Notes, a poem, and excerpts from the infamous horoscopes by BARBARA HOLLAND

A handwritten single page of notes, uncovered in late July 2016:

     Writing letters

     Dear Sir,
          The merchandise - a pink cotton shirt - that I ordered from your spring catalog

     Dear Mr Congressman,
          A handgun law with some teeth in it would help prevent an estimated

     Dear God, Just a quick note to ask if

     Dear Jack ["Jack" crossed out] Jimmy if people still call you Jimmy,
​          Perhaps you don't even remember me. I

     Dear Mr Mailer
          This is not a fan letter. For years now I have been longing to tell you a few

     To the Editors:
          The intersection of [crossed out] On a recent visit to the park I happened to notice

     Dear M. Cousteau,
          I have been receiving your appeals for funds for

     To the Programming Director:
          That so-called comedy series you seem to have been running more or less forever on Sunday nights is without a doubt the most

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From "The Day's Work," Ms. magazine, August 1977. We join Barbara at her job as an advertising copywriter. Her lateness has been noticed again, and she's been called to the boss's office. 

     He’s younger than I am and a whole lot dumber and we worked together once before, at Mayburn & Atherton, when he was just a pockmarked kid and I was already somebody. Now he’s a very large deal and I’m still just somebody. Story of a life. A lady’s life.
     He’ll be bald as a stone, though, before he’s forty-five.
     “I want to talk to you about your hours. Now, I realize you have other responsibilities…”
     .... Who taught you to talk that mush-mouth executive stuff? Me, that’s who.
     “… certain responsibility to us here.”
     Jerk.
     “Like to give you some additional, uh, status around here. To tell you the truth, we have a new account coming in, not absolutely firmed up yet, keep this in strictest confidence … require more, uh, punctuality on your part…”
     “I’m afraid I can’t promise anything, Jack, I mean, Mr. Dorney. I move as fast as I can. And I don’t think you have any complaints about my work once I get here.”
     I hitch my bottom rudely onto the corner of his desk, which he hates, he wants people to stand at attention, that’s why the chairs are kept way over in the corners unless a client comes in. I slunch comfortably. Lovely feeling. This is the other side of the lady’s life. I am irreplaceable at the nasty salary he pays me. Go on, fire me. Give my job to two guys and an English major. Besides that, I’m married. My husband works. Look at me cross-eyed, you jumped-up junior bookkeeper, and I can be gone before lunchtime. Just let me get my boots from the bottom drawer. Write your own commercials.
     In a way you have to feel sorry for the married men around here. Take Art. He never misses a chance to double-cross me, but I can’t blame him. He doesn’t make much more than I do and his wife doesn’t have a job, and they have two kids and a bouncing-baby mortgage, and when Mr. Dorney talks to him about being late he sweats pints of pure blood.
     “Really would like you to take this on, sure you could handle it. However, it would mean…”
     “No way.” I smile cheerfully at him....

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Back by popular demand:
'Horoscopes for other people (who aren't as nice as we are)'
by Barbara Holland
First published in McCall's, June 1973

       I didn't come here to argue about whether astrology is honest-to-goodness and cross-your-heart for real. We'll talk about that some other time. What really bothers me now is all that sweetness and light out there in horoscope land.
     I mean, it's all very well for you and me; we're like our horoscopes say we are. Artistic, sympathetic, intelligent, sensitive, charming, brave and lovely. But what about crotchety old Aunt Clara? How do you explain her, and that creep in Cost Accounting, and the Boston Strangler? Were they born at some dateless moment, slipped in under some never-mentioned sign for those utterly without redeeming graces? Or are the kindly stargazers hiding something from us? Is it possible that there are actually stinkers born under certain signs of the zodiac (although, of course, not our signs)?
    What we need is a zodiacal guide to stinkers, a horoscope pointing out the horrid truth under all that astrological optimism. And even if some few teensy, endearing little faults do accidentally apply to you and me--well, perhaps the truth, like stewed prunes and dental surgery, is good for a person. So after exhaustive research in the annals of history, I have come up with the following rundown.

