Life Begins at 60
edited: Friday, January 19, 2001
By Carolyn HowardJohnson
Posted: Monday, January 29, 2001
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Sometimes the barriers in life are subtle. They creep up silently on padded feet and, if we sense them at all, we choose not to turn and face them.
Sometimes the big barriers in life aren’t abject poverty, dreaded disease or death. Sometimes it’s the subtle ones set upon us by time and place. The ones that can’t be seen and can’t be acknowledged because we don’t know they are there. They creep up silently on padded feet and, if we sense them at all, we choose not to turn and face them. The decade of the 50s was a time when these kinds of barriers faced those with dark skin, those who lived in closed religious communities, and those who were female.
When I applied for a job as a writer at Hearst Corporation in New York in 1961 I was required to take a typing test. I was piqued because I wasn’t applying for the typing-pool, I was applying for a post as an editorial assistant.
I was told, “No typing test, no interview.” I took the test and was offered a job in the ranks of those who could do 70 in a minute. I had to insist upon the interview I had been promised. I was only twenty and had no real skills in assertiveness. I am amazed I had the wherewithal to do that.
The essentials of this anecdote lie in the fact that I was putout for the wrong reasons. My irritation was a reflection of hubris. However, that pride was probably what goaded me into speaking up; pride is not always a bad thing to have.
It certainly never occurred to me that this requirement was one that applied only to women much less that I should be angry for the sake of my entire gender. Prejudice is sometimes like traveling on well-worn treads; you have no idea you’re in danger. It also feeds on the ignorance of its victims. They benignly accept their lot because they know no better.
Something similar was at work when I married and had children. I happily took a new direction to accommodate my husband’s career and the life the winds of the times presented to me. I left my writing with hardly a backward look. Back then, in the days before women had been made aware, the possibilities were not an open book to be denied or accepted. I just did what was expected by the entire culture.
Things are so much better now; I don’t think women younger than their mid-fifties have any idea or how ignorant most women were to their own possibilities. That there was a time when we didn’t even know we had choices is not fiction.
I had always wanted to sit in a forest or an office or a newsroom with a pencil in my hand. I dreamed writing, lived writing and loved writing. I wanted to write the next “Gone With The Wind” only about Utah instead of about the South. I had a plan that was, itself, gone with the wind.
It was the 1950’s and women in that time, and especially in that place, had a notion of who they should be, could be and, mostly, they got it from those around them because many of them couldn’t see the difference from society’s expectations and their own.
“You can’t be a nurse,” my mother said. “Your ankles aren’t sturdy enough.” I also was told I couldn’t be a doctor because that wasn’t a woman’s vocation.
“Be a teacher because you can be home the same hours as your children, but learn to type because every woman should be able to make a living somehow if their husband dies.”
Writing was not a consideration. It didn’t fit any of the requirements. So when I gave it up, it didn’t feel like I was giving up much.
When I began to put myself through college I took the sound advice and studied education so I’d have a profession. I made 75 cents an hour (this was, after all, the 50s!) working as a staff writer at the Salt Lake Tribune. That I was making a living writing didn’t occur to me. I met a handsome young man and we were married. His career took precedence; that was simply how it was done. Then there were two children, carefully planned, also because that was how it should be done. By the 70s we both yearned for a career with autonomy, one where we could spend time with our children and be in command of our own lives.
My dream was a victim of the status quo. It never occurred to me to just strike out in my own direction when my husband and children needed me. The pain was there. I just didn’t recognize it so I could hardly address it and fix it.
My husband and I built a business. We raised a lawyer and a mathematician, grew in joy with a grandson, lived through floods and moves, enjoyed travel. For forty years I didn’t write and, during that time, there were changes. Women had more choices but more than that they had become more aware. The equipment, gears and pulleys were in place for a different view on life. In midlife I became aware that there was an empty hole where my children had been but also that the hole was more vast than the space vacated by them. I knew I not only would be able to write, I would need to write.
Then I read that, if those who live until they are fifty in these times may very likely see their hundredth year. That meant that I might have another entire lifetime before me--plenty of time to do whatever I wanted. In fact, it’s my belief that women in their 50s might have more time for their second life because they won’t have to spend the first twenty years preparing for adulthood.
