Now mind, I’m not making fun of anyone’s handwriting. I’ve always been honest and open with you about my handwriting. If you will recall, I’m the kid whose first-grade teacher told my mother that no, I wasn’t retarded, but I’d never be able to express myself on paper.

I’m the unfortunate, asked dozens of times why I didn’t choose to be a doctor since my handwriting is so suitable for that profession. I’ve been asked many times to translate something I’ve written by hand and have been miserably humiliated because I couldn’t.

Well, now that we have that all cleared away let’s go on.

It’s been more than 20 years since I worked full time in a newspaper. And while I’m inclined to believe that newspapers change less than the products of any other profession, they do change.

Back when I was still punching a time clock at The Albert Lea Evening Tribune we were helped in our task by a group of splendid women, who lived in surrounding towns and kept us abreast with happenings in the territory.

At that time and perhaps even now these helpers were called “correspondents.”

In those years I edited what was first called “the society page,” then “women’s page” and finally “family page.”

Most of the stories concerning weddings, anniversaries, parties and the like came across my desk to be written for my page. There were lots of women’s clubs.

I found the extension groups particularly interesting. I have always found myself lacking in domestic skills. I used to consider joining one of the extension groups. I did, in fact, show up at a cooking class or two. I liked to cook so that wasn’t too bad. I enjoyed it.

Anything that required manual dexterity was a horse of a different color. In the knitting class other women knit sweaters. I attempted a little knit collar. They finished their projects, I didn’t.

The sewing class was a catastrophe. Cake decorating? Don’t ask.

Despite my many failures, I never entirely gave up. I read the extension reports with an interest that was downright pathetic.

Then one day I came back from lunch and found on my desk a hand-written report of the Red and Green Club. It was about this time of the year, close to Christmas, and I was suddenly aflame with a possibility of learning to make Christmas decorations.

I had actually once made a fairly decent Christmas decoration, using wire coat hangers, white paint and Christmas tree ornaments.

OK, I didn’t say it was spectacular, but it wasn’t too bad. As I read the article I was a little disappointed. Moreover, I was puzzled.

No lists of materials, no suggestions as to time or place to seek instructions.

Still with a name like the Red and Green Club, it had to be a group that specialized in Christmas decorations.

It was at a time when women’s liberation was being more and more discussed. I came from a family that, male or female, demanded equality for women. I went along with the family on that. But Christmas is a tradition. Forget politics.

Why, I asked myself, were these dames taking time out to watch a movie on fox hunting, when they should be throwing their energies into making Christmas ornaments?

Shortly after the article appeared a letter reached my desk from Hollandale. It thanked me for the space given the meeting of the club, but finished in large letters: &8220;We are not, however, the ‘Red and Green Club.’ We are, have been, and whether you like it or not, expect to continue being the Rod and Gun Club.”

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)