Mixed Metaphors

Musings on Life, Love, & Death

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 Vows

From Till Death Do Us Part: Part I — The Beginning

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.   

Today

As I write, I’m grieving and I’m grateful. I’ve often reflected how grief and gratitude go hand-in-hand. As a person of certain age, I’ve said goodbye to family, loved ones, friends, colleagues, and people who I never met in life, yet left a mark on me by their art, wisdom, or work on behalf of humanity or our planet. It sounds lofty when I write that on the page, yet it’s impossible not to be affected by people and their impact on us personally and the world we live in.

For the past seven months my former husband Frank was under the care of Agrace Hospice while he continued to be a resident and patient at Madison Health and Rehabilitation Center. Agrace provided compassionate end-of-life care. Though I visited him the past two years or more after his left leg was amputated at the knee and he was immobile and bedridden, I stepped up my visits to once or twice a week. On March 13^th Frank was transferred to the Agrace HospiceCare Hospital Unit.

Frank A. Schaztley died peacefully at Agrace HospiceCare on Saturday, March 21, 2026, the first day of spring.  

Till Death Do Us Part” Part II – The Middle Years

This is the second in the three-part series, a tribute to Frank, and a chronicle of our relationship. Part one is the story of how we met, fell in love, took a sabbatical, reunited, and married. Part two shares our journey as spouses, our decision to separate and divorce, the years of estrangement, followed by reconciliation, and transition as we became chosen family.

During our time together the past seven months we revisited the stories of our life together. We each made amends and held no resentments; our love and gratitude for each other was a gift.

Married Life

Racine, Wisconsin

After we were married in 1970, Frank and I found our first apartment on Douglas Ave. in Racine, Wisconsin our hometown at the Belle City Apartments. “Racine is called the “Belle City” (or “Belle City of the Lakes”) because it is a direct translation of “beautiful city” from French, a name that became popular in the mid-19th century due to its attractive, picturesque location on Lake Michigan.”

Things changed as Racine, like it’s neighbor to the north, Milwaukee, and neighbors to the south, Kenosha, and Chicago, became a magnet for manufacturing and immigrants.

Excerpts from a Mixed Metaphors, Oh My! essay about our hometown, The Vibrator Story.

“Waves of immigrants, including Danes, Germans, and Czechs, began to settle in Racine between the Civil War and the First World War. African Americans started arriving in large numbers during World War I, as they did in other Midwestern industrial towns, and Mexicans migrated to Racine from roughly 1925 onward (source: Wikipedia). These immigrants became the working-class families and blue-collar workers of Wisconsin’s Industrial Age.”

“Racine became famous as the home of many manufacturers who invented new products and built factories and established headquarters. Early industries manufactured agriculture equipment, fanning mills that separated wheat grain from chaff.  Some grew to be the largest, including J. I. Case (heavy equipment) which was the namesake of my high school.  Others were S.C. Johnson and Son (cleaning and chemical products), and Modine (heat exchangers).”

Frank found a job at the J. I. Case Motor Works during the third shift as a security guard with only a flashlight as he made the rounds of his checkpoints. The checkpoints had phones, and after confirming the location was secure, he would call me since the building was old, cavernous, and rat-infested; he was lonely, and most likely scared, yet he never admitted it until one night when a sewer rat had him cornered.

Our sleep schedule was such that I’d sleep on the couch near the phone during his 12am to 7am work schedule so I could answer his calls. I’d fall asleep in between the calls. When he returned home, he would go to bed, and I’d often stay awake, read, cook his breakfast, grocery shop, and clean our one-bedroom apartment.

It was a first-floor apartment in a two-story concrete block building. The entrance to our apartment was directly into the living room. The apartment had no hallways; one room led to another. From the living room was the smallest L-shaped kitchen, just large enough for the stove, a corner sink, and refrigerator. From the kitchen you’d enter the bedroom, with a back door to the outside. Off the bedroom was a small bathroom. It was probably about 400 square feet.

Frank and I would typically spend time in the evening in bed and watch TV before his work shift, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. On his days off, we’d sleep together until his sister, Mary, and father, Art, would wake us up early on Sundays, Mary at our front door announcing, “We have donuts!” 

Newly married friends lived in our building, Chris and his wife. Chris was one of Frank’s duplicate bridge and card-playing friends. We’d get together on a Saturday night for dinner, wine, listen to music, and maybe smoke a little weed.

