Month: March 2025

Uncategorized

First job

Mary Elyn Bahlert

My first job was at the Times Fine Arts Theater on Vliet Street and Hawley Road in Milwaukee. Word must have passed from one young person to another, because most of the other young people who worked at the theater were friends of mine from high school, and even earlier in my life. There was Pat R., her younger brother, Bobbie, my best friend, The Bug (who had received her name from Bobbie at some point), my cousin Mark, and a couple of other kids from the neighborhood.

I could take the 23 bus right to the front door of the theater to start my shift. I was the vendette, my friends Pat and Bug – who worked at different times – were the ticket sellers. We worked for minimum wage – I started at $ .90 – yes, that’s right – 90 cents! – and stayed at that rate for the year I worked there. And I worked no more than 15 hours each week.

My shift started with my walking down the left aisle in the dark theater to a little room off the dark hall behind the stage. There, I reached into the dark room to flick on the light switch, and I reached for a big bag of popcorn that was stored in that room. The popcorn had been popped at a sister theater, larger, with its own popcorn popping machine. I carried the big bag of popcorn back to the narrow aisle in the lobby of the theater, where I dropped the popcorn under the lights to warm. I had picked up some real butter in the back room of the theater, too, and I put that in the dispenser to warm and to melt. Then I was ready for customers.

Times Fine Arts Theater was not well-attended. Its fare was mostly “adult pictures,” although not what we would call X-rated these days. And then, the Theater showed one feature – not several in different theaters, which is common today. From time to time, I’d catch a few minutes of the movie currently running. But mostly, I stayed behind the counter where I sold popcorn and candy from a selection that was locked behind the counter until I opened it for my shift.

During the movies, I could talk and have fun with my friends who worked along with me. The usher stood at the doorway to the outer hallway, which was cold in the winter. The ticket seller had an electric heater which she had plugged in as soon as she arrived for her shift. Sometimes, crushes developed there between various couples, mostly short-lived.

I credit that job as marking the beginning of my life-long addiction to popcorn. (During COVID, popcorn-making in a pot on the stove became part of a daily lunch ritual with Jeff). I kept a small portion of popcorn behind the butter machine, and I snatched another kernel of buttered corn – real butter – from time to time. During COVID, popcorn-making in a pot on the stove became part of a daily lunch ritual with Jeff.

At the end of our shifts, we carefully counted out what we had made that night, and inventory of the candy in the glass cabinet that I opened from the back was taken. Then, I locked it up again, stuffed the remaining popcorn into the large plastic bag I’d stashed under the counter, and walked it back to the room behind the big screen.

When the shift was over, my Dad’s dark blue Chevy Bel-Air coupe showed up in front of the doors, and I was on my way home. Later, the Bug had access to one of her parents’ cars, and she’d drive me home, the two of us talking and laughing all the way.

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As we walk among the graves

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Mornings,
we walk among the graves,
up hills and down.
I read the stones, glean the stories buried there.
A child, born and died, 2 days old.
Her mother gone, too.
Beloved father and mother,
pictures frozen on the stone,
as if they look the same today.
One young man, mother’s son,
died in war,
before he lived his life.

Mornings,
I count the years of the beloveds
as we walk among the graves.
I reckon those whose lives I now outlive,
some by many years.
I drift off, recounting my own life:
who was I, then?
The time has passed away,
and so quickly.

Mornings, 
I am sad as we walk among the graves.
I look into the sky, beautiful.
I see the city in the distance,
all that life booming and moving,
all those moments of importance,
passing too –
quickly.

Mary Elyn Bahlert, 10/2020

From the beginning of COVID sheltering-in-place, in March, 2020, through the long months that followed, Jeff and I had a morning routine. We’d rise from bed at 5:30, make two dripped cups of coffee, and sit together in the living room. After a time, we’d get dressed for the day and head outside for our morning walk: St. Mary’s Cemetery, just a block away from our home, has beautiful views of San Francisco Bay from the top of the hill. Each day, we’d pass the same graves, by the same route, talking with neighbors, stopping to play with someone’s dog, greeting those who passed by – some for the first time. We made friendships on those walks, and we heard plans change as a young couple purchased their first home in another neighborhood, some friends only people who passed us with a nod and a “good morning,” never to be seen again. This poem is from the time of COVID, in 2020.

“Mornings,
I count the years of the beloveds
as we walk among the graves.
I reckon those whose lives I now outlive,
some by many years… ”

memories, reflecting, Uncategorized

Monk in the world guest post

Mary Elyn Bahlert

The world was always there for me – gurgling with joy, shining like the brightest sun, fragrance-full, slippery and hard-edged, colorful beyond belief – and there I was, walking around with my head in the clouds, my eyes toward the ground.