One day I sat down and began to write the “Great Utah Novel.” I thought it would be a lot easier than it was. I had majored in English Lit. Writing a novel should be pretty much second nature.
It wasn’t long before I realized that it wasn’t as easy as writing the news stories I had written as a young woman. There were certain skills I didn’t have. It was a discouraging time. I might not have to learn speech and motor skills and the ABCs but there sure was a lot I didn’t know about writing.
Somewhere after writing about 400 pages (easily a year’s work), I knew something major was wrong. I took classes at UCLA in writing. I attended writers’ conferences. I read up on marketing. I updated computer skills that had been honed in the days of the Apple II. And all the while I wrote and revised and listened and revised again. This Is The Place finally emerged.
It is about a young woman, Skylar Eccles, who is a half-breed. In Utah where she was born and raised, that meant that she was one-half Mormon and one-half any other religion. Skylar considers marrying a Mormon man in spite of her own internal longing for a career. By confronting her own history--several generations of women who entered into mixed marriages--and by experiencing a series of devastating events, she comes to see she must make her own way in the world, follow her own true north.
Much of what I wrote about is my own story. If my novel were a tapestry, the warp would be real but the woof would be the stuff of imagination—real fiction.
I think I bring a unique vision to my work. Utah has a beauty and wonder of its own. The Mormons are a mystery to many. I think I tell a story about Utah in the 50s that could only be told by someone who lived in that time and place and who was a part of the two cultures—the Mormon and the non-Mormon—that make it a whole.
I am proud that I did it. I’m glad that I waited until I was sixty. I believe that forty years brought insight to the story in terms of the obstacles that women faced in those days.
I think I also really like being proof that a new life can start late—or that it is never too late to revive a dream.
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|Reviewed by John Domino
|You are an inspiration!|
|Reviewed by Miller Caldwell
Your writing is always wonderful.
I trust all you write - yup I've got your Frugal bible. But the only problem I have, is simply this:
60+ No way!!!
Not yesterday, last week or today.
'Cos if I am right,
In this Scottish cold night
It can be you on your site!
|Reviewed by Annette Gisby
|Carolyn, a great article. As one of the younger women, I can relate to this article with my mother's experience, although not my own.
She was at home once she was married, and occasionally had a part time job, which always finished before we were due home from school.
It was just the way things were then, and is still expected in a lot of places in Ireland.
Annette Gisby, author of Silent Screams.
|Reviewed by Leslie King
|<B>I've come back to read this article, time and again and in each instance, I take away something different. Carolyn writes the kind of works that touch an elemental chord in everyone who reads her words, offering inspiration and earning respect from young, old, black, white, Christian, or otherwise. Her stirring glimpses into another's life never fail to make me look twice at my own! </B>
Editor of <I>The Author's Almanac </I>
|Reviewed by Kim Ripley
|What an inspiring essay for prospective freelance writers!|
|Reviewed by Kim Ripley
|Carolyn Howard-Johnson's description of life in the fifties may be hard for young women of the current generation to believe. This current crop of young women generally have no idea what life was like for women before the 'women's liberation' took place. Carolyn tells it like it was in her article, 'Life Begins at 60'.
The younger generation of woman could learn a lot by listening to the 'older women'. The 'older women' have been there, done that - and have not been recognized for having done it. Where would the young women of today be if it had not been for the experiences of the previous generations of women?
Older women of today who gave up the dreams of their youth to follow the path of the times are now realizing, with the miracle of modern medicine, that they have many years left to them to fulfill those lost dreams. They are going after those lost dreams - and are making the dreams come true.
Carolyn Howard-Johson is a shining example of this. She has fulfilled a lost but not forgotten dream. She has finally written that great American novel that she always dreamed of writing.
The great American novel, Gone with the Wind, depicted the people and the times of the mysterious land of the antebellum South. The great American novel, This is the Place, depicts the people and the times of the mysterious land of Utah in the fifties.
Kristie Leigh Maguire
Author of Desert Triangle