Category: nostalgia

memories, remembering

Vicki Sue’s Thanksgiving

Mary Elyn Bahlert

My niece Vicki Sue is a new grandma now, her first daughter, Heather, having provided her the title with the arrival of Savannah several weeks ago. Every day, I receive new photos on my phone, with Grandma and Grandpa holding the little one.

Which is why I share this Thanksgiving story, a story which takes place at the time when now Grandma Vicki was the smallest, the youngest member, of our family.

Our family – Mom, Dad, sister Suzie, brother Ronn and Sue and their family, which consisted at the time of David, Alicia – and Vicki Sue, were all together to enjoy the meal about to be served. Mom worked hard in the kitchen all morning, and, as was our custom, the table was set for the Thanksgiving Feast at about mid-afternoon. The upper flat on 49 Street on the North Side of Milwaukee was crowded, those little rooms stuffed with the adults and little ones as we awaited the feast.

Suddenly, someone noticed that the littlest member of our Happy Thanksgiving Gathering (the mood about to change…) was missing. Mom, Sue, Ronn walked through the front rooms and into the kitchen, and into the tiny hall where the bathroom and two small bedrooms emptied, calling out: “Vicki Sue!?” “Vicki Sue?!” Mom Sue or Dad Ronn – I don’t know which – heard a small voice, behind the closed door to the bathroom!

“She’s in the bathroom!” someone yelled.

The door handle was tried. The door didn’t budge. The door handle was tried – again. Then the real antics began. Mom Sue and Dad Ronn and Big Brother David and Big Sister Alicia and Grandma and Aunt Suzie and Aunt Shugie all gathered in the small hallway, all bending at the waist, mouths as close to the height of a toddler as we imagined, loudly giving the toddler – who was locked in the bathroom (!) – instructions for how to unlock the door.

We tried. We really did. As situations like these do, the moment escalated, the voices getting louder, and more voices joining in the yelling – the yelling that was an explanation, of course, to the little one on the other side of the door. She didn’t cry. After all, she had plenty of attention; it’s just that the attention was all on the other side of the – locked – door.

Grandpa must have stood on the outside of the crowd gathered in the small hallway outside the bathroom with the locked door. Sometimes, while he loved the little ones, loved to visit with them, hold them in his lap, talk to them – the noise that a house full of little ones provided was a bit much for him. It was now, anyway.

Grandpa marched from the hallway to sit at the head of the dining room table, his designated place for the holiday. He sat in this chair, picked up his knife and fork, which were carefully set in the appropriate places at the festive holiday table, and yelled: “Let’s eat!”

By this time, someone was dialing the phone that sat in the nook right inside the small hallway that led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. One or two adult voices continued to give instructions to the toddler, Vicki Sue, who was still locked on the other side of the bathroom door.

A few minutes later, a fire engine rumbled up to the front of the house. A couple of kids ran to the front window, and Grandma went down the front stairs to talk to the tall fireman at the door, doing his civic duty on the national holiday. In a few more minutes, we all heard the sound of a ladder being pushed against the side of the house, right up to the bathroom window. Which was easily opened, of course, and through which a tall, handsome fireman (they are always handsome) dropped from the ladder and into the bathtub. As he stepped out of the bathtub, he leaned over the little blond girl who was all alone in the bathroom. He unlocked the bathroom door.

There!

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

nostalgia

“Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer…

Mary Elyn Bahlert

those days of soda and pretzels and beer…”

Except for the beer, I did roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer in the Midwest. Here in Northern California, summer arrives gently, the rainy winter (hopefully a rainy winter in this often drought-parched place) giving way to the longer days of spring and summer.

In retirement, I’ve had the luxury to notice the lengthening days, to note the time of sunrise and sunset, to watch the sun setting over San Francisco Bay through the giant redwood trees to the West of our house on a hill. Having grown up in the harsh climate of the Midwest, I have not forgotten the preciousness of summer days and nights.

After the Fourth of July, summer seemed to disappear quickly in Wisconsin, and the hot days of July and August gave way quickly to the cooler evenings of September. By October, there might be a frost. Summer was precious, and I miss that preciousness, that sense that time is passing too quickly, that these blessed days will not last.

I loved the East Side of Milwaukee, where I went to university at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, often driving my Dad’s ’67 Bel Air two door hardtop along the shore of Lake Michigan from the lower East Side to Capitol Drive. I thought those summer days would go on forever, and I expect that University didn’t last long enough – for me. I liked being a student, I liked the freedom of being a student, I liked choosing my own classes and walking across campus from one brick building to another.

And while I sometimes recall the winters – the cold winds, the blowing snow, the icy streets, the treacherous driving – I mostly remember with sadness the luscious summers of that time.

Budding cactus, 4454, Oakland, Spring, 2024 Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert

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

beauty, reflecting, remembering, Uncategorized

Closet Catholic

Mary Elyn Bahlert

Sometimes I think I’m a closet Catholic. I didn’t grow up Catholic, like so many of my friends in Milwaukee. I grew up understanding that my family wasn’t Catholic. In the 1950’s and 1960’s, many families still went to church together, although mine did not. I understood that we were not church people, because I had friends who were “church people,” whose families went to church together every week. As I got older, I came to understand and to accept my family’s distrust of “church.” They had their reasons.

Still, when I was in Junior High School, my mother made sure I was enrolled in Confirmation Class at a neighborhood Lutheran Church. Every Saturday morning for two school years, I studied – and memorized – Luther’s Small Catechism with the Deaconess, and then I studied once a week with the Pastor for a year before I was confirmed with a large Confirmation Class, on Palm Sunday, when I was 14. Almost immediately, I stopped going to church.

I was a University student in the late 60’s and early 70’s, that time of anti-war protests and hippies marching in the streets, and so it was a strange quirk inside of me that set my mind on becoming a woman pastor, at a time when there were few women pastors, at a time when I had not heard of such a thing as a woman pastor. At least I had the idea, with no plans in sight, to go to seminary to study.

I still had to find a church, and I found a place for myself in the United Methodist Church, where I met Harvey Stower, a Young Adult Minister, who asked me: “have you ever thought about going to seminary?” My answer: “I think about it all the time, but I don’t tell anyone about it.” Within a year, I was on my way to seminary in Berkeley, on my way to being ordained, on my way to a life in the Church.

And so it must seem odd to think of myself as a Closet Catholic, since the Roman Catholic Church has still not seen its way to ordaining women.

I tell people that “I love the Mass.” I love liturgy. There is something in the rhythm of the Mass, of the reciting of the words that have been recited for centuries, across the world, that touches me. Maybe it’s because my ancestors were Catholic, on another continent, at another time, before they were harmed by the Church. Maybe it’s my love of poetry, of the sounds of things that are beautiful sounds. Maybe it’s my deep connection to the life of faith, that deep connection that had me searching before I knew I was searching.

I do come to Mass with my own judgements: where are the women here? where are the women-priests? What of the damage the Church has done – is doing – in so many people’s lives?

And I set those judgements aside when I go to Mass. I feel a connection there, a connection that is not dependent on the others who are worshipping with me. The connection is deep, deep inside of me, and deep inside the words, the recitations, the incantations. The connection is there, in spite of me. I don’t get it. My understanding does not matter to me.

And so I show up from time to time at Mass, responding when I can, taking in the sanctuary where I sit, the crucifix high in front, the Altar with the elements central to the sanctuary. I listen to the words and I feel myself there – a bit out of place, but still – not out of place at all.

A winter’s day, Martinez – photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 1/2023