As a newly married couple ourselves, we were learning how to manage conflict. We were both smart, articulate, and speaking for myself, a stubborn right-fighter. I never witnessed my parent’s having or resolving conflict when I was growing up. They communicated when in conflict by employing the ‘silent treatment.’ Any arguing and resolution happened behind closed bedroom doors.

Since I didn’t yet learn the tools of conflict resolution, my solution was to leave the apartment, walk for 30 minutes or so, return and hope that Frank would either agree with me or apologize. Not proud of my behavior in hindsight. Gratefully, the longer we were married the less we argued.

Frank was laid off from his job, and I wasn’t working. We were unsuccessful finding jobs in our hometown during what was a decline in manufacturing. Since I never graduated from the university, manufacturing and service jobs were my only option. I did not possess clerical skills. We began looking for jobs in neighboring Kenosha in 1971. “Kenosha, with 7.9 per cent unemployment, and Racine, with 8.3 per cent, are two of 35 labor markets classified by the Department of Labor this month as areas of substantial and persistent unemployment. Recession hits here early because of the concentration of vulnerable machine‐tool shops.”  

We both found employment in Kenosha. Frank at Anaconda American Brass, a foundry, and I at Jockey International, a textile and apparel factory. Next, we needed to find an apartment. First, we didn’t have a car, plus neither one of us had a driver’s license. We walked everywhere and we had three criteria for an apartment. 1. Because we had little savings or income yet, we sought an apartment we could pay rent weekly rather than monthly. If my memory serves me, it was $35/week. 2. We hoped to find something centrally located, walking distance from both of our jobs 3. A neighborhood close to restaurants, grocery store, bakeries, and nightlife was on the list. We were successful on all counts.

Kenosha, Wisconsin

Looking back at the two-and-a-half years we worked and lived in Kenosha, we were probably the happiest and closest. We eased into our work lives. It helped that we both worked first shift and shared the same schedule. We moved into our second story flat and made it a home. The apartment was larger than our first one, including a pantry where later we would make wine. I baked bread every week and expanded my repertoire of recipes. We both had physical jobs, we walked everywhere, and we were young, fit, and healthy.

Frank found a duplicate bridge club and partner and played bridge two or three times a week. I’d sometimes join him as a kibitzer, “…a Yiddish-derived term for a spectator, particularly in games like bridge or chess.” Frank thought it would help me learn the game so I could become his partner at bridge. It didn’t hold allure for me, and though I enjoyed playing games, bridge required a more precise attention to detail than I was willing to pay. Years later, I learned I probably suffered from undiagnosed ADHD, which also helped explain my challenges studying in college. When we did play bridge, Frank’s bidding was so strategic he taught me how to bid so I’d become the ‘dummy!’

We created weekly rituals of our own, breakfasts and dinners at our favorite diner, The Javelin, named after one of American Motors car models. Sometimes we’d eat sirloin burgers at one of Frank’s favorite bars, or for special dinners, House of Gerhard, an upscale German restaurant where Frank would order Bouillabaisse, my go-to, Rouladen. Some Fridays we’d walk to the Italian Workingmen’s Club for their Friday Fish Fry or Italian specials.  Food was one of our shared passions. Frank was probably the first true foodie that I met.

Besides dining out or cooking at home, we’d often double date with my parents when we visited and go out to a supper club. Here’s one of our most infamous dinners…

Excerpt from There Will Be Stories: 

Frank and I often went out on double dates with my parents on Saturday nights. We had a lot of fun together and share many memories which have now become legendary stories, like the night the four of us went to dinner at the then popular Racine Supper Club, Wigs & Ellie’s. Frank was a big eater and though my father was a small man, he also had a good appetite. When the waiter described the specials for the evening, sweetheart steak fillets for two, and barbeque ribs, six or twelve-bone racks, Frank ordered the sweetheart special. My father, surprised and delighted, asked, “You can do that?” The waiter nodded yes, and he proceeded to order the sweetheart special too. Now it was my turn to order. I looked at my mother. We both love ribs and I said, I think I can eat a rack of 12, her eyes brightened and she said, “I will too!”

The waiter left, put in our orders, and returned with a galvanized steel bucket filled with an iceberg lettuce salad. He carried tongs, a Lazy Susan of salad dressing and monkey pod bowls. Next were small loaves of freshly baked bread (we asked for seconds). Our entrees came out and our table looked like mealtime with the cartoon characters, the Flintstones.  The chef came out to meet the guests at the table of four eating enough food for eight people. This was one of many shared occasions with good food and beer, lots of both.