Aries, March 21 to April 20. The astrology books tell us that Aries people are strong-willed and natural leaders, which is a pretty way of saying pigheaded and bossy. They are quite incapable of doing things someone else's way and proceed on their own course even as the iceberg looms dead ahead--they are unable to admit the error of their ways even when the crunching shock goes through the ship and water pours into the hold. When crossed, they have appalling tempers--and tend to be a bit snappish and irritable even when not crossed.
     To say that Aries folk are indiscreet is putting it kindly. They are completely unable to hold their tongues and are mystified by those who can (they don't know what to make of Scorpios, who hate to tell anyone anything, like what time it is).
     In youth, the wild-eyed energy and honesty of Aries has a certain appeal, but in their older days, their basic craziness shines through. Because they get entangled in their own fanaticism, not as many become famous as you might think, considering their high opinion of themselves.
     Some do. Adolf Hitler was an Aries. And Bismarck, known to his dear ones as The Iron Chancellor. And Van Gogh, with his ear in an envelope.

Taurus, April 21 to May 20. Taurus people live in a rut and like it. It is dangerous to try to pry them loose. They enjoy their work and should marry someone who enjoys it too, because they have little use for l'amour. Consequently, they get famous a lot. Their fame is never for anything sudden or frivolous, but for some massive, interminable, obstinate lifework.
     Karl Marx was a Taurus. Also Oliver Cromwell, Ulysses S. Grant, Shakespeare, Balzac, Catherine the Great, Sigmund Freud and John Brown, whose Body achieved such posthumous notoriety. Poor Czar Nicholas II didn't have much chance to exercise his Taurosity, but he had the one-track mind, obviously. At first glance, John James Audubon seems too mild a character, but when you consider his efforts, The Birds of America is just as weighty, dogmatic and exhaustive as Das Kapital or the theory of psychoanalysis. Taurus people don't fool around.
     They are also very fond of money and rarely spend more than $2.98 for a Christmas present. Although often revolutionary in their work, they are personally conservative and around the house they are selfish, lazy and tyrannical. This may be way they accomplish so much.

Gemini, May 21 to June 20. Gemini people not only can't do anything right, they think their ineptitude is cute. "Oh, silly me!" they exclaim. "I forgot all about it. Oo, aren't I awful?" They read the last page of a novel first, and they can't concentrate on anything at all for more than five minutes. Totally unreliable, they are something of a nuisance around the house or office.
     There are, of course, no famous Geminis except by accident or marriage. Queen Victoria, a very silly woman (did you ever read her diaries?), was a Gemini. Gemini is the sign of the Twins, which may explain why she sometimes referred to herself as "we." (Sometimes the Twins get carried away; the Dionne quintuplets were born under it, or them.) Remember Carlota, wife of Maximilian, the emperor of Mexico? The one who got so confused she had to be locked up for the last 60 years of her life? She was a Gemini. So was poor Jefferson Davis, president of some of the United States. That's about it for the Geminis.
     Although deeply moved by greeting cards, china kittens and Lassie movies, Gemini people are rather heartless about people. They believe in ghosts, reincarnation, extrasensory perception and horoscopes.

Cancer, June 21 to July 21. There's a lot of nonsense reported about Cancer people, now euphemistically known as Moon Children. They are billed as being shy and much devoted to home and children, the implication being that they are humble, self-effacing souls. This is a lie. They are not in the least shy. The truth is that they simply can't stand having people around. It makes them itch. Crowded elevators drive them into a glassy-eyed coma. Calvin Coolidge was a Cancer.
     The offspring of more gregarious signs think that Cancers really want to join the merrymaking and just need to be brought out of themselves. The truth is they enjoy it in there and dread trespassers in their personal sanctuaries.
     They love their homes but not because they're modest and retiring. They see their homes as an extension of their quite sufficient selves, beyond which it is seldom necessary to seek. They feel the same way about their children, hence the reputation they have for being devoted parents.
​     Among these allegedly shy and humble Moon Children we find such modest little blossoms as Henry VIII, Julius Caesar and Ernest Hemingway.

