Not too long ago, a persistent impulse commenced pecking at the door of my unconscious. It wouldn’t go away, so I let it in. I developed an irresistible urge to sort through "my stuff". These treasures have been lying dormant in our spare bedroom for years; reminiscent of the valuables discovered in King Tut’s tomb.

It was a dirty job, but someone had to excavate the site.

I set aside some time, grabbed a cup of coffee, wrapped myself in resolve, and went to work. First, I thought I’d tackle the top drawer of my old dresser. I pulled it open and stared in dismay as long confined piles of papers and souvenirs sprang out at me, like thighs released from a girdle after a long day. Ugh! Where to begin?

Steeling myself, I grabbed a stack of papers and plopped my butt down on the carpet, leaning my back against the bed for maximum comfort. Humming along to the "oldie" station I had turned on earlier for mood music, I set to work reading and separating the documents.

A tattered manila folder on top looked vaguely familiar. I opened it and started reading the yellowed mimeographed papers inside. I smiled. These were the study notes for the "Great Books" program I participated in while in 7^th and 8^th grade.

"Great Books" was a special class held at the local university twice a month for grade school students interested in literature. The professor assigned the group a "classic" to read in two weeks, and then we’d meet in one of the classrooms to discuss the book. "Good times", I sighed nostalgically.

I thumbed through the titles of the books we studied: "Kim", "Oliver Twist", "Up from Slavery", "Red Badge of Courage", "Collected Works of Poe", "Great Expectations". The list continued on, books too numerous to mention. "Wow", I thought, "I don’t even remember reading some of these." As I studied my notes, it occurred to me that none of the authors were women. For the most part, none of the main characters were female either. O.K., so Poe had a poem or two about dead women, from a male point of view, and there were female characters present in most of the stories. However, none of the heroes were women.

"Wouldn’t get by with that now", I thought out loud as I skimmed the pages. "Or would they?" I looked at my notes. The references were about men’s jobs, courage, and place in society, but nothing about women. The sad part is, at that particular time and place, it didn’t even occur to us that this was discrimination. It was just life.

Sighing, I put the "Great Books" pile aside and started dissecting another. "What’s hiding in here?" I thought. There were so many things I hadn’t seen in years. Opening all this stuff, with the surprises inside, felt like Christmas morning.

The next pile included high school transcripts. As I looked the papers over, my thoughts went back to the first day of my sophomore year. I entered my English classroom. After the first half-hour or so it became apparent that the class was somewhat remedial. When the bell rang, Mrs. Heine asked me to stay behind. She told me that somehow I had ended up in the non-college-track class. I needed to go to my advisor immediately and transfer out.

I headed straight to the "Guidance Office" and asked to speak to my counselor, Miss Arnold. She listened politely, then put her hand over mine, and solicitously patted it. She leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper advised me that it wasn’t necessary for girls to go to college. She informed me that I could lead a perfectly happy and fulfilled life without the stress of a higher education.

As I sat in shock, my "so-called advisor" continued on to explain how girls, married or not, could live well and travel without a degree from a university. She told me I didn’t have to give in to pressure from my peers or parents to attend college. She said that high school would be easier if I didn’t burden myself with college-track courses.

I assured her I wanted to go to college, and insisted she transfer me to a college prepatory English class. Reluctantly, she filled out the proper forms, but made it clear she thought I was making a mistake.

I hadn’t thought of that incident in a long time. I stood up to put the high school papers in a file. A long slumbering memory, awakened by my reminiscing, clamored for attention. I closed my eyes and thought back to my college days.

I was a junior, and waiting outside my advisor’s office in the Department of Psychology. It was time to figure out my class schedule for the next semester. He was late, so his secretary gave me my records and asked me to wait in the hall for him to arrive.

I am a very inquisitive person. Or I’m nosey, depending on your point of view. Nevertheless, I could not resist peeking at my dossier. The file included records sent from my high school.

When I started college, I thought I might like to eventually go to law school. I joined an Explorer Scout law troop in high school and participated in Law Day activities. I talked to my counselor for advice, and picked psychology as my major, with a "corrections" minor. He thought it would be a good undergraduate program to prepare for that possibility.