Besides dining out, visiting both our families in Racine, we loved movies and music. One of Frank’s best friends and bridge partners was Hal Stern, a French professor and cinephile, who curated the Film Society at the University of Wisconsin – Parkside.  Hal introduced us to film noir, German Expressionism, Swedish films by Ingmar Bergman, French New Wave Cinema, including films by Francois Truffaut, my favorite, Jules & Jim, and the avant-garde and political films of the late 1960s and early 1970s by American directors.

While Frank was playing bridge, I began spending time with a couple of my coworkers at Jockey. One summer, I played women’s softball and subscribed to Ms. Magazine when it was first launched. Looking back, I wish I had saved that first issue. I purchased and read feminist books. I began questioning my politics and identity.

For the most part I was happy; I had a job, was married to the man I loved, and lived in a small but comfortable, second story flat. Two years into my job, just when I was beginning to get restless and looked for something new to pique my interest, my prayers were answered when Gloria — as in G-L-O-R-I-A — walked into my workplace the first time — no let me be precise — sauntered like a sailor into my life.

I was immediately smitten. Her long raven’s black hair and lean athletic body, dark chocolate brown eyes, and carmine lips demanded attention. She was both confident and casually relaxed. She exuded a sense that she belonged wherever she was. I knew in that moment that she would change my life forever.

I realized that an insatiable desire lived just under the surface, a hunger and curiosity awakened by this handsome, raven-haired woman with fair skin, ebony eyes and a sailor’s walk. We became fast and inseparable friends.

Excerpts from, My Butch Girlfriends:

Soon Gloria and I established a once-a-week standing date. Some weeks we would hang out at my place, drink cheap red wine, smoke a couple of joints, and talk late into the night while listening to Bette Midler plead:

“Do you wanna dance and hold my hand?

Tell me you’re my lover.
Oh baby, do you wanna dance?

We could dance under the moonlight,
hug and kiss all through the night.
Oh baby, tell me, do you wanna dance with me baby?”

Other nights we would go out for pizza or go dancing in a club. One weekend we road-tripped to Water Street in Milwaukee and were having a drink at a bar, sitting close as lovers do, when a man approached me, sliding his arm around my shoulder and neck, pulling me closely to his chest and asked if I wanted to dance or maybe more. Gloria immediately stood up from her bar stool, elongating her lean, yet strong body, and with an open palm, pushing the man off me, exclaiming, “She’s with me!”

There was a long moment of silence as everyone nearby turned their heads and attention to us to see what was going to happen next. Remember this was the Midwest in the early 1970s. Gloria’s ebony eyes burned straight into his, her legs opened wide to brace herself with her arm fully extended to create a boundary, she waited for his response. He released his grip on me, pretended to laugh it off as if it was all harmless play, then mumbled only so we could hear, “lezzie cunts” and walked away. 

One weekend, we triple-dated, attending the Bristol Renaissance Faire together, Gloria and her girlfriend, another work friend and her husband, and Frank and me. I was falling in love and lust with Gloria and she with me. Oh, my!

Excerpts from my spoken word monologue, Maria from the Sewing Room:

Months passed and our mutual attraction grew stronger. The moment of reckoning finally came. Frank would be traveling to a duplicate bridge tournament out of state. I suggested to him that I planned on inviting Gloria to spend the weekend with me so I wouldn’t be alone, as if that ever was an issue before. He thought it was a good idea.

When the Friday evening of our weekend arrived, I lingered in the bath, drawing the soapy water into the sponge and caressing my body, imagining Gloria’s touch. I made a pact with myself. Though I had desired women before and questioned my sexuality, I considered myself a heterosexual woman. Gloria on the other hand was clearly a lesbian. I decided that if she made the first move, I would surrender to her. She would know what to do and I would submit to her lead. As I imagined the seduction scene, I became more aroused. I was aware that as I bathed, I was preparing my body for her.

Before Gloria arrived, I was faced with the moment I feared.  Though I felt compelled to act on my attraction to Gloria, that my desire for her seemed to be an irresistible urge, I was aware that in the end it was still a choice for me whether to transgress my marital boundaries. Not only was I considering embarking on an affair, but I was also choosing to make love with a woman. In my young life and with my upbringing this was taboo.

What I didn’t realize at the time was Gloria had also made a bargain with herself that since I was married, she would wait for me to make the first move. We talked for hours after dinner, drinking wine and smoking joints, moving from the couch to the floor, our bodies next to each other drawing closer. We had reached an impasse and never made it to bed or each other’s arms that night. We slept on the living room floor, sharing only unspoken words and the awareness that we were not taking the next step.

