(2 of 3)
In just the past few days, Betty Friedan, a patron saint of the woman's movement, announced unblushingly to the world that she had discovered the "sensuous joy" of making chicken soup. Actually, it was mushroom soup because her son is a vegetarian. No matter. She still found some womanly roots in the manipulation of nothing more spectacular than her pots and pans. She proclaimed she had gone full circle—liberated herself from liberation by making her own soup.
The gospel of the grandma propounded by Anthropologist Margaret Mead has been carried to new heights. She argues that grandparents provide kids with wisdom, patience, love and relief from parents. Grandparents add tradition, meaning and identity. Three generations, laughing, loving and living near each other, is the proper family balance, insists Mead. That is not a very new idea, but it is hard to put into practice in a nation that has worshiped speed and movement. A lot of folks are listening. Executives are resisting the rootless life. Staying put, in many cases, has been more tempting than advancement.
Another simple truth that has been rediscovered is the healing power of the earth itself. Nearly half of American households—a peacetime record —planted gardens last year. It was as if some long-dormant, primordial urge had been awakened. An estimated 50 million people went out into the spring sunshine, plunged their fingers into the soil and dropped some seeds into the holes. The Burpee's seed people in Pennsylvania are now mailing their seed catalogues (perhaps as many as 10 million) for this year. The actual figure is secret. They expect their business to rise when icebound customers catch sight of the pictures of the new "sugar bush" watermelons and "triple treat" pumpkins.
Just before Christmas, Liz Carpenter, toast of a considerable part of the Washington power society for 34 years, pulled up and went home to Austin, Texas. "Champagne gone flat," she said when she woke up one morning, weary of big power, Big Government, big parties, big people and big ideas. "I want to find my soul," she said. "I am going to replant my roots." She bought a house on a hill to look at the sun come up. She planted flowers all around her, and she is going to listen to the sounds of people growing up and living. "Besides," says Liz, "I think out here is where the action is."
Jimmy Carter may be the biggest manifestation of that action. Never before have Americans participated in such an open and honest selection of their President. True, not nearly enough people did take part. But those who did had their say unintimidated by bosses, unbought by money. And whom did they choose?—a smile, a quiet voice, the Bible, family reunions, arms around Amy, field shoes, washed blue denims, fists full of peanuts.