To Dream the Impossible Dream

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Never ever had anyone suggested I was college material until I had to visit my high school guidance counselor after Christmas vacation my senior year to inform him that I had to graduate early because I was pregnant.  Even though I got really good grades, I had never met with the counselor before. So when he said, “Too bad, you could have gone to college,” I wanted to scream.  “Now you tell me!!!” 

My family never uttered a word about college either.  As a kid, my family would drive by the fairy tale like campus of Mount Mary on the way to grandma’s house.  On one occasion, I asked my dad if I could go there someday.  His reply was, “If you get a million dollars.”  College was only for rich kids and certainly not for girls like me.

Fast forward—I’m 22 years old, a single mom with a three year old and a baby on the way. My divorce pending.  When my welfare case worker quietly said, “Elaine, you seem pretty smart.  Have you thought about going to college?”  My jaw dropped to my knees.  

She gave me a card for the Equal Education Opportunity Center.  I called the next day and made an appointment.  With my rambunctious three year old Sam in tow and my protruding belly thrust out before me, I met with a friendly woman who didn’t bat an eye.  Yes, she said college was possible for me.  She would help me start the paper work for what was called a Pell Grant.  A fabulous federal financial aid program that provides money to undergraduate students with exceptional financial need.  I certainly fit the bill.  But I figured it was maybe just for things like CNA or secretarial training.  But I wanted more than that.  So I asked, “Could I go to Mount Mary?”  And the answer was yes.  I literally skipped back to my car. 

Still worried about the potential for crippling student loans, I considered my options.  I got a sitter and drove to UW Milwaukee for an information session. It was disastrous.  I couldn’t find a place to park.  I got lost looking for the right building.  I checked out the day care but it was so far from so many of the buildings on campus.  I got lost again trying to find my car.  This wasn’t for me.

I thought about capitalizing on the secretarial skills I had acquired in high school by going to MATC to become a legal secretary.  I called and they abruptly told me the program was full and they were not accepting any new applicants. 

Finally I made an appointment at Mount Mary. I pulled out of the gravel driveway of my apartment building in my shitty old Corvair full of expectation.  Just a few miles away, I coasted into the majestic tree lined driveway to the campus of grand arched buildings.  The heels of my discount pumps clicked on the marble floor.  I had dressed for the occasion in my fancy black maternity bell bottom pants and a sky blue pleated top in a ridiculous attempt to hide my belly.  Surprisingly I easily navigated my way to the correct office where I met with a middle aged nun in a full habit who seemed happy to see me and assured me that they had many “nontraditional students” on campus.  When I worried aloud that Mount Mary would be too expensive even with the Pell Grant, she assured me that there were many other private grants I was eligible for and that she would help me.  Then she gave me a tour.  The day care was just a room in the basement but it was lively and safe.  And I knew I could be with my children in a heart beat if needed. And perhaps most of all, I was lured by this sheltered space only for women.  No douche bags in sight to distract me from my goal.  

The next step was a career assessment and aptitude test which suggested a major in public relations.  When the nun explained what public relations meant, I didn’t have a clue, and showed me the course list—communications, journalism, management— I was sold.  

Ben was born on June 26, 1978. My divorce was final on August 22nd. Sam turned 4 on September 1st.  My first class at Mount Mary was on September 5th. 

Here are my favorite memories:

Early Days

On the first day of class, I hung out in the hall waiting for the bell to ring.  I thought it would be like high school.

In the first week, I commented to another student that I was surprised to see so many girls wearing slippers to school.  She informed me that they lived in the dorm.  “What’s a dorm?” I asked.  When she explained, I was flabbergasted.  “You can live here?”

In the second week, I almost died of embarrassment when my boob leaked leaving big round wet circles on my sweater. My classmates stared in horror.  I needed to get better at pumping.  

In the first month, I met Janiece.  A woman my age who was in some of my classes.  Her student job was working in the day care.  We got to know each other and soon we were having lunch together out on the lawn with Sam and Ben.  Janiece became a life long friend.    

