Efficiency?
After the funeral of my sister-in-law, March 14, 2025, and our drive to West Bend, WI to attend, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I had lived in that area from 1970-1972 and that is where I met my wife, Margo. And I wanted to reminisce a little about those days 55 years ago.
I asked my son, Scott, to drive us to our motel, but on the way, I asked if we could take a detour past the old Wilkens farm, where Margo, my wife, had grown up. Merlin and Myrtle sold it probably 15 years ago. Very few of the apple trees from Margo's grandparent's orchard were left, however the 150 year old house looked nicely maintained.
From there, we headed to Barton, a northern suburb of West Bend, to a place that held a special memory for me—the tiny efficiency apartment I had rented in 1971 before Margo and I got married.
As we drove by, the apartment building was still standing and in use and looked much the same as I remembered it. I pointed to the window of my old tiny one-room apartment and started reminiscing about a particular day just two weeks before our wedding.
Margo had stopped by after work, and I had bought a sex education manual—one of those things you get interested in when you are getting married and was reading it when she stopped by. She looked at it and soon we folded the couch folded out into a bed, we were deep into chapter one when a sudden knock at the door interrupted us.
Startled, we jumped up. I quickly shoved Margo into the tiny bathroom with a pile of her clothes, while I scrambled to put on my own.
"Who's there?" I called out, trying to compose myself.
"It's me, Paul," came the reply from the other side of the door.
"Just a minute, I have to finish something," I called back, continuing to get dressed. I told Margo to stay put, the bathroom door firmly shut behind her.
Paul was a high school student who worked part-time with us at the nursing home after school. Once I’d straightened up the room, and folded the bed back into a couch, I let him in.
"What's up?" I asked, trying to act casual.
"Mrs. K," he said, referring to the administrator, "she said she was going to fire me if I didn’t get my hair cut." He had long hair, as was common in the 1970s, and it was clear he wasn’t too thrilled about the idea.
At the time, I was the head of the union for the nursing home staff, and people came to me with their problems. I listened as Paul explained that he did his job well and shouldn’t be forced to conform to outdated standards. For the next 45 minutes, we discussed the situation in detail. I called the Milwaukee union hotline for SEIU, spoke to someone there, and got the legal insight I needed.
"They told me the rules have to apply equally to both men and women in this case," I said. "You're in the right, Paul. You’re not going to be forced into a haircut."
I reached out to a county attorney I knew well, explained the situation, and asked him to speak to Mrs. K. He promised he would handle it, assuring me Paul could keep his long hair as long as it didn’t interfere with his work.
After that, I tried to usher Paul out quickly—Margo had been waiting in the bathroom for over 45 minutes. In the rush, I’d completely forgotten to give her the sex education manual, so she didn’t have anything to read while she waited.
When Margo finally emerged, she looked at me, exasperated. “No more sex education until we’re married and living in our own two-bedroom apartment,” she declared, shaking her head.
And that is why I ended up a virgin at marriage, despite my best intentions. And as I drove past that efficiency apartment, I remembered swearing to myself—never again would I rent one of those tiny places.
Margo's grandparents, Elmer and Julia Kirmse with Margo and me 1972
