to stay is owned by two gay men and the best restaurant, which has hosted an enormously successful AIDS benefit, is owned by a gay man.Ramos also enjoys the strong and supportive women's community on Lopez. "When it comes time for hay making, the girls are out in force, bunching bales," she says, by way of example. "You can't ask for more than that." Pam Allen has always lived in small towns and finds cities frightening, but small-town living has its price, too. For four- and-a-half years, she has lived, without the benefit of a suppor- tive community, in Republic, a little town in northeast Washing- ton that is encircled by National Forests. "Eastern Washington is definitely much more conservative than the western part of the state," she says. "I moved up from Nevada and I thought that Nevada was conservative until I moved up here. Nevada is conservative in their politics, but you can do your own thing. There's definitely more bigotry here."For safety, Allen has chosen to stay in the closet. She is out to only a few friends and fears that she might lose her job at a mining company if her employers know she is a lesbi- an. "Mining companies are pretty macho, an old boys club, and not very progressive," she says. "It's kind of a trade-off, to have a good job and to remain in the closet." But that may soon change. "I think I'm nearing the point in my life that, for my own sani- ty, I want to be more out," she says. "I'm slowly getting there. I'm not there yet." It is with a deep breath and only a moment's hesitation that she consents to her name being used in this arti- cle. Lori (who asked that her last name not be used), was born and raised in a small town where "church people would tell me some- times to go and be cured." With the aplomb that she still carries with her, she simply informed them that she wasn't sick.When she was told she couldn't be an electrician because she's a woman, Lori "put in her time" in San Francisco as an electrician appren- tice. Cities have never suited her, though; she doesn't like to be around a lot of people. She lives in Forks, and is out to basi- cally everyone. "I never have been able to hide it," she says, and calls that a mixed blessing. "I am how I am and that's all there is to it." Lori has never been harassed in Forks, though her partner's moth- er, who lives three trailers down, has received some remarks. She feels that, in general, she has had more difficulties on her job sites as a woman than as a lesbian, constantly having to prove that she can do the work. But there has been what she calls "some little stuff." "One guy kept following me around saying that his 10 inches was going to change my life," she recalls. "Finally, I took my ruler and set it at 10 inches and told him "Okay, take it out and lay it down there. If it reaches 10 inches, I'll lie down right here and you can fuck me.' His face turned all red and he never men- tioned it again." There have been other little things, she says, but she doesn't let them get to her, "I'll always find a way to take care of it." It's dinner time on Lopez Island and Julie Ramos is headed out to the garden, knife in hand, to slaughter the salad. In a remark- ably short time, the table is covered with an impressive spread of food. (This is one of the perks of living on a farm, according to Ramos, you always eat well.) It is a lively group around the table for what is a farewell meal for Ramos's friend, Sue, who has spent the summer on the farm. They are joined by Pam, a carpenter who lives in a cabin just behind the farmhouse, and Linda, another of their friends. The room rings with laughter, then they stop, and joke about hav- ing to behave for the visitor from the city. But it's only a mo- ment before the shenanigans erupt again. Mingled in with the general goofiness, they talk about a Communi- ty Land Trust project that Pam, Linda, and Sue have been working on that will provide low-income housing. Housing is, apparently, a problem on Lopez, as the island becomes more and more a retreat for the wealthy. And they talk about a Hands Off Washington group which has begun meeting on the island. "A lot of good things are starting to hap- pen here," Ramos says of the HOW efforts. Before anyone is allowed to leave, they must help move out an enormous old wood stove, which guzzles wood by the cord, that Ramos is replacing with a smaller, more efficient model. By 11:00, the festivities have ended, but Ramos stays up for another two hours, watching over a sick dog after a late-night call to the vet. Some rural lesbians and gays express concern that Hands Off Washington's organizing efforts could actually make things worse for them by forcing the issue. Lori sees how that might happen. "It's okay for us to be here, as long as we aren't too visible," she says. "It's kind of like Clinton's idea on the military-don't tell anyone and certainly don't show it." Lori