Classes

In one of the first classes of a required philosophy course called Man’s Search for Meaning, the professor was trying to get us to think in philosophical terms.  He asked, “Why does the baby cry?”  I know all about this so I raised my hand.  “His diaper needs changing.”  No.  “He’s hungry.”  No.  “He needs to be held and comforted.”  “Yes, but why?” asked the professor.  Janiece raised her hand and said, “It’s the malevolence of the universe?”  “Yes, that’s right,” said the professor.  I was dumbfounded.  

In another class, I don’t recall what it was called but there was a section on child development.  Again, “I’ve got this,” I thought.  I’m living it.  So, I didn’t bother to read the text book or study for the test.  For questions like at what month does a baby first crawl, first walk, and say their first words, my answers were all at least a month earlier than the correct answer.  Apparently my kids are geniuses!

I got a D in tennis!  Evidently I never figured out how to score correctly or got all the rules straight.  And one time I actually tripped on my racket going out to the court.  Lowest grade I got.  It lowered my almost straight A grade point average considerably.  Dang. Maybe I could have been valedictorian. 

In another class, it might have been called TV Production, I produced a video of me doing a yoga class just like on PBS.  A+! But the most memorable event from this class was a field trip to the nearby medical college which allowed us to experience their professional TV equipment. “Look it’s a dick,” one student exclaimed as the rest of us rushed to look over her shoulder at the monitor. The medical college technician snickered.  Douche bags are evey where. Our chaperoning nun went into a tither and the class was abruptly ended.

Best of all, in my Interpersonal Communication class, we were required to start a personal journal.  I reread it now with tears in my eyes, grateful that I have this account of what was going on in my head and heart complete with the teacher’s encouraging comments in red ink.  Journaling became a life long practice.  

Sam and Benny

My boys loved going to “Mountain Mary”  as they called it with me.   

Sam was a curious kid.  He wanted to touch and smell everything.  He held dandelions up to his nose.  And he was super friendly.  Saying hello to everyone we passed.  So one day when he was four, as we were walking through the little tunnel that connected buildings on our way to day care, we crossed paths with a nun riding in a motorized wheel chair her veil flowing.  “Wait! Wait! Wait” shouted Sam.  The nun stopped to indulge him for a few minutes.  Sam felt the tires and walked around the wheel chair to inspect it.  “How does this work?”he asked the sister.  And she indulged his curiosity by showing him how the lever made it go forward and back. And then to my horror, she let him move it forward and back.  I had images of the poor elderly nun crashing into a concrete wall. Sam jerked the lever forward and back a little but nothing tragic happened.  I will never forget the kindness of that nun.  

At home one morning at our apartment, I practiced a presentation for a class, while toddler Benny sat in his high char slurping cereal.  Benny fell dead asleep his face in his bowl.  Back to the drawing board.  

We had a class field trip to the Milwaukee art museum.  Only problem was that children weren’t allowed to stay in the day care if you weren’t on campus.  But the kind nuns told me that I could just take little 18 month old Benny with me.  Sam was in kindergarten by that time.  So, great idea.  Just take my toddler along.  The other students helped me get Benny’s stroller on the bus and I held onto him tightly through the bumpy ride.  He enjoyed it immensely,  Laughing and babbling.  But when we got inside the museum, it was another story.  Perhaps overwhelmed by the malevolence of the universe inside of the cavernous galleries, he waled and screamed his head off.  He kept kicking off his shoes until I didn’t bother to replace them.  He was such a distraction that I had to take him into another room missing the majority of the tour.  On the return trip, Benny just sobbed in my arms.  As we departed the bus my classmates awkwardly clunking the stroller down the bus steps, a nun pulled me aside and said, “I’m so sorry.”  But all is forgiven.  I’ve had dozens more trips to the very same museum in my life.  None of them with Benny.  

And then there was the time that I went to pick Benny up from the daycare room and everyone was laughing when I got there.  Three kids including Benny were on the floor swirling some liquid around and having the time of their lives.  The two caregivers were hunched over in tears.  “What happened?” I asked.  Through snorts of laughter they explained that one of the kids knocked over their juice.  And when they went over to clean it up, another kid tipped over their juice.  She said, “And then Benny poured his juice on the floor and got down on the floor to join the fun!”  