Shortly afterwards Frank and I moved to Madison — a geographic escape — disguised by my decision to go back to school. When I look back however — these two women — Maria from the sewing room and Gloria from the lay-up department —both changed my life forever. That first full-time job —laid the foundation for my life, led me to feminism, and opened a door for me to discover, explore, and embrace my identity —the work of one’s life.

Madison, Wisconsin

I wanted to put miles between Gloria and me. I also wanted to return to school. I became restless at Jockey; the physical work was not enough to sustain me. It was my goal to complete my undergraduate degree and pursue a career in journalism or communication arts. Frank was on board too. We both sought a change.

Frank and I moved to Madison in 1974, a city we both loved. I fell in love with the city while a high school student the summer of 1967 when I attended a journalism workshop at the University of Wisconsin – Madison.  In that knowing place, Madison would one day be my chosen home. Frank attended the university in 1969 for a semester until he returned to Racine and we reconciled as a couple before we married. He too loved Madison, a progressive community.

First, we found a place to live on the southside of Madison in the Lakeside neighborhood on Olin Avenue. It was an upper flat in an owner-occupied building (additional story for another time). We were on a bus line, a small independent neighborhood grocery store, Martinelli’s, a block away. Walking distance, a Kohl’s grocery store, the Pancake Plantation for weekend brunches, and a Danish Bakery, Lane’s, where we could grab our Danish Kringles, donuts, and cakes just like our hometown. Life was good.

I returned to school at UW – Madison and majored in communication arts at the age of 24. I had dropped out of school twice in 1968 and 1969, I returned as a sophomore.  I found a part-time job in the evenings, 5-9pm at Nutrition World, a vitamin, supplement, and health food store at the mall. Frank was hired as a bookkeeper and in sales for Odair’s Meat Provisioners, suppliers to restaurants and stores. Our refrigerator and freezer well-stocked with restaurant quality meat.

We began settling into new routines. For me, the first summer I watched the Watergate hearings. That fall I started classes. Frank enjoyed his new job with a family-owned business and quickly employed his skills to streamline some of their processes. Frank found new duplicate bridge games and partners, plus friends who played poker and bet on the horses.

Bette Midler was scheduled to perform at what is now, the Alliant Energy Center, her tour, Clams on the Half-Shell. Though I had put miles between Gloria and I, I missed her and wanted to see her again. We invited Gloria and her new girlfriend, a young tennis phenom to join us for the concert. Barry Manilow was Midler’s accompanist. At the intermission in white tails, he performed a song he had just written, Mandy. Shortly afterward his career as a solo singer songwriter took off. It was a mistake to see Gloria again. It reignited both my attraction and confusion about my identity.

We began decorating our two-bedroom apartment. When we first moved in, we only had used furniture from family members, a bedroom set with our wedding quilt made by my sister, Roz (see A Tale of Two Quilts at the end of this reminiscence), plus a bookcase, a small TV, and of course a great stereo and album collection. Gradually, we purchased a round butcher block table with Thonet Bentwood caned chairs and a Thonet Bentwood caned rocker from the Frautschi Furniture Company. I still have one chair which I’m not ready to let go.

We furnished our home, one piece at a time as we could afford it, we purchased a couch, wood and chrome contemporary coffee table, end table, a Scandinavian leather recliner and ottoman, and a leather sling chair. We bought plants, a hanging Asparagus Fern and a tall Norfolk Pine.

We shopped at a Danish Modern Furniture and accessories store, Domicile, and bought accessories, a Peter Max wall clock which I wish I still owned, and the most amazing table lamp with a corrugated lamp shade which I have in my home today. Our floors were beautiful hardwood, and we added an orange and yellow shag rug which was popular in the 1970s. Needless to say, the room’s color was stimulating.

I only completed a semester-and-a-half at UW as an ‘older student’ when I dropped out again. I lacked discipline and study skills. I was smart, and in high school was placed in an ‘accelerated’ program for gifted students. Where I failed, I never learned to study, most things came easy. That didn’t serve me in a large university setting. Soon I only attended the classes I enjoyed, African American Literature, and my Communication Arts classes, especially Public Television.

My daily schedule included classes, and an hour bus commute each way including a transfer, to and from my part-time job at Nutrition World at East Towne Mall. That made for a six-hour workday. I enjoyed working in the vitamin, supplement, and health food store. I worked alone during my 5-9pm shift. I kept my cigarette smoking habit secret from my employers (though one always smells like smoke). I’d sneak in the back storeroom for a quick smoke once or twice during my shift.

