11/7/24

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Honestly, I wasn’t going to write the blog today. I was going to put up a message, saying that because of the election, I was going to take a week off because I just couldn’t find a Moment.

But you know, this is what the Moments are for. I don’t just wait for them to happen; I watch for them to happen. And before Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, there was a huge chunk of week that happened since the last blog. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. And so I peeled my memories backwards and thought of my world pre-Tuesday night.

And then I laughed out loud.

From Friday through Monday, I was in La Crosse, Wisconsin, to teach a class in creativity, The Labyrinth & The Creative Spirit, at Kinstone in nearby Fountain City (https://www.kinstonecircle.com/). I’ve taught this class many times, and I’ve been to La Crosse many times, and I love being there, right next to the river. I get the same feeling from the Mississippi River as I do from the Pacific Ocean. But I was dreading it this year, because Michael often came with me. And even when he didn’t, he was waiting at home for me. This year, well, there was no Michael.

I so need familiar that is fully familiar. Not familiar with a hole in it.

Years ago, when I was appearing in the Wisconsin Book Festival, Michael and I decided to stay over in Madison, even though it’s only a little over an hour from where I live. But hotels that weekend were hard to come by, and so we ended up in a hotel in close-by DeForest. Little Livvy was with us. As I drove down the freeway, watching for our exit, I saw the sign that said DeForest. And so  I laughed and spontaneously shouted, “You can’t see DeForest for de trees!”

Michael stared at me. And then he said, “Oh, my god,” before bursting into laughter. Olivia, in the back seat, didn’t even try to understand. She already knew that her parents had odd senses of humor.

There were several exit signs that said DeForest before we actually got to ours. By the time we got to our hotel, we were both singing it out. Of course, as we went back and forth to the book festival, we saw the signs many more times. It became a litany.

And then it grew. Over the years, as I traveled in that direction for a variety of reasons, I would pass the DeForest signs. No matter where Michael was working, no matter the time of day, I would call him, and when he said hello, I’d crow over the phone, “You can’t see DeForest for de trees!” and then melt into laughter. Which was always, always echoed.

The last time I did it, last year, Michael was at his new job at MATC (Milwaukee Area Technical College). I was on my way to La Crosse and I watched and watched for the sign, then grabbed my phone and called him. I didn’t have his new work number, so I called his cell, and he had the phone on vibrate. Still, he looked at it. He was in a meeting with his new boss.

“It’s just my wife,” he said to her.

“Isn’t she traveling?” she asked. “Go ahead and answer it, in case something is wrong.”

Michael knew what time I left. And so he knew where I likely was. But his boss said to answer the phone. So he did. “Hello?”

I shrieked, intending to burst his eardrums, “You can’t see DeForest for de trees!” and howled with laughter.

“Kathie,” Michael said, “I’m in a meeting with my boss.”

I swallowed my laughter. I was about to say sorry and shamefacedly hang up my phone when I heard his boss begin to laugh. “De trees!” she cried. And then so did Michael.

“Explain it to her,” I said, and then disconnected. Several times over that weekend, I would think of that moment, and then laugh all over again.

Now, this year, I tried not to see the signs for DeForest. There was no one to call. But even though I averted my head, I saw them. I knew where they were, for heaven’s sake. I’d driven this route so many times. Quietly, without reaching for my phone, I whispered as I passed each one, “You can’t see DeForest for de trees.”

I drove the rest of the way in silence.

The weekend was wonderful, with a great class and a comforting walk on the Kinstone labyrinth while I taught. I thought of Michael several times, as I passed things that we would normally do together. The Mississippi River, of course, and Pettibone Park. Granddad’s Bluff. I soaked in the hot tub where we soaked and I slept in the hotel where we slept. He was around every corner.

Like the labyrinth, it was a comfort. Even though he was missing. And there. And missing. And there.

Driving home on Monday, I began to steel myself for the DeForest sign. But I didn’t feel the dread I felt on the way there. Instead, I felt a bubble building in me. It took me a bit to recognize it as the bubble of laughter and anticipation.

The sign came. And I didn’t whisper. I opened my mouth and I bellowed, “MICHAEL! You can’t see DeForest for de trees!”

And the bubble exploded. I swear I heard his laughter blend with mine.

Oh, Michael. It may not be Paris. But we will always have DeForest.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.