By the way, I packed his snacks and labeled them so his little bottle said “Benny Juice,” which a newbie day care staff once wondered what Benny Juice was.  Don’t you know?  It gives you super powers!

Graduation Day

I graduated suma cum laude in 1982, just four years time with minimal student debt.  Dad didn’t attend.  He went fishing.  But my grandmothers, mother, and boys attended.  I was so proud of myself!  Later, my parents had a big surprise celebration for me in their yard.  Some of the nuns came!

In Summary

Attending Mount Mary was the pivotal decision of my life. I am thankful not just for the career my  Mount Mary education launched for me, but for the sense of self and the confidence found in the embrace of a circle of women.  

I regret that I don’t remember the names of my specific teachers except for Suzanne Walfoort who taught a communications class.  She was an amazing role model and someone I felt comfortable sharing my doubts and fears with.  (Years later I met her sister who happened to be married to a friend of my husband.)  I would like to thank all of my professors as well as all of the nuns in financial aid and administration for their kindness and unwavering support

I am also overjoyed by Mount Mary’s accomplishments. When I was Executive Director of the Women’s Fund, with our support they started the Women’s Leadership Institute which continues to flourish.  More recently, I was able to tour their incredible new facilities—a retirement community for nuns and older adults next to a dorm where women can live with their children complete with a shiny new day care!  Yes, you can live at school!

When I gaze upon the surviving blurry photos from that time I feel that sense of immense joy all over again.  It wasn’t easy.  I worked really hard.  But I really did achieve the impossible dream on that fairy tale campus .  I had the “courage to reach the unreachable star.”

Eulogy for My Dad

Posted on by Elaine Maly

As a kid, my dad was described as both smart and a real brat. I interviewed him for a story project about 10 years ago.  He told me that he put pennies on railroad tracks. Alvin Jensen was the instigator and urged him to do it.  He thought it was funny. 

He told me that he stayed with his grandparents on the farm in the summers.  He fed the calves and pigs and tried to ride the steers.  He chased the rooster around.

When my son Ben became an alter boy in grade school, I asked Dad if he had ever been an alter boy when he went to St. Michael’s.  He told me no, that it might have been because he started a fire on the play ground.  “Some other boys were doing it wrong so I had to show them,” he said.

As a kid I watched him go from wearing coveralls to suits and ties to work. He started as a tool and die apprentice at Cutler Hammer and worked his way up to engineering and VP positions.  He worked at Dickten and Masch, Kelch and Plastocon. 

When I asked who his biggest influences were. He said Jeanine, Eric Dickten, and Earl Miller.  And of course his dad—a great mechanic.  

Eric Dickten was “quite a man,” he said.  “We gave each other a lot of respect.  He gave me the confidence to do my own thing.”  Earl Miller also came from Cutler Hammer.  He was Dickten and Masch’s engineering manager and Ed reported to Eric and Earl and learned more from them.

t’s no surprise that dad went from tool and die apprentice to a VP position.  He was a hard working industrious guy.  He always had a project to work on.  One of his most memorable quotes was “we have to get organized” as in we cannot go water skiing until he rearranged the pole barn.   

Dad’s father, our Grandpa Maly or Grandpa Charlie, was a great mechanic indeed.  His super power was keeping his father’s Model T running.  A superpower he passed on to dad and from dad to Joe.  

When I asked dad what his most difficult moment was he said getting married.  If that was his most difficult decision, he had a pretty easy go.  

The story about how he met mom goes something like—dad went with another girl to gather at Jeanine’s house before heading en mass to a surprise party a few blocks away.  Ed rang the bell.  They hit it off during the party and dad asked her out about a week later.  Mom said he was better than any of the other guys—he was tall and handsome and most of all fun!  Their first date was to Holy Hill.  On another early date, dad picked up mom still wearing his hunting clothes.  He brought her back to his parents house where he enlisted her help plucking duck feathers, a job that had to be completed before they went out. 

He told me that he would stop for a beer on his way home from work and take Jeanine along sometimes.  He gave her nickels to play pin ball or slot machines.

They married when dad was 21 and mom was 19 and after a few years moved to the house next to Grandma and Grandpa Maly’s. 