Imagine my surprise when I opened my file and read that my senior guidance counselor, Mr. Oswald, wrote at the bottom of my transcript: Career Choice – Legal Secretary. Say what?

No wonder my college advisors kept trying to get me to take some business and secretarial courses. They must have thought it odd that I never so much as took typing. I am a person with absolutely no aptitude for that sort of thing. The fastest I ever managed to type was a whopping nineteen words a minute, and that was when I was really flying! Consequently, secretarial work was the farthest thing from my mind.

I met Mr. Oswald socially several years later, and asked him why he wrote "legal secretary" on my records. He told me that he thought that it was a more realistic goal for a female. Ah, the good old days!

Diving back into the drawer, I found a textbook called "Married Life". I thumbed through it. I smiled at some of the quaint terms they used back in the early seventies. Spying a chapter called "Basic Resources" I started to read.

"A couple may act jointly to utilize combined resources better, even though their talents may be uneven."

"Interesting", I thought. "I wonder how they define "uneven talents". I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who was getting the short end of that stick.

I read their examples of how couples could combine resources.

• A wife works as a stenographer to put her husband through school, so he can realize his business ability in full.
• John does a better job at the office because Alice’s home maintenance smoothes and cheers him.
• Wanda edits Bob’s speech for a banquet.
• Dave tries to remain especially calm in unexpected emergencies, for he recognizes his wife’s need for his support in a crisis.
• Nancy incorporates the special foods and diet required for a diabetic husband into the family menu, with a minimum of complaint or self-approval for her "sacrifices".

Whoa! I found the last example particularly offensive. My husband is a diabetic. I don’t appreciate the insinuation that women are so shallow that they need to be taught not to be whiney and selfish. Not only that, but my husband knows his diet as well as I do. We both incorporate it into the family menu, and he does his share of planning and cooking.

The chapter continues with a question for the girls contemplating marriage. "Are you willing to fight for another person and his beliefs?" "Gee, what about her beliefs?" I thought aloud.

My eye fell upon another pearl of wisdom about resource planning. "Do not include the wife’s income in the spending plan." The textbook goes on to imply that women basically work as a hobby. In addition, their jobs don’t pay enough to affect the budget.

"Enough of that". I threw the book on the bed and picked up my coffee cup. "I can’t believe we were fed that stuff in school". Worse yet, I knew in my heart that many women soaked it up like little sponges. I guess I’m lucky. I’ve been blessed with an innate distrust of authority. I took most of what textbooks and teachers taught "as gospel" with a grain of salt.

All afternoon, fueled by my memorabilia, my mind remained stranded in the late sixties and early seventies. I thought about events and things I hadn’t thought about in years. I remembered my favorite TV shows, Star Trek, and Man from UNCLE. In retrospect, a pair of truly male-chauvinistic shows.

As I contemplated my youth, I started singing along to the "oldies" playing in the background. "Under My Thumb" I sang in harmony with the Stones. "Wait a minute. What are the words to that song? He’s going to keep her under his thumb? She’s going to be his pet?" Wow. I never really listened to those lyrics before. What a horrible little song.

"Johnny Get Angry" was next. "Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad. Give me the biggest lecture I ever had. I want a brave man; I want a cave man. Johnny, show me that you care, really care for me".

Let’s see if I have this right. To prove he cares for her, Johnny is supposed to get angry and yell at her. Now, there’s a value system to emulate.

Senses heightened to analyze the oldie lyrics; I zeroed in on the next song. "I want to be Bobbie’s Girl". That didn’t sound too bad. Wait a minute. Whenever anyone asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, her only answer was Bobbie’s girl. She wants nothing more out of life than to belong to some man. She goes on to add that she will be grateful and thankful. Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.

I shut the drawer, and turned to leave the bedroom. You know, perhaps the "Good Old Days" weren’t as rosy as we remember. I hate to admit it, but it’s possible we romanticized them.

Minds are funny things. They tend to paint the past as golden, grand times. We yearn to go back and relive our memories, but as they say, "you can’t go back". That’s probably a good thing, because I have a feeling that sometimes nostalgia ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.