Becky cooked a rib roast last night.  She does this every Christmas.  Her two sons and wives were home for Christmas--and they got me talking about my experience protesting porn in the seventies.
I had asked local gas station by the school to please put the magazines under the counter.  The sixth and seventh grade boys were regularly spending their lunch hour in his establishment going through them--and getting an unrealistic education on sex--since the owner left porn open on the counters.  He told me in no uncertain terms that I was off limits.  I said that it wouldn't be a hardship to put it under the counter.  He said no, he wasn't going to do that.  (Red flag to a bull moment.)

So, in light of all the picketing going on in America, I thought, "What have I got to lose."  I got a pole, attached a sign to the top that told what was being sold there, and began walking back and forth in front of his store.  Before long, the whole town knew what I was doing, and other mothers joined me with similar signs.  The proprietor called the police.  The chief of police got out of his car and said, "Janie, what in the world are you doing!?" (Pryor is a small town.  Everyone knows everyone.  My grandsons broke into laughter at this point because the police chief called me by name.)

"I'm protesting," I said.  "And these other mothers are exercising their rights as well."  He told me he wasn't sure that was legal.  I told him (politely) to look it up.  About then the mayor showed up, along with a Tulsa (!) news reporter with a camera.  The mayor said, "She's right, we have a statement on the books about local decency."  All that time the reporter is trying to get me to say something stupid.  Which I didn't, but I answered his questions.  By then, two other stores in Pryor that were selling that kind of stuff showed up and were yelling and saying that they had taken all that kind of "literature" off their shelves and told the distributor not to restock.  "Don't bring your ladies to our stores," they were actually begging me.  "Please don't picket us." The number of mothers picketing were growing by the minute.  The mayor told the gas station to put the stuff away.  Out of the sight of children.  Mission accomplished, we all went home.  Maybe I should have asked him to burn it?

By that evening, the national news had picked it up, and friends on both coasts had seen my TV interview and were calling to ask what was going on.  I guess it was unusual for an everyday person like me to picket?  I got a letter from Larry Flynt lambasting me and telling me basically that I was a nobody and who did I think I was.  Threatening.  However, the little lady won that one.