They were super social and had a busy calendar of attending parties and hosting parties in the bar in the basement.  Dad never missed a happy hour or dessert.  He loved hors d’oeuvres or  “horses doovers” as he called them as much as ice cream. We all know maple nut was his favorite flavor..  

Dad and mom took ballroom dancing lessons.  They went on motorcycle trips including rallies at Sturgis.  They traveled to Europe.  They went cross country skiing and bike riding. And of course, they went up north and they ate a lot of fish fries.  

They enjoyed their retirement years and spent many winters foot loose and fancy free at Paradise Park in Texas.  

In the meantime, everyone knows Dad was a big hunter and loved being out in the woods near Crivitz or at Horicon Marsh with Joe and a host of other family members and friends.  Joe has many stories about hunting with dad.  And he loved dogs. Oh how he loved dogs. Especially labradors, hunting dogs.  In fact, I only saw him cry twice in my life and both times were because his dog had died.  

I asked Dad about his most memorable event.  He said, “I remember after Christmas when my dad decided to cut up the dried out Christmas tree and burn it branch by branch in the fire place. But suddenly the remaining tree was all in flames and the fire department came and saved the house.”  

When I asked how it felt to have children his response was “spooky and uncomfortable.”  I thought that was strange because while he may have been bewildered by infants who pooped in their pants and puked, he was a great dad.  

He took us sledding, snowmobiling, water skiing, to drive in movies, and road trips where the highlight was always splashing into the pool as soon as we got to the hotel. 

And he took us to church.  But he always waited until after communion to take us to Mathies Tap where we got to have orange sodas and chocolate bars and hang out with uncles and cousins.  

We were always proud to be his kids.  

He was an equally awesome Grandpa.  He loved to tease them, gnawing on their little arms like an animal. The boys were new recruits for deer camp.  He schooled them in the art of manhood.  He taught them all how to water ski just like he did with us, grinning with mischievous glee while he dragged them around the lake until they were ready to drop.

Ben said, “We are all skiing in the wake he left behind.”  

Mary Jo described dad as an oak tree-tall, strong, sturdy, resilient, full of life and love. Thank you dad for all the lessons you taught us and the gifts you gave us.  We are your legacy.   And thank you mom for taking such good care of our dad.   

This is my life?

Posted on by Elaine Maly

I had a flash back the other day.  I was remembering how it felt to suddenly become an adult.  At 17 I was living at home with my parents, going to school, working an easy part time clerical job, and doing a few jobs around the house like peeling potatoes and keeping my room clean.

And then at barely 18, I was married, caring for a new born, and living in an apartment. It was like whiplash.  I had a tiny human to care for who pooped in his pants and puked.  There was endless laundry, meals to prepare, and bills to pay.   My new almost 19 year old husband was as clueless as I was. He mostly stayed away. I made daily calls to my mom.  How do I change a diaper?  How do you make a meat loaf?  How do you clean the bathroom.  How do I write a check? 

One evening, while cleaning up after dinner I just had this overwhelming sense of despair.  I am going to have to do this everyday for the rest of my life!  How do women do this?  The only thing that consoled me was the thought that at least no one tells me how many cookies I can have.  

I had that same feeling today while doing the dishes.  I’ve been a grown up for over 50 years and I’m kind of sick of it.  Is there no end to this?

And then I glanced at a painting in my kitchen the artist called, “Que? (What?).”  I acquired it years ago.  And yes, this is my life.  Yes, adulting has it’s advantages.  I have traveled far and wide, I’ve had a career that I’m proud of.  I have grand kids that bring me great joy.  And I eat as many cookies as a I want. But the maintenance part of being an adult still kind of sucks. 

The artist is Jessica Kritzer.

Condom Mom Part 2: Condom Grandma

Posted on by Elaine Maly

I gave my two oldest grandsons (15 and 17) condoms for Christmas this year.  Not like wrapped with a bow in front of people or anything weird.  I just brought them over one day when they were home alone.  I wanted them to be able to ask me questions that they might not ask with a parent in the house.  But when I presented them each with a box of Trojan value packs, they were nonchalant.  