and her partner are one of two lesbian couples in Forks who are out. The other couple was living in Forks and out before Lori moved there. "One of them is like me," she says, "she can't hide it either." She knows of several closeted lesbians who won't socialize with them for fear of "guilt by association." But only occasionally does she miss having contact with a larger community. "It would be nice be able to go out with people like ourselves and be ourselves," she says. "It's not like we just sit around. We go to restaurants, and I'm a fan of the high school football team, but we don't have things like that Pleiades series here." Pam Allen in Republic doesn't know any other lesbians. And be- cause she doesn't like cities, her contact with the lesbian com- munity consists primarily of subscriptions to various newspapers and magazines. She says that it's "kind of like a long-distance relationship." She feels that the opportunity to have a community is the biggest difference between being a lesbian in the city and being a lesbi- an in rural areas. "You can't just pick up a gay newspaper, read that something is going on, and go to it," she says. These limit- ed social opportunities can also make dating more challenging, and may create pressure for couples to stay together because of the limited options. Hands Off Washington hasn't come to Allen's county yet, though there is a HOW coalition in next-door Stevens County. "I agree that there needs to be an effort," she says slowly, "but I'm not sure how successful it will be. And I do understand the argument that if everyone was out, people would see that we are their friends and next-door neighbors and co-workers, but believ- ing it and doing it are not the same thing. In Seattle, you have protection on your jobs, we don't." A layer of morning fog hangs over the grazing sheep, but above the fog the sky is clear. After downing several cups of tea, Ju- lie Ramos gets to work. Feeding the animals comes first, and then it's time to herd a number of sheep and goats (which are not hers but are staying on her farm temporarily) from a pen in the barn out into a field. Fortunately, her dog Nikko is feeling better than he did the pre- vious evening, because his workday is about to begin. "There's a partnership, working with your dog," Ramos says. "A good dog is an amazing creature; they can do anything." With a firm, strong voice she shouts directions to Nikko, which he then executes with varying degrees of efficiency. He is ham- pered a bit by the competing instincts of his mixed heritage. He is half border collie, which is a herding dog, and the other half is a breed of New Zealand sheep dog used to drive herds over great distances. Nikko always gets the job done but "he's never going to be an ex- pert in his field," Ramos says. She has an eight-month-old border collie pup that's almost ready to take over the duties. After a few near misses, the sheep and goats run through the gate and into the field. She says that if it had been her sheep, they would have had a better sense where to go. "Sheep aren't stupid," she insists. "I equate them to human be- ings. Humans follow one another, follow the herd. Sheep are stub- born, and you always get an ornery one that's going to go through the fence." Or the chicken coop-which brings Ramos to her next task of the morning. As she repairs the chicken coop, a half dozen turkeys mill around, very interested in what she is doing. Apparently, this is typical turkey behavior, "They always have to know what's going on." Cleaning the chimney is next on the agenda. "I'm always doing things I've never done before," she says. "I'm always learning." She has to go retrieve one of her big ladders from the painting job she is currently working on. The farm only provides half her income, the rest comes from house painting. The economic reali- ties are frustrating sometimes. "I could do a lot more with the farm if I could spend more time here and had a little more capital," she says. "Stuff like electrical fencing and rotational grazing." Most days, after morning chores she goes to paint, then works the farm when she returns home. Sometimes, there are tasks she would have to pay someone to do, like cleaning the chimney, so it makes more sense to stay home and do them herself. She is confident that eventually she will be able to devote her- self to the farm full-time, and she's excited about the possibil- ities. Ultimately, it all comes together for her in a unified vi- sion that is about people, about land and animals, and about com- munity. It means gleaning some of the accumulated wisdom of the older farmers, and in return, giving them the opportunity to pass on that knowledge. It means using resources in a respectful, healthy way that enriches the land rather than impoverishes it. It means helping people see how everything fits together. And Julie Ramos can picture it all. .