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
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…”
Some people have uncles that were awful people, creepy people, uncles that no one liked, uncles that were hard to be around.
Not me. I had wonderful uncles, and I remember them, along with all the rest of the ancestors, often. While they did not say it – ever – I knew that there was love, or at least affection, in them for me.
Uncle Pete, my mother’s youngest brother, was full of himself. Like all the others who are full of themselves, he took up all the space in a room. He had a large presence, a sort of charisma, I suppose. His dark eyes danced as if he had a joke to tell. He could tell stories from three wars – “Pete fought in three wars,” the men in his neigborhood said as they made room for his wandering, his memory loss, in his later years. Pete, my handsome uncle Pete, who walked silently to the car with me on a visit I made to the military hospital in Oakland to see Aunt Athalie, his wife. Then, he seemed shy even, as he carefully saw that I was in my car and had driven safely off.
Sometimes as I got older, he’d ask me a question he should have asked my mother; “ask my Mom,” I’d say, without saying more. He didn’t press me further. Did he ask my Mom? I don’t think so! Like many families, differences were not worked out directly between the siblings. They had to trust in the passage of time to take away old hurts.
Uncle Johnny was the eldest brother, a hero to my mother and her other siblings, Mike, Anne, Pete. He was older than the next one in line – Mike – by 9 years, and it was safe to say that he had been born in the Old Country, Ukraine, although the family lore held that he was “born on the boat.” When he went off to work, he showed up at home to bring Christmas to his siblings, knowing that his folks would not come through for them – ever.
Uncle Johnny was smart, well-read, an atheist: an uneducated intellectual, the condominium he shared with Aunt Dani filled with piles of magazines and books. His brother’s eyes were full of pride when Johnny spoke; my mother’s, too. He was a quiet one – like Mike and my mother, to Anne’s, to Pete’s extraversion. In his later working years as a machinist, he was a union man, his democratic socialist leanings lived out in his own life. He was our hero, too.
Uncle Mike was so quiet, so much part of the background that I have few memories of him. Did he ever speak to me? He married Alice, a British woman he’d met when he was a motorcycle-riding soldier in England during the War. When I was a young woman, Alice would call me from time to time, and she’d take me to dinner, where she talked and talked. After Mike died, Alice finally got a phone for their little home in a town north of Milwaukee. I last talked to Alice when she happened to call my mother in the days before we moved Mom to live out close to us in the Bay Area. My mother’s memory was already poor, so when my Aunt Alice identified herself to Mom, she handed the phone to me, probably thinking the call was for me.
**
Dad was one of nine siblings, one of only two who’d left Door County, Wisconsin, to live in the city; Dad settled in Milwaukee, Uncle Norman, his youngest brother, in Queens, New York, where he worked as a police officer. And so I had a string of aunts and uncles on the Bahlert side.
Clarence and Ray were Dad’s older brothers, Ray, a farmer, Clarence, a retired Coast Guard officer who worked the wild waters of Lake Michigan, all the way north to Washington Island, off the tip of Door County. When we stopped at Clarence’s house in Baileys Harbor – a cottage close to the shore of Lake Michigan – my Dad and Clarence stood outside talking for a long time, two brothers, separated by time and distance, by different lives.
We stood on the grass outside of Ray’s house, too, Ray, a quiet man – “one of the quiet Bahlerts,” with a quiet wife and a quiet daughter, my cousin Terri. By the time I remembered seeing Ray and his place, my cousin Roger, Terri’s elder brother, was married and gone, with a daughter of his own. Not until years later did I come to know Roger, after I’d retired. After a time of talking – my Dad did the talking, Ray the listening (I’m sure) – we’d walk around to the back of the property, to see the raspberry bushes, to taste a few, and to take a quick look at the outhouse, still in use, on the property. My family in northern Wisconsin were rural people, kind, gentle people. I loved them – love them – for that.