“Thanks, grandma,” they said and stared at their phones. I asked if they had any questions. 

 “No.”  

I asked if they had ever seen one out of the wrapper.  

“No.”  

So, I did what I did with my son Ben decades ago. “Pay attention” I said and I got a banana from the kitchen, opened a condom, and rolled it down the banana to demonstrate.  That made them giggle.  I explained that I wasn’t encouraging them to have sex.  That I hoped they would wait as long as possible.  

“But when the time comes, I want you to be prepared,” I said.  “Okay, see you later,” they said.

Recently, I was spending an evening with my 12 year old grandson.  We were watching a horror movie, his favorite genre, when out of the blue, he asked, “Grandma, how old were you when you had dad?”

“18,” I said as a look of sheer terror spread over his face.  

“I knew you were young,” he said, “but I thought you were at least 20!”

And then he asked,  “How did that happen?!!!”

“Well,” I said, “you had that class in school about how babies are made, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but how did it happen?”

“Well,” I said, “did they teach you about birth control?  Things like condoms?”

“Dad told me about them,” he said and a surge of pride for my son Sam lit my face.  

“Didn’t use one,” I said, “that’s how it happened.”  

Bronson just shrugged and went back to watching the movie.  Maybe because it was a little less scary than this conversation.  

And I vow to continue my quest to make sure none of mine are as unprepared as I once was.  

Old Friend

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Here we are

With more life behind us than ahead

The struggles of our youth

The challenges of single parenthood

The anxiety over careers

The careful steps into 2nd marriages 

Through it all

We’ve lived our best lives

We’ve survived and thrived

Now we sit and reminisce

Grateful to have each other

Not Me

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Dogs.  Poop.  Not me.  I’m allergic.  But then my grandsons got a dog, a big smelly slobbering lumbering mass of fur.  And because I love them, I’ve become the walker of Woodrow the Wonder Dog.  

Woodrow is a show stopper.  165 pounds of ambiguous ancestry.  Passersby can’t help but comment.   “That’s a big dog! What kind is he?”“Are you walking him or is he walking you?”  “Hey lady you need a license to have a horse in the city!” 

Woodrow is super curious  Detective Woodrow sniffs the shrubs for bunnies and squirrels like any dog would.  But Woodrow also keeps an eye on changes in the neighborhood.  He’s well known by workers engaged in everything from tree cutting to road construction.  He especially likes to watch them eat their lunch.

Woodrow is powerful. He could knock you over with a swipe of his tail. It hurts when he steps on your toe  In the winter, he’s a sled dog mushing through the snow as I boot ski behind.  

But what really makes Woodrow a wonder dog is that he’s a really good listener.  He never interrupts or changes the subject.  He beams at me with his loving big brown eyes and patiently bears witness to my complaints and confessions.  

I pick up his poop in gratitude.  Yes, I do.  

And Woodrow forgives me for never petting him. 

High School

Posted on by Elaine Maly

A large Black man yelled my name from across the crowded bar. 

 “ELAINE?  ELAINE MALY?  ELAINE MALY FROM MARSHALL HIGH SCHOOL?  I’D KNOW YOU ANYWHERE! “

I stood up to acknowledge my living existence.  One of only two white women at a birthday party for a co-worker, this was the last place in the world I expected to run into someone from my high school days, let alone someone who would recognize my teenage self through the extra pounds, graying hair and wrinkles.  

He walked closer and then took a few steps back.  My confusion and a hint of fear must have shown.

“You don’t recognize me do you?” he said.  

I tried hard to rewind my brain 38 years but I just couldn’t see anyone I knew in this man.

“It’s me!  Johnny Brown,” he said.

I rushed forward for a hug.

“OH MY GOD!  DOWNTOWN JOHNNY BROWN!” I said.  “Now I see you.”

But I never really knew him.  He was familiar to me mostly because he played basketball with some of the boys I knew.  And, of course, because he was one of only a handful of  black kids in a baby boomer graduating class of almost 1,000.  The boys had dubbed him “downtown” Johnny Brown which I assumed had something to do with his basketball prowess.  

