For a moment the city is still, the rush of cars silent, the air full of silence, holding as we hold this second, we stop this second. A towee stops, too, on the back stoop and the cat, stealthy, climbs the steps to watch, careful. Then the feathered one flies past the cat.
We are waiting for the appearance - the Blue Moon - to show itself above the houses, the lush summer trees, to hold still for a moment as we hold our breath.
When I was growing up in the 1950’s, children still went out to play with the other children in the neighborhood. From our upper flat, Mom could keep an eye out for me while I played. I expect most other Moms did the same. In the summer time, she could step into the back hall from the kitchen and take a look at me through the screen door that opened to a small porch on the second floor. Then, she could go back to her own day.
The streets and alleys were full of little people then, children riding tricycles, older children giving orders to younger ones. I can still picture the house where Michelle Froehlick lived – they had the whole house! – and I can see the back of Randy Larsen’s flat that faced the other street when we all met to play in the alley. Randy Larsen – who gave me my first kiss in the alley, and whose name is on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C.
One of my first memories is of me taking a bath, and Mom helping me to take a bath at the end of a day of playing. As she cleaned me up with a washcloth dripping with soap, Mom reached across me and without looking at me, as if her words were an aside, she said: “I saw you hit another little girl while you were playing today.”
I can touch the sense I still have of the little girl in that moment, her mind moving quickly, her clarity as she answered: “It must have been another little girl who looked just like me.”
And I saw the smile appear on Mom’s face as she turned her head away from me to hide that smile. I don’t remember another word spoken between us then.
Hoping to not get caught… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 8/18/2024
“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too”. – William Hutchinson Murray
Every year during early August, my long-time friend Nancy and I choose a good restaurant and meet to celebrate our birthdays – both also in early August – with small gifts and with a good meal and always, dessert – shared. This year, we stayed for a long time in the booth in the dimly lit restaurant where we had finished our dinners and our dessert, talking about our long friendship and our long lives.
Nancy confided in me that through most of her life, she has gotten on most easily with men, and with me and one or two other women as exceptions, she still thinks of herself that way. On the other hand, I find that I have had long time friendships with both men and women, friendships I value to this time in my life.
The role of men in my life stands out in a particular way. Through the years, I have been helped in some way by some good man whose path crossed mine. As a college age woman, I took a semester off before graduation, not clear about my future. I was unclear in my choice of college major, and although I had help through the University, I still took a semester before I would return to graduate with my BA. I was confused, and so I continued to live at home – as I had throughout my undergraduate years – and landed a job in a public relations firm, my desk in a corner of the basement office without windows where other young women my age worked in the accounting office.
The firm had one copy machine, and one day, I found myself making copies as the President of the firm walked up, and as he waited to use the machine. We chatted for a few moments, and in that time, I told him that I’d been at university, but that I’d left before I received my degree.
A few months later, I decided to return to school for the last semester of study, in the fall of 1972. I told my supervisor about my decision, and I prepared myself to give up the job and to find some other part time work to continue to pay for school. When the news of my leaving traveled to the upper offices, where the important members of the staff sat in private rooms with windows, an offer came down the stairs and to my desk. I could continue working at the firm – part-time – as I finished school. A new position was formed for me to be able to work part time. Apparently, the President of the company had heard about my leaving and made this offer, a way to support my receiving my degree.
I graduated with my BA in January of 1973, and was offered a position as Claims Representative for the Social Security Administration, which was hiring that year to bring on enough staff to implement the Supplemental Security Income Program for low-income elderly and disabled folks (the SSI Program – a life-saver for many folks – continues today).
A few years later, I was working as a Claims Representative in the SSA office on Milwaukee’s South Side, interviewing recipients of both Social Security and SSI. When I could, I had accompanied the Claims Representative in the office to a Contact Station where members of the public could file for benefits without traveling to the District Office. And I was called on to give talks to the public from time to time.
What I also did surprises me, even now. When the end of the week rolled around and no more public interviews were expected of me, I’d make my way to the office – the door was always open – of the District Manager. I’d sit in a chair across from his desk and have a conversation, asking about what his work was like, what was difficult, what it was like to be a District Manager.
I expect relationships with my father and my older brother – both of whom liked me – gave me some confidence in myself.
In the fall of 1980, the position of Field Representative opened at the Waukesha District Office of SSA, and I applied for the job. My additional work – public contacts, public speaking – helped me land the job. As did the fact that the District Manager knew me personally. He was happy for me.
During my final year as a Claims Representative in that office, before I received the promotion to Field Rep, another good man, Larry Alt, was my supervisor. One day, Larry told me that I needed to meet his wife, Sue Alt. He thought that she and I could be friends. And after I met her, Sue became an important friend to me for many years. She’s gone now, and I still miss her.
Through the years, other men have lit the path on my way. I’m grateful.
I’m grateful for the positive, affirming friendships I’ve had with men over the years. I’m grateful for the loving father and brother who lit my path in a way they did not intend or understand. As I hear the stories of others, and as I’ve struggled with what I received – and did not receive – as a young person, I see how those relationships have shaped my life. Continue to shape who I am.
Facing the window to the West, I watch the sun drop into the Pacific – just beyond my ken – the sun lights San Francisco as it falls, its last rays glittering on the towering eucalyptus that frame my view.
Suddenly – a wave of grief – a balmy summer night on the shore of Lake Michigan, my brown summer arms swinging from the top arc of a Ferris Wheel, sniffing languid air, floating above the beat of music, young people dancing at my feet. Suddenly – I am in this darkened room. The memory, gone. I sit, in the grief.
