Category: memories

community, memories

Lambing

Mary Elyn Bahlert

I’m definitely a city person – a “city girl,” as my husband likes to say. In my early twenties, when I was in my first professional position in the Federal Government, I had been assigned to live in Green Bay, Wisconsin: too small for my taste, I tell others now, “I almost died in Green Bay.” A bit of an exaggeration, of course, but I like to tell the story that way so others get the drift of what living in that cold, gray place had meant to me. “Get the drift” – as in snow drift – I suppose.

I digress. Over the years as a pastor, I came to learn about many mission activities, some in the United States, others in places overseas. I spoke often about mission to the congregations I served; I reminded them, again and again, of how those of us who are privileged to live our lives in warm and clean houses, our tables set always with a warm meal, health care – now more than ever a privilege – everything we want and need to be safe in our lives, had not only the ability but the need to give to those others whose lives had not afforded them the luxuries we take for granted. And over the years I became familiar with ways – call them opportunities – for us to give.

A favorite of mine is Heifer Project International. I’ll tell you why it’s a favorite. HPI provides animals and education to people in impoverished circumstances by giving them animals, by giving them the education they need to care for the animals, and to give them a future that these animals provide. You can take a look at the website for HPI here: heifer.org

“Giving an animal gift at the holidays is like giving someone a small business, providing wool, milk, eggs and more. Every animal gift comes with a free honor card to let your gift recipient know their holiday gift is providing families access to medicine, school, food and a sustainable livelihood.
Your animal gift will support the lives of families in need.” – from the HPI website

*

Once a year, HPI offered a weekend for women, “Women’s Lambing Weekend,” a gathering at the carefully timed birth of the lambs at the HPI farm outside of Little Rock, Arkansas. (As I checked out the HPI website to write this post, I found that they no longer ofter the Women’s Lambing Weekend. It’s a loss, I think). Joanne – my long time, faithful friend – who had grown up on a farm, and I were roommates that weekend. From the time we arrived, we attended classes that provided information about the mission and the people who HPI served. The work of Heifer Project came to life during those sessions. I was sold on their mission forever!

As the weekend progressed, we all waited for the lambing to begin. Veterinarians were on site, as teachers to our sessions, and available, always, to the animals.

One morning, the gathering of women sat in the chairs in the small classroom that was ours when we weren’t being introduced to the farm. The instructor had just begun when someone walked quickly into the room and in an excited tone of voice, yelled: “the lambs are here!”

We all jumped up from our seats and ran over to the field outside the main barn, where one of the vets was gently cradling a lamb in her arms, Mother Sheep lying close by, her eyes on her baby. As occupied she was with the beautiful lamb, the vet told us about the birth, and she told us how the mother and lamb would be cared for now.

I was so happy to see the new baby lamb! Even Joanne, with her years of growing up on the farm (where she and her brothers were usually out in the field, picking rocks), was happy to see the new lamb.

My weekend at Heifer Project was a joy I often remember. On our mantel, in front of the window above the fireplace, there’s a picture of me, holding a baby sheep – a lamb. I loved that moment, when the littlest lamb was placed into my arms.

memories, remembering, Uncategorized

Meeting Diane Keaton

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Barbara and I sat together on a low bench in the Visitor Center at Chichén Itzá in Yucatan State, Mexico. We were waiting while our husbands, Frank and Jeff, worked on the phone with the car rental company in Merida, where we’d started our journey in the Yucatan. It was going to be a long wait. As I sat, I opened up the paperback I’d brought with me from the United States, a book of short biographies about celebrities. Good holiday reading!

From time to time, I looked up from my reading to look over at Frank and Jeff, or Barbara and I exchanged a few words. One time as I glanced up, a slender woman with long brown hair passed in front of us. I did a double-take. It was Diane Keaton – I was sure of it! And I’d just finished reading a chapter on her, a short while ago! I’d read that she was often kind to her fans when she was spotted in public. But that didn’t matter now. I nudged Barbara. “That’s Diane Keaton!” I whispered, excitedly. Barbara looked over at the woman, who had moved away from us, along with her companion. Barbara, also excited now, agreed. We had spotted Diane Keaton!

We were beside ourselves! Barbara and I raced over to our husbands, still working things out over the phone about our car, our transportation. “We saw Diane Keaton!” we giggled, excited, excited! We pointed out the “incognito” celebrity in our sights. “Go over and say hello to her,” my extraverted husband advised. “Oh no – I couldn’t do that!” I whispered. Barbara nodded, agreeing with me. “OK, then” – Jeff took my hand and walked toward Diane and her companion, who were slowly looking at the exhibit along the walls of a room off the main room.