He offered to buy me a drink and so I left my table of girlfriends and went to stand at the bar with him.  I mentioned that once in a while I still see some of the basketball players he knew.  

He said that he didn’t.  “Do you know what it was like for me to go to John Marshall High School?” he asked.  “I had never seen so many white people in one place before.”

 “I’m sorry,” was the only honest response I could come up with.  

I told him that it’s kind of funny since some of my old high school chums believed that we went to a really integrated school.  I guess for Wisconsin white kids in the early 70s, having a few dozen Black kids in the whole school was a new and memorable experience too.  We were so self-centered.  But then again, how could any of us know what it was like?  Even now, can I even glimpse the experience of my Black friends when I move through the world as member of the privileged majority?   The real privilege is that I don’t ever have to think about it.  

I had a flash back of what a charming and personable guy Johnny was, yet how afraid me and all my girlfriends were to be “too” nice to him.  We were terrified that our fathers would kill us if we had been encouraging to him and he did something as outrageous as call our homes or ask us to a dance.  

Johnny knew a lot about me.  He knew the name of my high school boyfriend and said that he was my first real love.  I made a scoffing noise at the thought of that relationship being some kind of legendary romance.  

He said that he had met my husband Tom many years ago at a job that they both hated.  I don’t remember Tom ever mentioning this to me.  

Then again, Johnny didn’t know anything about me at all.  He made an offending comment about my having been a housewife for the past 38 years. “I don’t even know a house wife!” I shot back.  He apologized but I wondered if he assumed that about all white women.

He told me about how he had only been “caught” once and had a daughter in her early 30s.  “She’s really smart,” he said.  “On the honor roll all through high school and graduated summa cum laude from college.”

And then he shared that he had been really smart in high school too.  He graduated when he was just 16.  I doubt that I ever knew that he was younger than the rest of us or that he got good grades.  

He told me about living in LA for a time and how glad he was to be back in Milwaukee and that he had his own computer business now.   

 “I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me,” he said.  “I’m 300 pounds.”

“People think I’m fat,” he said, “but I’m not.”  And he put my hand on his rock hard python of a bicep.  

“And the ‘fro I used to have,” he said while pointing to the pony tail that held his severely thinned hair together.  “That was a perm!  My mom had to give me a perm so that I could rock that ‘fro.  Some of the white guys had better naturals than I did.”

When we exhausted our sparse shared memories, I politely excused myself and rejoined my friends at the table.  I could feel his gaze on me and I was glad that I had paid attention to select a flattering outfit that night.  

I stayed at the party longer than I intended, resisting the urge to ask him to dance the entire time.

 I regret it.  

(I wrote this back in 2012 when it happened. I post it today in honor of John whose memorial I attended today. RIP)

German Biker Hospitality

Posted on by Elaine Maly

We’re super jet lagged.  We don’t speak German. We don’t know what’s going on and it is huge!  Like Milwaukee’s Summeriest on acid—packed with people crammed into a dozen circus size beer tents with live bands.

In 1998, my husband Tom and I became empty nesters and we wanted to do something spectacular before one of them moved back. So we booked a trip to Europe. First stop: Octoberfest in Munich!

We make our way to the Spaten tent.  There’s a band blaring/screaming, “Alice, Alice, who the f… is Alice:”  Young women wearing dirndls are slinging giant glass mugs of beer around. We’re so overwhelmed we don’t know what to do. We finally realize that you can’t just walk up to a bar and get a beer. You actually have to be seated at a table because they don’t want patrons walking around with these giant glass liter mugs of beer. But all of the tables are reserved and the couple of tables that aren’t are packed with people.  

I don’t know what to do but Tom says, “Don’t worry.  I got this baby.”  Oh, okay.  He makes a bee line over to a table where there are a couple of seats open but it says reserved.  No, no, no I object..  “I got this,” he says.  

“Hi, we’re from Milwaukee,”  Tom says to the guy at the table who appears to be a biker.  Tom happens to be wearing a Harley anniversary t-shirt. We’ve never missed a Harley anniversary event.  But this is probably the part where I should tell you that while I come from a long line of motorcycle enthusiasts—a couple of cousins work at Harley, my dad has one, my brother has one, my son has one, my brother-in-law has one, and my uncle has one—Tom and I do not. 

