“Aren’t you afraid he’ll slit your throat in the middle of the night?” These were the fears of the neighbors to Mayme Czajka when she fell in love with Lawrence Voletti in 1936, an era when “Italian” was synonymous with “mafia”, or at least it was in their first-generation Polish neighborhood. 

Mayme knew this for the racist hogwash it was. She and Lawrence got married in 1937, and by all accounts, she radiated joy for the next 5 decades, the kind that shines out of their wedding picture.

Mayme was the sunshine and Lawrence was her ground, and they went on that way over 5 homes, 3 children, 8 grandchildren, countless friends, and all the heartaches and adventures of 49 years. 

The joy broke in 1986, when Lawrence died. Mayme darkened and slowed. She rattled around their house for a year. Her children and grandchildren worried, coming and going and trying to fill the gap, but every day still began and ended with Mayme alone in the place that had been theirs. That’s when Flossie called and said, “Come on, Mayme.”

Flossie was Lawrence’s sister. Fun-loving and hard working, Flossie had relocated to Florida in her golden years, where she was known to keep a thermos of vodka by her side in the event a party broke out. It was 1987, Madonna was all over the radio waves, Flossie had a brand-new Buick, and I-10 stretched like a beckoning arm from Flossie’s condo in Florida to her brother Eddie’s house in California. To Flossie, the answer beckoned as bright as the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign. It was time to hit the road. 

Mayme went. She packed her bags and flew to Florida. The night before they left, Flossie turned the car into a ditch. A less courageous woman than Mayme might have seen this as a bad omen. But ditches will happen. Flossie shrugged, got the car back on the road, and the next morning they set out like Thelma and Louise with AARP memberships. 

It didn’t occur to Mayme to ask for a map for an hour or two, enjoying the sunshine and the open road. But as Alabama loomed, she thought it would be nice to know where they were. That’s when she learned Flossie didn’t believe in maps. “You don’t need a road map, Mayme! You just find the interstate-“ she pointed at a blue sign that flashed by – “and get on the one that says west!”

Mayme decided she didn’t need a map. But she did need bathroom stops. The first time she mentioned this to Flossie, Flossie kept her foot on the accelerator and her eyes on the road as she replied, “Can’t you go in a bottle?” Flossie’s dearly departed husband, Uncle Julius, would apparently bring an empty six-back of Coke bottles on all their trips for that purpose. 

Maybe it was the freedom of living without a map and peeing in a bottle that helped Mayme start to feel a part of the world again. She and Flossie rolled past the Gulf Coast and into the endlessness of Texas, their conversations lost to the desert and the wind. Every night they’d call Mayme’s daughter, Linda, to check in. One night Mayme reported that they’d been turned away from a motel earlier that evening, where the proprietor apparently felt squeamish renting to them since he specialized in hourly rates. But it was fine, just fine, because she and Flossie found a place nearby with cable. While Mayme was describing their digs for the night, Linda could hear Flossie in the background. “Mayme! Mayme! There’s nude men on the TV! Nude in the front!”

“I gotta go,” Mayme said abruptly, and hung up the phone. 

That is how, at 69 and 77 years wise, Mayme and Flossie road-tripped cross-country all the way to Eddie and Roberta’s house in Burbank. When they arrived they spilled their adventures, including the nude men on TV and their rejection from the hourly motel, and Eddie decided they were ready for more. “That’s nothing,” he told them, popping “Deep Throat” into the VCR. 

And that is how, at 69 and 77 years young, Mayme and Flossie got their exposure to the Golden Age of Porn. “But it’s okay,” Mayme assured Linda that night on the phone. “We fast-forwarded through all the bad parts.”

Eventually, it was time to find the interstate again. Flossie pointed the Buick’s nose east and off they went. After about a week cruising through mountains, deserts and bayou, they reached Flossie’s condo in Florida, and Mayme got on a plane and flew home to Michigan. 

Back in the house that Mayme had shared with Lawrence, the air felt lighter. Something in the weeks spent with Flossie in her Buick brought the twinkle back to Mayme’s soul. Maybe it was knowing there were still surprises to come and adventure to be had. Maybe it was a renewed appreciation for indoor plumbing. Whatever the reason, Mayme’s joy was shining once again. And if it ever showed signs of flagging, she knew Flossie was a quick flight away, with a thermos full of Vodka at her side and a Buick at the ready. 

Thanks to my mother in law, Linda, for sharing this story and the spirit of Mayme with me, and my father in law Len for digging through the family albums for the pictures. The ones of I-10 by Patrick_worldwide and the shirtless-not-nude man by Darren Constance, both on Pixabay.