I have a good mind, but living from that linear place didn’t work for me forever, thank God. My best thinking brought me straight into a long and deep depression almost 20 years ago. Life has not been the same, since. Today, I am grateful to be alive, and every day offers new delicacies for my delight. The gift of being a Monk in the World is that I get to enjoy what has been there all along, and I get to enjoy it as if it is new, as if it has never been witnessed before.

Many years ago, I learned to pray after reading The Christian’s Secret to a Happy Life, by Hannah Whitall Smith (of the American Holiness Movement). That was the beginning of a long, rich, and growing walk as a Monk in the World. I studied theology and became a preacher, a way to offer to others the gift of knowing we are not separate, we are not alone. I found strength and power and growing self acceptance through prayer. After all this time, I still believe we can change the world by praying, by praying for ourselves, which grows us in Love.

I’m as inter-faith as I am Christian, knowing that the Light, the Universe, the Christ, the Mother, the Holy One, El, is in us all. Or maybe we are swimming in this Holy One. I struggle to find words for this life, this living.

I learned to meditate over 4 years ago, and this practice has deepened me. My greatest joy in meditation is that I find myself more present in the moment, moment by moment, day by day. I see things I did not see before. I delight in the branches of the birch tree outside my city window; I watch the seasons and winds bring change to that tree. I say: “I love that tree, and that tree loves me.” It’s true.

When I meditate, I find the boundaries between myself and the world dissolving. I feel the sound of a neighbor’s voice, the boom of a truck on the street, the harsh call of a jay, the wind in the eucalyptus trees, as much as I hear them. I suppose this is being one with all of creation. For me, it is not as clear as that, but I am beginning to understand, to know.

As a preacher, I also served a community of faith. My work as a Monk in the world was very extraverted for this introvert! I had the privilege of being called to be with others in their times of deepest need – learning a diagnosis that would take a beloved woman’s life, baptizing an infant who would not go home from the hospital, as she lay in the arms of her teenage mother, rushing into a hospital emergency room only minutes before the death of a vibrant woman in her 50’s, as her partner lay sobbing on top of her; I’ve sat in silence and watched the minutes tick away, waiting for surgery to end, with a frightened wife. I’ve answered the door to find a man who has not slept in days, smelling of the street, who tells me his long and convoluted story, only to ask me for a few dollars for food. I’ve heard many of those stories, and even though I do not understand, I have prayed with each one, knowing I have not have ever known that particular desperation. I’ve witnessed the suffering of the mentally ill who come to Church, hoping for something; I am blessed by my own illness to be able to see the suffering person, trapped by their mind, underneath what we call “stigma.”

After 30 years of serving as “Pastor,” I am only grateful. For whatever service I have been able to give, I am grateful. The gift has been mine, truly, truly.

All of this is to say that I am still looking to see the light Thomas Merton, one of my spiritual mentors, must surely have seen. The light is so ordinary, I’m sure. I know with a keen knowing that we are all light, that we are swimming in this light. I’ve felt it for a moment when I meditate, I’ve seen it shimmer – just a glimpse! – in the green, heart-shaped leaves of my beloved birch tree.

I am a mendicant now, begging for alms. I am a mendicant, raising my eyes to look into the eyes of whoever crosses my path. I am a mendicant, wanting to trust each day’s needs and gifts to the Holy One. I am a mendicant, looking for Light.

*

Published as “Monk in the World Guest Post,” on abbeyofthearts.com, 2014

memories, nostalgia, remembering, Uncategorized

John

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Judy and I were in love with the same guy. We were fifteen, and we’d been friends since we were in kindergarten together at La Follette Elementary School on the north side of Milwaukee. Judy’s family had moved to West Allis, a suburb of Milwaukee, which put them closer to her dad’s work at Allis-Chalmers Company. We’d come from the same kind of people: hard-working, working-class people.

Judy was sitting across from me the day I returned after getting a vaccine shot by the school nurse, and she saw me throw up what was in my stomach – as it happened. But she was my friend, anyway.

And we were living on the other side of Milwaukee in 1964, when the Beatles “invaded” the United States, and the world. Of course, all the young girls had watched the debut on the Ed Sullivan Show – a favorite of mine for many years – and had decided, at once, who was their favorite Beatle, as we watched the girls our age in the studio shouting, crying, screaming.

My family’s stereo system was on a large cart on wheels, and for some reason, Mom allowed me to have the stereo system in my bedroom, the already-cramped room that I shared with my little sister, Suzie. And so I played the few records – 45’s and albums – that I had, over and over – and over again.