Leo, July 22 to August 21. If you are going to be born in August, it is better to be a Leo than a Leoness. Leo needs scope. Napoleon, Mussolini, Davy Crockett, Orville Wright and the Emperor Claudius were Leos. So was Amelia Earhart, but most women find themselves more confined by circumstance. Lady Leos, snarling and pacing their cages and unable to be emperors or even aviators, work out their frustrations by weaving their own cloth, marrying drug addicts and making their friends eat raw bean sprouts. They like to gather a lot of people around and talk loudly about themselves. It's a shame, really, because although conceited and bad-tempered, Leos aren't ill-natured; it's only that they thrash around and break things when not allowed to lead an army.
     As a matter of fact, boy Leos don't have all that much scope either any more. A lot of them turn into back-slapping hardware salesmen, running to fat and bullying the Little League on weekends. The world has gotten too small and tidy for Leos.
     Leo people haven't much sense of humor, a lack they conceal by laughing a lot, noisily. But they do have nice hair as they will be the first to tell you.
​
Virgo, August 22 to September 21. Virgos are picky and fussy and bothered a lot by the inefficiency of everyone else. They'll do most of your work for you just to be sure it's done right. They are rarely swept away by the broom of grand passion; in fact, they have little use for other people, who are feckless and mess up the files. Virgos are always telling people things for their own good. They like to be nurses, teachers, prison wardens--any job where they can point out to the helpless and unfortunate how helpless and unfortunate they are. Virgos are happiest when they find jobs suited to their bossiness, persistence and pragmatism: Cardinal Richelieu and Queen Elizabeth I were Virgos.
     They also tend to melancholy and can hold a grudge forever. They aren't easy to live with. Jesse James and Ivan the Terrible were Virgos.
     Virgos deposit fixed sums in a savings account every payday and never lose the passbook or anything else.

Libra, September 22 to October 22. The Libran charm is at its best at cocktail parties, since Librans much prefer strangers to friends and enjoy bringing them drinks. Molly Pitcher was a Libra.
     Four hours is the ideal length of time to know a Libra. They make good social directors, encyclopedia salesmen and airline hostesses. Around the house they're lazy and self-indulgent, and they like things peaceful and cozy and meals served on time. Confusion makes them sulk, and in a crisis they panic at once, knocking old ladies and small children down to leap into lifeboats. They are not very brave and collapse promptly under pressure.
     Oscar Wilde was a Libra. So was Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the pioneer drug addict. Like Eleonora Duse and Jenny Lind, Libras enjoy the public eye; some of them are never offstage. Sometimes they dabble in politics, like Rutherford B. Hayes and Lee Harvey Oswald. When not happy and elated, they lapse into silent gloom, waiting for someone to make them happy again. They worry a lot about whether people like them, but they don't really much like people, except perhaps the rich and famous. They prefer food.
​ 
Scorpio, October 23 to November 21. People are always falling in love with Scorpios because they think they have hidden depths. They don't. They are just terribly self-centered, which makes them seem subtle and mysterious. They feel the world owes them unlimited goodies, in return for which they owe the world only their cool, inscrutable presence. The only Scorpios of record ever to lose their heads were Charles I and Marie Antoinette (people can get pretty fed up with a Scorpio).
     Scorpio people should marry each other. They deserve it. Goebbels was a Scorpio. They bite the hand that feeds them and any other hands they can reach. Scorpios are spiteful and bide their time. They believe in the two-eyes-for-an-eye kind of vengeance. Their talent for verbal cruelty is without peer in the zodiac, and their sexual irresponsibility is admitted even by the writers of horoscopes for Sunday newspapers. The only safe Scorpio is a Scorpio far, far from his fellowman: Captain James Cook in the Pacific, Daniel Boone in the wilderness or Dostoevski in Siberia.

Sagittarius, November 22 to December 20. Your average Sagittarian is a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of persecution. All smiles and kisses one minute and savage and suspicious the next. In fact, although bright enough, these people are so wacked out they can hardly get through the day, and lots of them don't. Mary Queen of Scots was a Sagittarian (and I don't care what you say--she was simply not a very together monarch). Then there was William Blake and Emily Dickinson and George Eliot, who probably seemed even crazier at the time than they do now in retrospect.
     Sagittarians have nice-looking legs and lofty ideals, but everything bugs them. Consider Billy the Kid and Sir Winston Churchill and even Beethoven, who was almost as famous for his temper as for his tunes. And General Custer, who apparently deserved even worse than he got. Wackers all.
     Sagittarians look under the bed for their spouses' lovers. A Sagittarian invented the chastity belt.
     Sagittarians are recklessly irresponsible with money and should be kept on a very strict allowance.

