Musings on Life, Love, & Death
Part One of a Three Part Series, the Beginning, the Middle, and the End, (or is, it?)
“I take thee to be my wedded (wife/husband), to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” — Traditional Wedding Vow
Little did I know when I spoke those vows on March 14, 1970, that they would apply after our divorce. I’m grateful they did. It’s a gift that some of us are lucky enough to receive. It’s true for me and my former husband, Frank Schatzley. It required love, commitment, amends, letting go of resentments, and forgiveness. Did I say I was grateful? I am.
Frank & Linda, 1973
How We Met, Fell in Love, Separated, and Reunited
Frank and I met in 1968 at the University of Wisconsin — Parkside Campus in Racine, Wisconsin, our hometown. We fell in love that fall.
When I arrived at my hometown campus for my freshman year, I was disappointed. Earlier I had been accepted at the University of Wisconsin — Madison. I had a financial aid package that included a leadership scholarship, work/study program, and student loan. I was assigned a dorm, Sellery Residence Hall, and a roommate. Before I could pack my bags, including the new Samsonite luggage, my high school graduation gift from my parents, there was an issue with my financial aid package. I didn’t have sufficient time (or the tools on my own) to resolve the problem.
Instead, I would attend Parkside and live with my parents. Bummer!
Those first few days I acclimated to what I considered to be a watered-down version of university life. I attended classes, drank coffee in the student union — clearly not Der Rathskeller — and sought to make new friends.
I noticed this roundtable of friends playing cards every day, often not returning to class, having animated discussions on topics like civil rights and the war in Viet Nam. At the center of the group, was a tall man with wavy, long, dark auburn-hair with a Van Dyke goatee. He resembled D’Artagnan of the Three Musketeers. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.
One day we locked eyes across the room and he waved me over. Frank introduced me to the regulars, his crew. He asked if I played cards, Spades or Hearts. He also inquired if I played Bridge, his specialty. If my memory serves me, we played cards that day, talked about politics, music, movies, and our majors in school. I was seeking a journalism degree, instead, I was falling in love.
The attraction was mutual and soon we were making out on the beach at Lake Michigan like the scene in From Here to Eternity. We’d skip classes. Frank had the key to his friend Matt’s apartment, walking distance from campus where we’d escape. We’d turn up the music, race to the bedroom, and recreate the beach scene from the film. Jefferson Airplane’s, Surrealistic Pillow, played in the background. We’d change the album, turn the volume louder to the Chamber Brother’s Time Has Come Today, and dance with joy!
Excerpt from a Mixed Metaphors, Oh My! First Taste of Freedom
One day on a dare, as we sat bored playing cards in the union, Frank stood up with bravado and stated, “Let’s go to San Francisco.” One of our friends asked, “When?” Without a moment’s hesitation he exclaimed, “Now!” In 1968 ‘now’ was a magical word and living in it was to be admired. The seven us immediately left the table, not wanting to be the first to bail out of the dare.
We all jumped in one car, making stops at each of our banks to withdraw travel money (remember this was a time that pre-dated ATM machines), but didn’t stop at our homes to pack a toothbrush or a change of clothes, how curious?
As we traveled south to Chicago before heading west to California, we smoked a little weed on our way to the Brat Stop in Kenosha for a lunch of beer and bratwurst. Stoned, hungry, and full of ourselves, the reality began to sink in that we were leaving home. As we devoured our brats and downed our tap beers, we waxed sentimental about the things we’d miss most from our home state of Wisconsin. After we finished our lunch, Frank exclaimed, “Enough, let’s hit the road. We’re going to San Francisco!”
It quickly became clear as we got closer to Chicago that this was not a ‘psyche,’ the 1968 equivalent of getting ‘punk’d.’ We were divided into two camps, those ready to turn around and go home and those of us with Frank at the helm, wishing to push on to our destination. When we took a poll, four, including the owner and driver of the car, wanted to return home leaving three of us, Frank, his best friend Charlie and me, committed to forging forward, our paths separating. They drove us to the Chicago Greyhound Bus Terminal in the Loop on the corner of Clark and Randolph and we borrowed most of their cash, capitalizing on their guilt for abandoning the journey.
After purchasing bus tickets to San Francisco with stops in Omaha, Nebraska and Denver, Colorado, we crossed the street to the diner kitty-corner from the terminal for a Cup o Joe, a bite to eat, and time to write letters home. This was the first in a series of letters I wrote my parents over the years when I shared news signaling a turning point in my life. This was the “Your Eldest Daughter is Dropping-Out of College to Search for America and the Meaning of Life” letter.
Only Frank and I made it to San Franciso. Our bus trip with Charlie ended in Denver when he returned home. We ventured the rest of the journey on our own, the soundtrack for the trip was right out of Simon & Garfunkel’s song, America.
“Let us be lovers we’ll marry our fortunes together”
“I’ve got some real estate here in my bag”
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America.America, lyrics and music by Simon and Garfunkel.