Every few weeks, I’d take the money I’d earned from baby-sitting the three little kids next door, and I’d walk down Medford Avenue to the Sears-Roebuck Store on 24 and Fond du Lac, passing my friend Nancy’s house on the way. As I walked, I had in mind what I intended to buy that day: another single to add to the box I kept on the floor next to the hi-fi setup in my room. All week, I’d listened to WOKY – a Milwaukee radio station that played the kind of music kids like me listened to – so I knew what I wanted to bring home. Sometimes, I had enough money to buy an album, and so I started a small collection, which I propped up against the wall. I listened and I sang along with the records I played (my husband, Jeff, is still surprised when I burst into another song – complete verses – from the 50’s and 60’s – some of which he has never heard before). I can sing through whole albums of the Beatles, The Animals, the Dave Clark Five. Yes, I can!

Later, my taste turned to Motown Records, out of Detroit, and I can sing all the words to those songs, too.

And of course, we knew the birthday of our favorite Beatle. Judy and I talked every few days on the phone, sharing our latest news about John, what we’d read about the Beatles in the paper that week. We knew for sure that John’s birthday was October 9. In those days, this kind of information was common knowledge to Beatle-lovers.

We hatched a plan. Whose idea was it? We hatched a plan: We would bake a cake for John on his birthday. And we’d deliver the cake to the person we knew that was as close to John Lennon as we’d ever get: Bob Barry of WOKY radio in Milwaukee!

And so, on the morning of October 9, 1965, Judy and I met in the kitchen of my family’s flat on Medford Avenue to bake a birthday cake for John Lennon. We were careful as we cut the cake into the shape of a guitar (!) and decorated it with chocolate frosting, and as we added yellow frosting highlights. We were proud of our concoction! My Mom even took a picture of us together, holding the birthday cake for John Lennon!

And we delivered it to WOKY radio on Fond du Lac Avenue in Milwaukee, to be given to Bob Barry.

We had to go to school on Monday, so we didn’t hear whether Bob Barry mentioned our cake or not. And we are fairly sure the cake never made it to our favorite Beatle. But it came as a shock, years later, when John would be killed. The world was changing. And Judy and my worlds were changing, too, as we outgrew our favorite Beatle and each moved into our different lives.

Judy and me, with John’s cake
Uncategorized

Mr. Fischer

Mary Elyn Bahlert

November 22, 1963. I was in my 9th grade German class, Mr. Fischer at the front of the room, when his teaching was interrupted by the distinctive ringing of the public address system, the large speaker in the right hand corner of the room, almost directly across from my desk.

I don’t remember what words came drifting down to us in our desks, bolted to the floor in even rows. What I remember, as the announcement of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy as he rode in the presidential motorcade in Dallas, Texas was reported to us from the intercom, was the face of Mr. Fischer, tears streaming down his cheeks. He made no attempt to cover his face. His eyes were not looking at all of us, the young people whose various motives had brought them to be enrolled in his second-year German class. His eyes were somewhere else in their sorrow.

Now, I remember that moment in detail, the detail of his face, larger than life, in front of the desks filled with young people who would not, could not understand the enormity of what had happened to the President, and to all of us. I had seen my father cry – never my mother – and so it must not have struck me as strange to see the kind man cry.

Now, I also – in my considering that moment in our lives over the years – believe that Mr. Fischer, so many years older than all of us sitting before him – had witnessed in his own life and history such happenings in Europe. And so he was living again in his new country a repeat of history. A sordid history.

And for the first time in my life, I came to know that not everyone saw the state of the country, the state of the world, as we did. I mentioned something about the assassination to my friend Carlene, to be met with her cryptic response: “we didn’t like him.” That was jarring, but I said nothing, taking it in, and maybe seeing for the first time the great difference between Carlene and me, between our families: her father an engineer in an engineering firm, my father a union steel worker with an 8th grade education. I saw something clearly, then, in her response. I saw something clearly about her, something that would never leave me. And I understood that we were different, and that other people saw the world differently. I understood, and for the first time.

And I knew I would stand with my people.

*

Now, as the nation struggles with the sharply drawn political/ideological differences of the people, those lines are drawn more clearly than those first decades following World War II. Vietnam and what it would bring to all of us, in particular to all of us in my generation, did not hold an important place in our minds at that moment. That would come later, and the years of unrest – brought to a head in my generation – were before us.

I remember that moment, Mr. Fischer – as a teacher, always larger than life in my own memory – standing, tears on his cheeks. And always, I’m grateful to him and to the others who influenced me, who formed the shape of my youthful world, whose influence would never leave me.

*

Remembering, from the autumn time of life… photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 10/2024, Wales, Wisconsin