Capricorn, December 21 to January 19. It is safe to assume that you, gentle reader, were not born under Capricorn because you wouldn't be reading a frivolous article like this. Earnest, industrious and dull, Capricorn is able to quench the merriest gathering merely by being there. Millard Fillmore was a Capricorn.
     Capricorns make good husbands because they are unable to see a bill, no matter whose, without paying it. Their health is poor, and they seldom have much fun, but perhaps they don't want to. Benjamin Franklin was the only cheerful Capricorn on record.
     Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross, was a Capricorn. And poor sick Chekhov (try and picture him wearing a lampshade and slipping ice cubes down your cleavage). And Alexander Hamilton, our first Secretary of the Treasury, who got shot by Aquarian Aaron Burr.
​     Capricorn people, in spite of their sterling qualities, have a regrettable tendency to toady to those above and grind down those below. They can be crafty and greedy, too. Capricorns often die young, which, considering their rather chilly natures and their difficult, dull lives, may come as a relief to all concerned.

Aquarius, January 20 to February 18. Aquarians are terribly self-conscious, always combing their hair and bursting into tears. It is hard to get to know the real them because they always seems to be making it up. They like to think of themselves as generous and sympathetic and will listen while you tell about your operation. Sickness fascinates them. They're sick a lot themselves, or think they are, and have terrible emotional problems. Look at Lord Byron and Lewis Carroll, whose problems hardly bear discussing in mixed company. And poor dead Queen Anne; and Lincoln, who kept dreaming about his own coffin,; and Dickens, haunted by his haunted childhood; and Mary I, lovingly known as Bloody Mary, who simply never had any luck at all. In fact, there almost aren't any happy Aquarians--but considering the way they dramatize themselves, they wouldn't have it any other way.
     Aquarians are very friendly but don't have any friends. They work hard at being interesting and unpredictable and carry pocket mirrors.

Pisces, February 19 to March 20. Pisces is called "the sign of sorrows." Pisceans swim around in a kind of gelatinous sadness; they're always losing things and getting mugged, and seem a bit dazed by it all, wearing expressions similar to the ones seen in photographs of Albert Einstein. They're simply frightfully sensitive and would walk a mile to get their feelings hurt. Then it takes hours of apology to drag them out of the resultant weepy depression. Sometimes, like Elizabeth Barrett, they lie around depressed for years until someone like Robert Browning, a Taurus, yanks them out of it. They are the zodiac's youngest child and play it for all it's worth, racked with indecision, clutching and sobbing. Look at Frederic Chopin, getting dragged around all over the place on George Sand's apron strings, and him with that terrible cough.
     Pisces people, being timid and withdrawn, are unlucky in politics. Neville Chamberlain was a Pisces. So was William Jennings Bryan who tried three times to be President and wasn't. Grover Cleveland, actually, was president twice and nobody cared.
     Some Pisceans succeed. Notice the fish-like gaze on the one-dollar bill. But probably even the most notable of them still cry at night in secret; and they can never find their door key, or figure out where the money went.

     There. That just about wraps up Aunt Clara and the rest, and very satisfying it was, too. What we need now is one of those monthly what's-going-to-happen-day-by-day projections for them. Predictions like, "Your blind pigheadedness will lead to disaster on the 14th," or "Try not to get your feelings hurt and cry a lot today," or "You will spitefully betray an old friend on the 29th." After all, the usual kindly drivel about "a letter will bring good news," "look for a promotion" and "have fun with friends" is hardly suitable for the pack of creeps they turned out to be. ​

Poetry

Here's another column, profiles of the zodiac signs, circa 1985. (Unfortunately, Cancer and Leo are missing.)