When we arrived, Frank and I explored Haight Ashbury and Golden Gate Park, the epicenter of the hippie movement and the migration of counter-culture youth to California.
From Wikipedia:
“The Summer of Love” attracted a wide range of people of various ages: teenagers and college students drawn by their peers and the allure of joining a cultural utopia; middle-class vacationers; and even partying military personnel from bases within driving distance. The Haight-Ashbury could not accommodate this rapid influx of people, and the neighborhood scene quickly deteriorated.
1967 Summer of Love
Overcrowding, homelessness, hunger, drug problems, and crime afflicted the neighborhood. Many people simply left in the fall to resume their college studies. On October 6, 1967, those remaining in the Haight staged a mock funeral, The Death of the Hippie ceremony, to signal the end of the played-out scene.”
We were a year too late. The peace and love from the summer before had been displaced by gawkers, amphetamine freaks, and drug-peddling motorcycle gangs. We weren’t going to find jobs before our money ran out and clearly panhandling was not an option since the streets were already full of panhandlers including musicians playing for coins or in exchange to get turned on.
We returned home with humility after wiring our parents for money from Western Union. We took a plane home.
To read the full story, click on the link, First Taste of Freedom, at the end of the reminiscence.
Frank and I separated during the holidays at the end of the year. It was complicated and personal. We didn’t stop loving each other, we simply didn’t know how to take the next step in our commitment to our relationship. Frank moved to Madison to attend the University of Wisconsin. I moved out of my parents’ home into my first apartment with two women friends in downtown Racine. Our apartment became a magnet destination for the growing hippie community. I dropped out of college twice and moved three times in 1969.
While we were separated, Frank and I each began new relationships. Mine was a friends with benefits arrangement with Tommy, who drove his VW Bug with the passenger seat turned backwards, so I could chat up and entertain the hippie hitchhikers we picked up — and in exchange for rides — would get us high on weed (grass in the vernacular of the times).
Frank and I reunited during the summer of 1969. We lived communally with others, couch-surfing, getting high, protesting for civil rights and against the war in Viet Nam. We eventually tired of the nomadic hippie lifestyle, living hand-to-mouth as vagabonds. Our other shared concern was witnessing the more dangerous shift by friends who went from smoking pot to experimenting with more serious drugs that were addictive, and harmful. Frank described the change as, “psychedelic, rock-a-rock-a bullshit.”
We decided to marry, look for jobs, and as he described, “become middle class and anonymous.” I was working part-time weekends at my aunt and uncle’s diner, my only source of income. We intended to marry on Valentine’s Day in 1970, until we learned the law back then required a blood test and a 30-day waiting period. We married a month later, on March 14, 1970.
Wedding Day
Before our wedding day, our roommates and friends pooled resources and took me shopping at the local hippie boutique for a wedding dress. I bought a cobalt, iridescent blue mini dress. Frank curated his outfit, a sport jacket, slacks, and tie from the St. Vincent DePaul Store. He cut his hair for his new job.
We were living with Frank’s best friend, Mike McGraw, and my first gay friend, Dick Esser. Dick was an artist and painted the bottom of our claw tub and the wall of the bathroom with scenes from Lord of the Rings, and the words Frodo smokes pipe-weed.
When Frank’s father, Art (picture Archie Bunker) picked us up to drive us to the courthouse for the wedding, he used the bathroom before we left. He clearly was not happy with what he saw!
Frank’s brother Dennis would be one of our witnesses, mine was my mother. As we stood patiently waiting for my parents to arrive in the chamber of the most conservative judge in Racine County, Richard Harvey, he did not disguise his disdain for the young hippie couple who stood in front of him, his oversized American Flag draped behind him. Mom and Dad were late. Mom had a flat tire. She was crying when they arrived. I’m not sure if it was the flat tire or her first born daughter getting married.
We were married. After the wedding, we went to my parents’ home and opened gifts from my family. Afterward, Frank’s family members planned a small reception at the home of one of Frank’s aunts, a gathering with both families and more gifts. We received household items and small appliances wrapped and packed in laundry baskets.
Wedding Day, March 14, 1970
Frank’s father reserved the wedding suite at the Hotel Racine as our wedding gift. We ordered room service and my friend with benefits, Tommy, sent up a bottle of Champagne. We pooled the gifts of money we received and spent a few days in Milwaukee at the Pfister Hotel for our honeymoon, enjoyed the famous Pfister Sunday Brunch, shopped at the iconic Harry W. Schwartz Bookshop, music stories, and viewed a number of movies before returning home to Racine and our first apartment.
Next Up in Part II of Till Death Do Us Part
Musings on Life, Love, & Death
- Married Life
- Separation & Divorce
- Estrangement
- Reconciliation
- Chosen Family
Related Reading from Mixed Metaphors, Oh My!
1968: Flashback & Fast Forward
Additional Media on the Topic