My dad told us a story about Ray and him, the two of them riding a Model T down the Sister Bay Hill that wound right down and into the main street of Sister Bay, on the Green Bay side of the peninsula. Young men, they yelled “Betsy Ross!” – a slang of the day, as they started down the hill, and as the driver shouted, he pulled the steering wheel right out of the steering column and held it high in the air until he realized what was happening, then poked that steering wheel right back where it belonged, and continue to navigate down the long Sister Bay Hill! Every time I go down that hill now, I think of them on that day, and I think of my father’s face, his voice rising, as he told the story – as he’d lived to tell the story.
Uncle Fritz was next in line, younger than my father. He was Dad to my cousin Bobbie, like Terri, a bit younger than me. Like the rest of the Bahlerts, Fritz was a worker, coming home from a day in the shipyards in Sturgeon Bay to butcher at the store he and Aunt Goldie operated near the north point of the Door County Peninsula. The only time I went as fast as 100 miles an hour in a car, I sat with Bobbie in the front bench seat of my uncle’s pickup, watching that speedometer go faster and faster! Fritz was quiet, too, and I don’t remember a conversation with him, although he was closest in age to my Dad.
Uncle Norman, the youngest, married a woman from the East Coast and raised his family there. My only memory of Uncle Norman was when he stayed with us overnight on the way to Door County to see his mother, my Grandma Bahlert, in the days before her death. I was a little girl, and I watched with big eyes as my handsome Uncle Norman came into the kitchen. Every year at Thanksgiving now, Jeff and I celebrate the holiday by sitting around the table with Uncle Norman’s eldest son, Norman Bahlert, and his family – children and even grandchildren now, and Cheryl, Norman’s wife. Pictures of the Bahlert’s from generations past look down on us all, seated around the long table, as if guarding their progeny.
So these were the uncles, distinct, kind, a part of the framework of family who peopled my life, then – and even now.
Vlas Markowski (Srebny) with Mike to his right, Johnny standing behind, and Pete, the little boy with the hat, at his mother’s knees. Photo, circa 1921-1922, Milwaukee, WI.
to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept”. - Dylan Thomas, “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.”
Jeff and I have a quiet and lovely custom that we bring to life each Advent, that sombre season of waiting, of anticipation, before Christmas. Each year, on an evening in December, we sit on the couch with the lights of the Christmas tree shining into the darkest days of the year, and we watch again “A Child’s Christmas in Wales,” Thomas’ memory and gift to the season, recounting his days as a boy growing up in Wales, remembering those Christmas Days – when it always snowed.
Although we do not have snow here where Jeff and I live in Northern California, we have the longer nights, and every season, I note the changing light, the darker evenings that give way to the longer hours of light, beginning with the first day of winter – that day marked by the calendar.
Every evening though, when we go off to bed, I, too, say some words “to the close and holy darkness” before I sleep. My custom goes back to bedtime as a child, where my mother taught me to say the child’s prayer: ”Now I lay me down to sleep…” and when I said that prayer, I began the practice of adding prayers for those I loved. Later, I would learn to take my own cares to that holy darkness, praying – sometimes again and again – for relief from some worry, some troubling situation. A wise monk at a retreat encouraged me to pray – “for yourself,” he had said. And so I do.
I pray and pray until that moment – that holy moment, sometimes in the darkness, sometimes not – when I surrender to that holy moment, as it is, as it will be, as it has been. Freedom is there, and a kind of certainty.
When I settle in for the bedtime prayers – added to the prayers spoken at odd moments of the day – I remember that I am held by some magnificent, benevolent awareness, some living, breathing Self that is greater than me, and certainly greater than any of my own troubles. And when I remember that awareness, I know for a few moments that larger Self, always present, and so often forgotten.
The days are getting longer now, minute by minute, day by day, and moment by moment. Time passes so quickly, I often think. Time has passed so quickly, my life has passed so quickly, I think.
Saturn and the Moon, 12/17/2023, photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert
loneliness comes down - a shroud over the holy days at year’s end. unbidden, she comes, her dance mixed with tears, memories - as lights brighten the darkness, the early night.