Tom gestures toward the empty seats at the table and asks in English if we could sit down with them for just one beer and then we’ll leave.  The biker pulls out two chairs as an invitation.  We can’t really talk to them and but we do our best,  We introduce ourselves,  The guy who appears to be the boss tells us that his name is Mike.  He tells us that they are from Stuttgart.  His girlfriend tells me her name is Peggy.  At least that’s what I thought she said,  I say, “Peggy, like from Margaret?”  Mike snorts and says “No, Piggy.  Like schwine,”  More snorting and everyone laughs.

After we down a mug of beer, Mike and the gang decide that maybe we could stay longer since their other friends haven’t shown up.  We’re all singing loud and off key, “Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!” Half way into my second mug, I really need to pee. But the whole restroom situation in Germany is new to me. I discover that you have to pay to get in. You have to put a coin in a slot. Since we just got here, we don’t have any German money. We’ve been paying for beer with a credit card. I go back to the table and ask the women to help me out with this restroom thing. I squeeze my legs together and gesture to get my point across. They grab me up and sweep me into this women’s room where they are delighted to drop their pants to show me their tattoos.  Piggy has a bird of paradise all the way up her leg.  They want to see mine.  I don’t have any!  I’m afraid that not having any tattoos to show off will be a sure sign that Tom and I are faking the whole biker thing but they just think I’m shy.

We have a fun long afternoon/evening with Mike and Piggy and the rest of the crew.  As we’re getting ready to depart, my Tom says, “You should come to our house for Harley’s 100th anniversary.”  I smile but cringe inside.  We are so very grateful that they let us hang out with them but having them visit would most definitely expose us as posers. Tom writes our address on a piece of paper and hands it over to Mike.  

We miraculously find our hotel room in spite of the horrible condition we’re in when we leave Octoberfest. The rest of our trip was great.  

That was 1998.  2003 rolls around and we remember Mike and Piggy fondly but we’re also relieved that we haven’t heard from them.  We had moved in 2001.  A week before the Harley Anniversary, we receive a letter forwarded from our old house from Mike that was postmarked over a month before.  The letter began with “Excuse me, my English isn’t so good.”  He must have worked really hard to write this letter.  He reminded us of our invitation. But we are so embarrassed by our charade. It was too late anyway.  By the time Mike would have received our reply, the big Harley event would have been over. So the letter went in the fire place and we pretended we never got it.  Yet, Tom and I both regret not being able to return the favor of hospitality. 

We went to the Harley anniversary event wearing Harley t-shirts of course.  A friendly gnarly looking guy standing next to Tom in the crowd asked what kind of bike we owned.  Tom said, “Schwin!”  He shook his head in disgust and trudged off.  

Forgiveness

Posted on by Elaine Maly

I had to go there anyway for a meeting. And I knew she was there. On the drive over, I thought about how ridiculous it was for me to still be angry about things that happened over 40 years ago.  That maybe now was the time to let it go. To forgive her, my ex mother in law, for not believing me, for not taking my side, for abandoning me. After all, I’ve learned a lot since then and gained an understanding of the pain she had faced, of the environment that shaped her, of loyalty to sons.  

I recognized her immediately sitting in a wheelchair alone in a hallway. The same frumpy hairdo and tent like dress. Diminished. Of course I had to tell her who I was for I had changed. My long gray locks and extra pounds camouflaging the young woman I had been. She said that she remembered that I had been married to her son briefly. She asked about my boys and grandsons. She told me how she had prayed to Jesus for one more year and that she worried about her son, my ex. And I understand her mother’s worry. She smiled and thanked me for coming to visit.  “Say hello to Elaine” she said.  

My Fierce Family

Posted on by Elaine Maly

Bares its teeth and growls at any enemy

Those who threaten our happiness

An unfortunate event

Our own stupidity

We lash ourselves to the ship of family ties

That we have built with trials and tears

With determination and relentless commitment

Stormy seas may batter and whip us

But we are strong enough to weather any calamity

Because our ship is made of mass timber 

We are defiance rooted in love