When we got to the room with Diane and her friend, we walked up to her and greeted her, acknowledging that she’d been spotted. I stood for a moment looking at her, as she turned to us. “I appreciate your work,” I said. Then Jeff and I backed out of the room she was in and into the main hall. We walked over to Barbara, who was already shaking her head, saying, “I”m going to hate myself for not going with you.”

Finally, Frank and Jeff worked out some sort of arrangement with the car rental company, and the four of us set out to walk over to see the ruins of what had been a city teeming with life from about AD 600 to AD 900 (thanks go to wikipedia whose information is at my fingertips as I write!). We followed the lines of other people walking around the ruins, as I watched carefully for Diane Keaton at every opportunity. She was not in view at the moment.

The four of us entered a small opening on the side of one of the pyramids and followed the long line of other folks who were making their way to the center, down and in, the path led us, one after the other, close together. At a certain point, I began to feel uncomfortable, and I realized that I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. I turned halfway around, far enough to tell Barbara that I’d have to go back, still using the narrow passageway we’d walked in. She said she’d go back with me, and the two of us simply turned our bodies and walked alongside the line of tourists going into the pyramid.

Barbara is a tall, beautiful black woman, self-contained, shy. When Barbara spoke, we all listened. She had a kind of authority about her. Not that day. At one point, Barbara came face to face – chest to chest, really – with Diane Keaton, on her way in the semi-darkness to explore the pyramid. “I appreciate your work,” Barbara said. Diane Keaton nodded, silent, and she continued into the pyramid. In a few moments, Barbara and I were back in the sunshine.

*

When we returned to the United States, we all went right back to work. It happened that I was set to go off to a retreat of the United Methodist Clergy Women in my Annual Conference, so a day or so after I’d arrived home, I was at the retreat center. The retreat began with all of us – 40 or more – sitting in a large circle. We were invited to introduce ourselves to the group. When the time came for me to speak, I told the story of my “event” at Chichén Itzá. After I’d shared a few sentences, the questions came from this group of serious, work-minded women. “How tall was she?” “Who was she with?” “What was she wearing?” “Was she friendly?” The questions went on and on. My introduction took up a lot more time that day than anyone else’s. I guess my life was the most interesting – for the time being.

For years afterward, when Jeff and I spent time with Barbara and Frank, remembering our interesting journey to the Yucatan, we’d laugh again at how nervous Barbara and I had been. Frank loved to mimic how he remembered the two of us, one time standing on top of a fire hydrant to deliver the story to us again. His imitation of our voices, high and excited like children’s voices, was particularly entertaining. We’d laugh and laugh.

Guadalupe Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 05/2024

memories, nostalgia

Fireworks

Mary Elyn Bahlert

We’re coming up on the Fourth of July. The Fourth comes as just another day here in Northern California, so the Fourth has come as just another day for me for many years now, many more years than when the Fourth was a day of spectacles.

Milwaukee had an old-fashioned Fourth of July parade, downtown. Even when I had graduated college and was living on my own, I made sure to make it the parade along Wisconsin Avenue, the parade route lined with mostly families, little children holding flags, their eyes wide as they saw another float following the one they’d just seen, filled with loud music, animals, and waving strangers. I loved the Fourth of July parade, in particular the “20 horse hitch,” a team of horses whose driver held all twenty leather reins in his massive hands, his eyes on the team, who had arrived in the city for the day from the Circus World Museum in Baraboo.

One year, I was sick on the Fourth of July, and I watched the parade from my old black and white television set. I didn’t want to miss it.

A favorite memory is a relic of the Fourth of July: laying on a blanket in the grass on a in hill Washington Park, also home to the Milwaukee County Zoo – which has since moved, many years past. I was little. I lay with my Dad to my right, and as the night came on, and deep dusk surrounded us, we watched the fireworks flashing overhead. Dad “oooohed” and ahhhhed” at the sight, and from time to time, I looked over at him as he enjoyed the fireworks – apparently as much as I did. I had a safe feeling, then.

The Fourth of July passes like just another day here in the Bay Area. A few times, when we heard the booming begin in the distance, Jeff and I climbed to the top of a small hill on the strip of land we call The Panhandle, leading from our fence to the next street, and we looked at the fireworks flying across the San Francisco Bay, from cities up and down the Peninsula. I can’t replay the Fourth as I remember it from the Midwest, though, where summer is so precious, and when the Fourth means that in a month or so, it will be time to think about getting back to school.