One day, in a spontaneous moment, I asked myself what kind of work I’d want to do, if I could do anything with the skills and education I already possessed. In high school, I was academically tracked for college; I never took enough art classes, and some of the screen-printing and woodworking classes were only for boys. Yes, high school girls could take sewing or cooking instead.

I knew a little about printmaking (reference, Andy Warhol). I opened the Yellow Pages (yes, I’m that old) for screen-printing and called the first business, Advertising Creations. I talked with Joe, who was my contemporary and indicated that I had an interest in learning the craft and asked if they were hiring. Joe, along with his two brothers and father, owned the business. He indicated that they weren’t hiring yet invited me in for an informational interview and tour.

My enthusiasm won them over, and after meeting the brothers, I was hired and trained as a screen-printer. I worked there for 20 years, the first eight as a printer, the last 12 as a sales account manager. I enjoyed learning the craft, and in hindsight, I fit in with a family-owned business which featured some of the dysfunctions of my own family. I was at home.

Frank and I settled into our routines, our work and play lives. Frank and I made friends with some of his card-playing and gambling friends, including Suey and Grace. Suey’s family owned the Golden Dragon Restaurant on E. Mifflin St., which was across the street from today’s Bartell Theater, formerly the Esquire Theater.

Suey, Frank, Grace, and I enjoyed dining out. Frank and Suey would also play poker and go to the horse tracks in Chicago. Often on weekends, beginning Friday after work, Frank and I would see movies at the University Square Mall Theaters, after dinner at our favorite go-to restaurant, Paisan’s, located in the mall. On Fridays, when we didn’t feel like going out, we’d order pizza delivered from Pizza Pit, or Garibaldi Subs from Paisan’s.

We still walked or bussed everywhere. In good weather, I biked to work, Frank took taxis. Neither one of us had a driver’s license. We’d take the Badger Bus and transfer in Milwaukee to the Wisconsin Coach Lines to visit our families in Racine. When I was 27, I finally learned to drive, received my license, and we bought a used 1974 Burnt Orange Volvo Station Wagon with saddle-colored leather interior and a luggage rack on top. Frank never got his license when we were together. My father also never drove. What are the odds I’d recreate that pattern?  Having mobility changed our lives, especially mine.

My parents and siblings would visit from Racine for UW Badger Football weekends. My parents slept in the guest bedroom and siblings and their spouses, and younger siblings, crashed on the couch and floor. The menu for the weekend usually included chili and all the sides, beer for adults, pop for the kids, and on Sunday quiche, juice, fried potatoes, and Kringle from Lane’s Bakery.

When family wasn’t visiting the guest bedroom doubled as my art studio with my drawing table. For a while, I launched a freelance graphic design business, Belle Starr Graphics. It never really took off. I found myself designing for friends and family, and for my work for NOW (National Organization for Women) for free. Not a good business plan. Frank was supportive and collaborated with a jeweler to design a custom gold necklace of my logo with a small diamond.

Summers, my parents and two youngest siblings, would spend a week’s vacation staying with us in Madison during the week of the 4^th of July. Mom and sisters, Kelly and Tami, and sometimes Dad would walk down to Bernie’s Beach on Lake Monona Bay.

This song by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young became the theme song for our lives:

Our House

I’ll light the fire, you place the flowers
In the vase that you bought today
Staring at the fire for hours and hours
While I listen to you play your love songs
All night long for me, only for me

Come to me now and rest your head for just five minutes
Everything is good
Such a cozy room, the windows are illuminated
By the evening sunshine through them
Fiery gems for you, only for you

Our house is a very, very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy, ’cause of you
And our

Our house is a very, very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy, ’cause of you
And our

I’ll light the fire while you place the flowers
In the vase that you bought today

Frank and I settled into a comfortable married life routine. Work, movie and dinner dates, hosting and visiting our families, duplicate bridge and cards for Frank, and I became more active in NOW and Feminist-Consciousness-Raising. Frank was supportive of my exploration of feminism. From the beginning of our relationship, we shared a commitment to civil rights and social justice. Another thoughtful gift he designed, a leather box with a woman’s symbol to add to my box collection.