GEMINI, May 21 - June 20.
     When people say, "Isn't that just like a woman," it's a Gemini woman they mean. She's forty minutes late to everything, and gets a speeding ticket on her way besides; she changes her mind as often as her clothes; she goes to the story for a loaf of bread and comes box with a box of strawberries. Some people find her enchanting, some don't.
     Sometimes Gemini women forget to show up for their own weddings. This is partly because they can forget pretty much anything, and partly because the thought of all that responsibility makes them yearn to get on a plane. Any plane.
     If they do remember to get married, they have nice things and, whenever they happen to be home at all, give marvelous parties. A Gemini woman sitting still, at home, alone, and silent, is as rare as the great auk.
     They don't wear themselves out with housework, and when they do tackle it they're likely to leave the floor half waxed and the laundry clean but wet. However, they're good at getting other people to take care of it for them.
     Their children, especially when they're little, adore them; no one else's mother is such fun. (Later on they realize that no one else's mother forgot to come to the school play, either.)
     The perfect dinner partners, Gemini women can talk about anything, amusingly and at length, whether they know what they're talking about or not. One of their charms is what's called "a wide range of interests." This means that at some point or other they've taken up everything from sky-diving to opera to yoga and dropped it again.
     As employees, they're wonderful at selling and at charming or flim-flamming the public, but don't expect them to get the annual report out on time. And don't let them have anything to do with money. They see money purely as a symbol of what they're about to spend it on. As employers, they would be even more maddening than they are if they were around more often. Luckily they aren't usually employers. All that dreary old responsibility, darling.
     Attractive, but more sociable than sexy, more entertainers than lovers, they never quite take passion seriously. An older man, perhaps a Capricorn with a handsome salary, would think himself in heaven with his home made merry by a Gemini wife, and buy her fast cars and fancy stereos. Alas, his solidity may begin to weight her spirits down. Someone may offer her a plane ticket. He may come home from his bank or brokerage some day to find a note pinned to his pillow. If she remembered to leave a note, and could find a pencil.
​     In the coming year, a disproportionate number of songs will be written about Gemini women. Many of them will be very sad. 

CANCER, June 21 - July 21. [missing]

LEO, July 22 - August 21. [missing]
​
But wait! There's more!

Aries. Stay right where you are. Boredom and restlessness are no excuse for walking out on your responsibilities. Pay some attention to your health, Aries; a handful of peanuts isn't exactly breakfast.
Taurus. You're digging deeper into your rut. Resolve to try something totally different. Change your breakfast cereal. People will give up trying to get something out of you, to your great relief. You weren't going to give it to them anyway.
Gemini. Your wandering eye can get you mixed up with some dreadfully unsuitable people. Since you don't have any money left, why not settle down and do some real work--at least for an hour or so?
Cancer. A fidgety month, full of restless, unfocused ambitions. Concentrate! High mental energy makes you furiously impatient with those who can't keep up. They're not going to like you for it.
Leo. Give us a rest. Stop prowling around looking for new prey, and consolidate your gains. Those exciting new people can put a nasty strain on old relationships. 
Virgo. You've been busy this past year. Now it's time to look for your friends and family. See if they're still there. Don't follow your friends around with a dustpan. Wait until they leave.
Libra. This is the time of year your lust for popularity flowers. You believe the whole world loves you--and other fairy tales. You must stop rearranging reality to suit yourself. It's a poor season for self-deception. 
Scorpio. If you can't control that poisoned tongue, you'll end up with no one left to use it on but yourself. If you keep bullying those nice new friends you're making, Scorpio, they won't last long. 
Sagittarius. Don't go barging into important matters; give them 30 seconds' thought, at least. When others worry about their health, they see a doctor. Why can't you? Whatever you've been doing secretly recently needs extra caution. You might just cut it out.
Capricorn. If you go on judging everyone by appearances, you're going to be in for some very odd surprises. Greed may tempt you to buy stock in diamond mines from casual acquaintances. This is rarely a good idea. Stop trying to rush things--people will start resenting you for it. 
Aquarius. Find something else to brood about besides your health. People are tired of the subject. You can weasel out of family celebrations by taking a cruise. Thousands do, and a lot more wish they had. 
Pisces. Watch out. Another wild-eyed, self-appointed prophet lies in wait for you this year, sucker. Sometimes hard work is more rewarding than searching your soul for the Truth About Life. It usually pays better, too.  Sudden arguments flare up, sparked by your inflexibility. Try not to be so pigheaded.

Barbara, circa 1958

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Barbara Holland, high-school age

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Barbara with her cat, Blueberry, 1956

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Barbara and Blueberry by James E. Brewton (ca. 1961)

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Barbara and her cat Morgan on the deck at Bluemont

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