Summers in Wisconsin can be thick with humidity, languid – enough to suck the air out of you. I was about 13, on summer vacation from Junior High School. I was free of schedules and homework and the hard work of fitting in that takes place at that age. I wasn’t lonely – or was I? Maybe I was lonely in my family, the family beginning to itch against my skin, against my blossoming mind, against my teenage years. I was beginning to argue with Mom, who had her own controlling way of being a mother.
But I was free in my own mind. When I wasn’t reading or riding my bicycle all over the north side of Milwaukee, the long summer days stretched ahead of me. The days stretched ahead of me until they didn’t, and I had to begin another awkward school year in my classes with the smart kids. I had long, sunny, humid afternoons to myself – often.
The upper flat on Medford Avenue had varnished wooden doors and window frames. A small room faced the street and led to the front porch, where I could get a sun tan, where I could lie in the sun, slathered with lotion, reading a book. Sometimes I was alone in the small room, the screen door keeping the creatures of a humid climate outside. Across from the door to the porch was an old, old stuffed chair. I’d sit in that chair, reading, reading, reading. Sometimes, I’d curl up in a ball on the chair, my back to the screen door. I’d day dream.
I had a recurring day dream, a day dream that startles me and fills me with wonder now, all these years later. I was on a journey. The journey began at the front of the porch, facing the street. There, I would step into a moving, escalator-like contraption – vehicle (?) and find a seat with big windows that allowed me to see everything below. My ride took me from that front porch, and it headed west. The moving vehicle with comfortable seats took me clear over the Rocky mountains, across deserts and green farmland, across the Sierra mountains, to a house in South San Francisco, California. I ended my journey at 313 Alta Mesa Drive, South San Francisco.
That was the address of one of my favorite uncle, Uncle Pete, and my cousin Michelle, a few years older than me. I had never been much further west than Madison, Wisconsin. I didn’t know Michelle – I was little when she and Aunt Athalie and Uncle Pete had last been to Milwaukee – but she was the older girl I aspired to be – pretty, wearing the latest trends. She had boyfriends (I was sure of that). I admired Michelle long-distance.
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After I graduated from high school and university, my world grew, in many ways. I traveled with friends when I could. I had my own apartment. I was lonely, but I was putting my life together, step by step. I had a successful career, first with the Social Security Administration, and then in the Food and Drug Administration. A year after I began work at FDA as a Public Affairs Officer for the State of Wisconsin, I finally took the step to enter seminary. Becoming a pastor was a dream that had taken hold in me during my college years, and it took me a few years to take the steps to that dream. After all, I had not seen or heard of a woman minister – they did exist – outside my circle of experience.
In 1984, I graduated from seminary at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley. That spring, I married Jeff Kunkel. I began my service as a pastor by commuting from Pleasanton, California to downtown San Jose. Then I worked with Jeff in two churches – one in Pleasanton, California, and another for two years in Tracy, outside the Bay Area. As one-half of a clergy couple, I seemed to be the one that the Bishop couldn’t quite satisfy. So I took a leave of absence, and I tried my hand at career counseling, working in a small business with a good friend from seminary.
We were living by then in the parsonage at San Leandro. Jeff came home from church one day in the spring and announced that he was going to take a sabbatical year, to begin July 1, 1995. I was stunned. We made a quick visit to his Superintendent, Nadine de Witt. Nadine had followed me as a pastor in San Jose, and when we met, she told me that the people there had spoken highly of me. Although most church appointments had already been filled, she’d do what she could.
Jeff and I found a flat to rent in Oakland – that was when we first moved to Oakland, where we have our home – and Nadine called with news that there was one small church appointment open. I had an appointment the next week at Aldersgate United Methodist Church in South San Francisco, California.
Some stories in life are too strange to be true. We say: “strange but true.” That little church was in a neighborhood in South San Francisco. Jeff went with me to the appointment with the Pastor Parish Relations Committee that spring, and on July 1, I started as a part time pastor at Aldersgate.
After World War II, that part of the peninsula south of San Francisco was developed, and the church was part of a community that had been built to serve the people in the homes that surrounded the church. The suburban community was filled small middle class homes built on curving streets that rose up the hills. In that suburban community was a small home, a home I’d thought about, years before: 313 Alta Mesa Drive.
I wonder now: did I dream that into being, or was I drawn into the dream? I’d like to know. Uncle Pete and Aunt Athalie are gone now, dead many years. During Covid, Jeff and I traveled to Riverside, California to be part of my beloved cousin Michelle’s memorial service. I’m retired, over 10 years. And I still wonder.
My cousin Michelle, with my cousin Dennis – cool teenagers
