As a child, my family moved from rented upper flat to rented upper flat on the North Side of Milwaukee, every few years. We always lived in the upstairs flat. Because Milwaukee has cold, cold winters, each house had a full basement, usually divided in half, half reserved for the lower flat, and half reserved for the upper flat, each also boasting a coal furnace. Every winter morning, Daddy filled the furnace that heated our flat with coal, and stoked the flames as soon as he dressed, after the alarm which rang promptly at 6 AM, early enough for Mom to make his breakfast of bacon and eggs – every morning. I lay in bed until 7, when my little sister, Suzie, and I started our days at the kitchen table with a bowl of cold cereal. Then we walked the few blocks to school.
As a child, I knew the children in the neighborhood, those other children from working class families who walked the streets to school with me, who became my first playmates when the evenings were long, on the weekends, and during the hot, humid summers. I walked to school with those children, some who came from homes where another language was spoken at the table. Although Mom’s first language was Ukrainian, we all spoke English. Mom, Daddy, Ronn, me and Suzie.
What I don’t remember about the neighborhood is whether or not the neighbors were friendly. I don’t remember most of their names. Except for the children who lived within a block of our flat, my playmates in the summer time lived in the modest flats and modest single family homes that lined the streets for as far as I could see or could walk. My world grew a little when I became friends with Judy Hauser, whose family lived about a mile away, a house that her parents owned, and where her grandmother – who never spoke a word in my hearing – lived in the small upstairs of the bungalow, coming down to sit at the table with the family for lunch. Some Saturdays, I’d ride to Judy’s house to spend the day, or her dad would drop her at our house to spend the day with me. That’s how my world grew, inch by inch, block by block, school by school, buddy by buddy.
What I don’t remember about the neighborhood was whether or not we spoke to the neighbors we did not know, who walked those streets, who sat on the porches in the warm, humid evenings of the precious summers. I don’t remember if we even knew the names of all the neighbors. Of course we knew the names of the families on the next street whose kids were my playmates. It was Michelle Fralick who asked me one day as we walked to school: “are you Catholic?” I don’t know what I said to Michelle in answer to her question, but I know I asked Mom if I was Catholic when I got home from school that day. “No,” she said.
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I suppose it’s because of those old Milwaukee neighborhoods that I love cities. The places I lived were modest places, and when I have the time to see them again, I take a look. I see the narrow streets. I see the streets, now more modest than they were then, some of the windows of those flats boarded up, some of the steps to the front porch broken, some of the strips of land that had been lawns now barren, brown, uncared for. Milwaukee is one of the cities who has suffered greatly from the racism that plagues the nation, that plagues the world. Milwaukee is a broken place in many ways, although it will always be my home.
“Feels like home to me…” (Randy Newman, “Feels Like Home”)
What I don’t remember is whether or not we greeted our neighbors. The cities I’ve lived in have changed – mightily – since those days of growing up. I love cities, love the city where I live now, and have lived for many years, and I love the cities of other places, of other lands, I’ve been privileged to see. This past spring, Jeff and I traveled to Japan for a trip with Overseas Adventure Travel. On the first morning after our arrival, as the group gathered to get a feel for our few days in Tokyo, I spent the morning alone, walking on the city streets. I was comfortable. I was happy. I enjoyed my time alone, to explore on foot the strange and wonderful new land I was privileged to visit.
But did we look at one another as we passed each other on the narrow sidewalks of Milwaukee in the 1950’s and 1960’s? Did we say hello to one another? Did we greet one another warmly, as neighbors? I don’t remember.
And so it is a small and wonderful joy to me when I walk in my neighborhood in Oakland now, and when someone looks at me – really looks at me – and when we say a few kind words to one another. One day, as I walked one of my well-worn routes to make sure I add to my tally of daily steps, I passed a short, gray haired old woman – she must have been my age, that is – and as I passed, she said a few words. More than a few words. She started a conversation. She told me she was new to the neighborhood, and since we passed one another on a street a few blocks from where Jeff and I lived, I don’t know where she lives. But I’ve looked for her ever since the day we passed one another, when I walk along that block. I think of her. I hope to see her again.
It’s good to see the same folks on my street, day after day. It’s good to hear voices sometimes, to see a dog out for a friendly walk on our street – on leash (of course). I know the names of some of the people I pass. And I often don’t know the name of someone I pass. Yesterday, as I walked up the last hill to my house along Pleasant Valley Avenue, the busy street that runs parallel to my own street, a young woman who I’ve seen once or twice came up to the curb to cross the Avenue. She turned to smile at me.
I’m old now. To her, I’m just another old woman. But maybe that’s why she smiled. I’m harmless, after all – I’m old now.
I hope to see her again. I’ll make sure to smile, to say hello. I hope we can make our own place just a little friendlier when we do.
A fall sunset over our street. Photo by Mary Elyn Bahlert, 9/2026