I wanted to buy a house and start a family. Since I couldn’t bear children, we would need to adopt, which during the 1970s, was difficult, expensive, and time-consuming endeavor. Frank wasn’t ready for either commitment. We began putting more energy into our separate lives instead of collaborating on a shared future. At the time it seemed to work for us, yet we grew more independent of each other. This poem, A Certain Peace by Nikki Giovanni summed up our married life.

 

A Certain Peace

it was very pleasant
not having you around
this afternoon

not that i don’t love you
and want you and need you
and love loving and wanting and needing you

but there was a certain peace
when you walked out the door
and i knew you would do something
you wanted to do
and i could run
a tub full of water
and not worry about answering the phone
for your call
and soak in bubbles
and not worry whether you would want something
special for dinner
and rub lotion all over me
for as long as i wanted
and not worry if you had a good idea
or wanted to use the bathroom
and there was a certain excitement
when after midnight you came home
and we had coffee
and i had a day of mine
that made me as happy
as yours did you

— Nikki Giovanni

A byproduct of my time with Gloria, and one of the reasons for our move to Madison, was that I knew I wanted and needed more women in my life. It was the beginning of the second wave of feminism, and I became actively involved in conscious-raising groups, first attending, then facilitating. Suddenly, I was surrounded by strong women-identified-women who were exploring relationships, some with each other outside of their marriages and partnerships.

Things changed.

Separation & Divorce

While Frank traveled to regional and national duplicate bridge tournaments and Las Vegas to gamble, I became increasingly active in NOW and Feminist Consciousness-Raising (CR), first on a local, then state, regional, and national level, attending NOW conferences and conducting CR facilitator trainings.

We were aware that our relationship was changing. With two of my married women friends from our local CR group, we decided to form a couple’s group, comprised of three feminist women and our progressive husbands. The intention was to discuss gender roles, feminist principles, and open marriage.

It quickly devolved. Two women in the group (not including me) were already exploring relationships outside of their marriage with women. One husband tried his best to be supportive, while the other was clearly struggling with holding back his anger, betrayal, and hurt. Frank and I privately discussed our own thoughts and were surprised by the group dynamics and the men’s reactions to their wives’ affairs. Frank was always secure in his masculinity.  The group ended after only three sessions.

Things changed.

Excerpts from my Mixed Metaphors, Oh My! essay, Awakening Desire, The Ex-Files, and My Butch Girlfriends:

I met Catherine at a Woman and Law Conference at the University of Wisconsin. Our booths were next to each other. I ‘womaned’ the NOW booth, Catherine the Lysistrata booth.

We talked all day and I was mesmerized by this long dark-haired woman with ice blue eyes and porcelain, freckled skin who passionately spoke about the feminist-restaurant collective, Lysistrata, she was launching.  We broke down our booths and Catherine asked me to join her at a private party at the Edgewater Hotel. Without pause I said yes. She squired me the rest of the evening, the palm of her hand resting in the small of my back, guiding me to our destinations. We moved from the party to her white Alfa Romero convertible for a top-down drive under the stars, to an early morning breakfast at the Curve Restaurant, finally delivering me to my door, when she said with unbridled certainty, “I want to see you again.” 

I both dreaded and wished for this moment to come. I had neglected to tell Catherine I was a married to a man. When I did she almost pushed me out of the car, and declared, “Call me when you get rid of him.” I did call her a couple of weeks later and told her that I didn’t ‘get rid of him,’ yet I desperately wanted to see her. We made a date for an evening of wine and dinner in her basement apartment where she seduced me and I surrendered completely, soon discovering that I was home where I was always meant to be, in the bed and the arms of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to please a woman. My surprise was how natural it was to love another woman and how capable I was as her lover.

Catherine asked me again to leave Frank, I told her I wasn’t ready. The secret about the affair was short-lived. Frank confronted me and I was honest with him. Afterwards, we opened our relationship which was a trend during this pre-AIDs time. Frank accepted my attraction to women, and we agreed that if I was open and honest, I could see women if he was the only man in my life. He was.

I developed a romantic friendship with one of my CR colleagues, a photographer, Megan, and we went out on dates at Lysistrata, our first was NYE when Lysistrata first opened. That evening I went out to dinner at The Fess Hotel with Frank, Suey, and Grace, then afterwards Megan picked me up for our date to ring in the New Year. Our song was Joan Armatrading’s Love & Affection. Many people who saw Megan and I together assumed we were lovers. We did love each other, were very affectionate, yet never became sexually intimate. Megan had several relationships with men and women, some who financially supported her photography.