San Francisco Bay from Floor 9 of Kaiser Hospital, Oakland, 6/24, photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert

memories, reflecting, Uncategorized

Mother’s Day at the slough

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Our mothers have passed, many years ago, now, but we remember that for many others, this day of honoring mothers is being celebrated. For Jeff and for me, though, it’s another Sunday when neither of us has the work of the Church on our minds, a Sunday all to ourselves, a Sunday to fill with moments that belong to us alone.

And so we get up early – as we do every day – and our early morning is filled with getting ready for the day, like any other morning. And then, we drive to Martinez, to walk along the Carquinez Strait, a series of walking paths along the Strait, with its view of the hills and the water. Other faithful folks walk on Sunday mornings, also, and most are friendly, passing with a smile and a few kind words.

The paths are level, the hills are in the distance, green, turning now to brown again after a winter with a lot of rain. As we walk, we see a ship, returning from the Pacific, coming through the strait. When I see a ship, I’m reminded that I’m not in Wisconsin anymore, haven’t been, for over half my life.

We pass the ruins of a shipwreck from the last century, and read again the plaque with its story, its history of how it ended up deserted, sometimes hidden by the tide when we walk past. Today was lovely, a wind gliding past us, making the air a bit cool until the sunlight got the best of the temperature and we were warm.

The remains of a shipwreck, stranded here for the last century, Martinez, California

Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 5/2024

We’ve walked at the Slough many times over the past four years. In the early months of Covid-Time (a season of its own in our lives), we felt strongly the freedom of Sunday mornings – mornings without churches to go to, mornings without sermons to deliver – and we set out to walk in some place outside our own very walkable neighborhood in Oakland. We walked through almost twenty neighborhoods in San Francisco over the course of many months. We walked along the Bay in Oakland, where we discovered a new development right on the water – Brooklyn Basin. We walked at the sea shore in Half Moon Bay, looking down on the Pacific from a high path. Usually, when the walk had ended, we’d find a cafe to sit outside, to continue our luxurious Sunday morning, to have a cup of coffee, before getting back into the car to return home.

When our friend Joanne arrived from Wisconsin to stay with us for a few days last winter, I took her to the Martinez Strait to enjoy the paths there.

We loved the paths and the breeze we discovered at Martinez, and we have returned there again and again, now that life is back to a “new normal” after the ravages of Covid-Time. Often after our walk, we drive closer to downtown where the main street is bustling with a Sunday morning Farmers’ Market. We leave with a couple of bags of fresh vegetables to enjoy the rest of the week.

Along the path, along the slough…

Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, Martinez Slough, 5/12/2024

memories, remembering

Vietnam

Mary Elyn Bahlert

While talking to my friend Susan, who lives in another state, she mentioned the years after she had graduated from nursing school and before she was married. Her then-fiance’ discouraged her from going to Vietnam to serve the armed forces. And she was remembering.

I remembered, too, as she mentioned Vietnam; a small lurch in my chest remembered Vietnam, another presence in my life.

In the spring of 1970 at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, I was in sitting in a philosophy class, thinking about what the professor was saying to the small group, seated in a circle. What I thought is that we should all be silent, and sit in the silence. When I left that day, crowds and crowds of students filed out of the student union as protestors with beards and ragged clothes shouted slogans: “end the war! end the war!”

Then, classes were suspended for the rest of the semester.

Vietnam was a presence to my generation, a conflicted, horrible presence. All the young men I knew waited for their number to come up. One was gone, then another. When we tell the stories of those times to one another, Vietnam is mentioned, along with the names of friends, of people we know who are gone now, some too soon, in that war – never declared a war. Some are stories of the young men who were not called to serve as they watched their friends go off.

Protest songs filled the air waves, along with the news of casualties. Photos brought the conflict to our homes. Our minds were never far from the news of casualties. And young men we would know later in our lives told the stories of their time in Vietnam.

Today, Vietnam is a popular vacation spot for Americans. We like to visit that place, exotic and beautiful. From time to time a photo from that era will show up online, the shooting at Kent State, a young Vietnamese girl running for her life. I hope we have not forgotten the people there and those who are still with us, who saw that place in another, war-torn time. Some of the soldiers who served there are still dying from their exposure to chemicals, to Agent Orange. Our friend Richard was buried a few years ago, his cancer related to his time in Vietnam. A childhood friend has his name inscribed on the wall in Washington, D.C.

My hope is that we all have that place inside us that tugs at us when we remember. “Ain’t gonna study war no more,” an anthem of that time repeats. “Ain’t gonna study war no more…”