Fast forward, after another affair, this time with Mary from my CR group, Frank and I were struggling to maintain our relationship. On our 7^th wedding anniversary, Frank suggested that we separate and decide whether I wanted to have an exclusive relationship with him, or not. I knew in that moment, I would never return to him, yet I didn’t have the courage to tell him.

Now in all fairness to Frank, he nudged me out the door. What he needed from me during that time was to be all in. We had gone out for dinner to celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary, and he suggested, no encouraged me, to spend some time separate from him and decide if I wanted to stay married. This is the moment when my character was tested and I failed the test. I knew that once I moved out, even under the guise of a temporary separation, I would never return. I didn’t have the courage or the strength of character to let him know what I already knew. This was my moment of regret and the cause of the hurt I inflicted on him.

I moved out, sublet a small apartment a block away from Lysistrata, and continued my relationship with Mary and romantic friendship with Megan.

From his family’s perspective, I assumed they thought I was the lesbian wife who betrayed her husband by having affairs then left him devastated.  For my part, I had the responsibility to talk with my parents and tell them three things:

• 1. I was cancelling the vacation Frank and I had planned with them.
  2. I was separating from Frank and moving into my own place.
  3. I was a lesbian.

When I visited my family, I was able to get through the first two items. I characterized the ending of our relationship as problems with Frank’s gambling and my drinking, though I’m sure looking back I minimized my drinking. You see, I probably had a drink in my hand and so did my folks as we had this conversation. It was later that I wrote my parents my “coming out letter.”

I began the letter by telling them how I hoped they would receive the news that their daughter was a lesbian. To their credit and my eternal gratitude, they reacted exactly how I had hoped, telling me that they loved me unconditionally.

Over time I answered the questions my father had as he struggled to accept the changes in his daughter’s life. My parents continued to maintain a relationship with Frank separate from me which I’m grateful for. Frank sent cards to my parents every holiday and birthday and sometimes stopped by to visit them.

We separated in 1979 and divorced in 1981.

Estrangement

I’m not proud of how I managed our separation. When I moved into my sublet, I only took a few essential pieces of furniture and left the rest with Frank, including the wedding quilt my sister Roz made for us. I broke our vows. Roz never forgave me for leaving the quilt with him. See A Tale of Two Quilts, a link at the end of this reminiscence.

Before we separated, my drinking had become more of a problem, both for me and our relationship. I was using alcohol as a way of numbing some of my feelings rather than take responsibility for my actions. As I was coming out, I experienced what I described as my lesbian adolescence, spending more time at Lysistrata and gay bars and drinking more. My sublet apartment was a block from Lysistrata.

I still had keys to our apartment and would often stop by during my lunch hour while Frank was at work. Over time I’d take personal items and would ask Frank if I could have a particular piece of furniture or household accessory. He always generously said yes. I seldom asked him how he was doing. I didn’t have the strength of character to hear his answer.

Finally, Frank asked me to return the apartment key and take whatever I still wanted, first checking in with him. Afterward, other than a trio of visits in-person, we didn’t spend time together until we reconciled. One visit at my sublet apartment when we separated, a visit at my home with my partner Deb after separating from Mary, and lastly, when I surprised Frank with a visit with my youngest sisters, Kelly and Tami, who loved him and he loved in return, at the house he bought in our former neighborhood.

Reconciliation

Frank would call periodically to check in on me. I seldom called him since I still held guilt and shame for my handling of our separation. If he mentioned he was traveling to Racine to visit his family and mine, I’d remind him that when I drove home for holidays and family birthdays, he could ride with me. He never maintained a driver’s license. Often when I’d invite him to join me, he expressed a reason or excuse why he couldn’t ride with me, usually related to his health issues.

Frank visited my family and always sent holiday and birthday cards. He’d sign it, ‘your son, Frank.’ Dad always made a point of showing me Frank’s cards. Dad and Frank were always very close. One year, I ran into Frank at the mall Hallmark Card shop, buying birthday, or Mother or Father’s Day cards for my family.

Excerpts from, There Will Be Stories:

We didn’t spend much time working through the end of our marriage. I observed his decline into depression from afar. I was virtually detached while I explored and celebrated my lesbian adolescence. It was a very selfish time for me. I also began drinking more and would later need to face my alcoholism as a result. Over the years, Frank and I didn’t talk through the end of our relationship and whether we could redefine it and stay in each other’s lives. I wanted him to remain in my life as he did with my parents, staying in contact with them, exchanging greetings at holidays and birthdays, and occasionally stopping to visit them when he was in Racine to see his family.

I decided to invite Frank for this recent visit with my parents, along with my sister Tami, her husband Ron, and my niece and nephew, Gemma and Quinn.  Much to my surprise Frank said yes. When I told my parents he was coming, they adopted a ‘wait and see’ attitude, since they too knew he was the master of excuses. He didn’t bail. The day of the visit, my folks and I took a scenic drive through Madison to pick Frank up and to look at the changing colors of the trees, the growing University of Wisconsin campus and the wonderful neighborhoods we are lucky to have here.

The reunion of my parents, Tami and her family, and Frank, exceeded our wishes. It was a wonderful afternoon of telling stories we each have saved as precious memories. First, we determined how long it had been since we last saw each other. Frank spent Christmas with my parents in 2000. I saw him in a Hallmark Card Shop buying greeting cards for my family a year or two later, Tami hadn’t seen him for many years and her husband Ron and the kids were meeting him for the first time. The room was full of love and affection.

We told stories all afternoon and into the evening, updates on family members, both Frank’s and ours, the deaths, births, divorces and marriages, retirements and catalogs of surgeries and health issues, past and upcoming. Then Frank and I reminisced, asking each other, “Whatever happened to…?” and “Do you remember…?” There was no need for amends-making. The love and affection that filled the room and our hearts washed away any residue of hurt or regret that remained. It was a moment that proved the adage true that “Time Heals All Wounds.” In this case it has, because what remained was our love for each other and our cherished shared experience.

Chosen Family

After this visit, without having any in-depth conversations, including the amends I wanted to make, we renewed and redefined our relationship. I’d call Frank every time I returned to Racine and ask if he wanted to visit his family, and or, mine (ours!).

Excerpts from, Reunions, Anniversaries, & Farewells:

Since the reunion with my family the past year, I spent more time renewing my relationship with my ex-husband Frank.  We’re not exactly reconciling, though we are making peace with the past, mostly we are celebrating our shared memories and enduring love for each other. As often is the case, when two people form a bond and create a relationship it extends to their families. This has certainly been true for us.  Frank has maintained a connection to my parents over the years, sending greeting cards with updates and messages of love and affection. For the most part, I have been estranged from his family. All that changed this past weekend. 

I travelled to my hometown of Racine, Wisconsin. First, I stopped to visit with my parents, Dick and Ethel and then I was off to the Schatzley-Pfeiffer-Drier family reunion. Ex-husband Frank was there to greet me as he introduced me to two new generations of family, the sons and daughters and granddaughters and grandsons of the family I had once shared with Frank. 

I hugged and kissed members of his family I had not seen for over 30 years. First, I was struck by how much we all changed over time, and then I was reminded by how we remained the same, and though we had not seen each other for years, those connections and bonds formed years earlier remained. We were still family. 

In between catching up with each other, we’d return to the past, retelling favorite shared memories, rebooting family myths and reigniting long-unsettled friendly arguments.  

Little kids walked up to me and asked, “Who are you?” with that natural, child-like curiosity. “I used to be married to your great-uncle Frank.” I’d wait for a second to see their reaction, and it was always the same, an expression of complete acceptance, followed by a hello and a smile. Though much had happened during the past 30 years, including the deaths of loved ones, health crisis, and divorces, there were also marriages, births and new beginnings. Cycles of life, cycles of love, reunion.

Frank and I remained close with more frequent phone calls, updating each other on the status and/or search for mutual friends.  We also talked about both of our families, their health, our own health issues as we aged, and sadly, the deaths of family members.

Frank and I attended the funeral for his brother-in-law, Pat, who married his sister Mary.  Again, I was welcomed with open arms and hearts by his family. There were photo memory boards in the church, including photographs of Frank and me when we were married.

Afterward, we joined family for a post-funeral meal and the reminiscing continued of the Schatzley-Pfeiffer-Drier clans.  The room was full of grief, gratitude, and love.

Frank’s health did decline dramatically the last two-plus years of his life. I stepped up my in-person visits with him as his life became more isolated.

Next: Till Death Do Us Part: Part III – The End (Or is it?)

Related Reading from Mixed Metaphors, Oh My!

Till Death Do Us Part: Part! – The Beginning

Maria from the Sewing Room

The Tale of Two Quilts

Signs of the Time

Awakening Desire

My Butch Girlfriends

There Will be Stories

Reunions, Anniversaries, and Farewells

The Ex-Files

Scenes from a Marriage: Keys to My Life