Author: Kathie

***Sorry I’m late today! I was giving a presentation to the Women’s Club of Wisconsin. So much fun!***

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

Yesterday, April 19^th, was my “teachaversary”. I’ve been teaching now for 27 years, and the last 18, have been through my studio, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, though I am always appearing and teaching elsewhere.

27 years. I think that’s pretty good for someone who never ever said, while growing up, “I want to be a teacher.” Teaching wasn’t a goal, a dream, a passion, not even something that I thought would tide me over as I was earning my riches being a writer (HA!). I’d heard, over and over again, “Those who can’t, teach.” And I didn’t want to be someone who “can’t.”

27 years ago, I received a call from the Park & Rec department of my city. The person they had teaching their one creative writing class, Seniorscribes, for those 55 and up, suddenly just up and quit, fleeing for Ireland. Somehow, the Park & Rec people heard of me, and they called me to see if I might want to take over the class.

No.

55 and up? I was all of 35 years old then. I didn’t want to teach “old” people. They’d likely be writing about their operations and their grandkids! And I didn’t want to teach in the first place.

For some reason, I told my then-husband, who never turned down the opportunity to make money to support his gambling habit, particularly if he didn’t have to do the work. I finally agreed (gave up) and said I would do it, but that “if I’m ever teaching more than I am writing, I’m quitting!”

Well…

I walked into that classroom, full of angst and assumptions. I walked out excited, my mind spinning, and I couldn’t wait for the next week. My students weren’t the ones who had a lot to learn; I was.

Word got out that I was teaching, and that my students very quickly began to see success. By the end of my first year, I was teaching 65 hours a week, at Park & Rec, plus the University of Wisconsin – Waukesha, the College of Lake County, online for Writers’ Digest, Writers’ College, I-University, and many more. I began to develop my own private classes, went back to school to earn my MFA in fiction, and in 2005, did something else that I never wanted to do. I opened my own small business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop.

Teaching grew into a passion. A dream. A goal. I was, of course, teaching more than I was writing, but because I was teaching, the writing remained steady. I would never ever allow myself to teach writers if I wasn’t writing and publishing myself. It became a hallmark of AllWriters’ that, whatever class you took, you were led by someone who was succeeding at doing what you wanted to do. I was all about proving that teaching had nothing to do with the “can’t” in “Those who can’t, teach.” Teaching made me even more devoted to my own work.

I didn’t realize, when I got up yesterday morning, that it was my teachaversary. It was my day off, and it wasn’t until I slept in, lazily got up, wandered to the laptop in my jammies and shared my breakfast with my email, that I saw, in Facebook memories, that this was the day. I wasn’t on Facebook 27 years ago, but I’ve celebrated that anniversary in the years since getting on board with social media. So after reading about my own milestone, I sat there for a bit and stared at the screen.

27 years. 27 years! I finished my thirties, my forties, my fifties, and I moved into my sixties.

Other than writing (started in elementary school, published at 15) and parenting (39 years), there is nothing else I’ve done for a longer amount of time than teaching. I am so glad I started doing what I so didn’t want to do.

We often hear that we should “follow our passion”. And I have, with writing, without a doubt. But I think I’ve learned that you also have to be open to what comes along. Sometimes, you don’t recognize a passion until you’ve been doing it a while, and then suddenly, you realize you never want to stop doing it.

One of my passions has become helping my students achieve their passion, and they achieve their passion doing what I’m passionate about. Each publication by a student or client is like a grandchild. I am so proud.

27 years. How about that?

Let’s start pushing for 30.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

An addendum several hours after posting this – I just realized something. I need to be grateful to my gambling then-husband, because if he hadn’t insisted strongly that I take that first job teaching, I would never have learned of my deep love for it. Good lord. I don’t wanna be grateful to him. But for this, I will be.

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

This is going to be a different week. I’ve struggled coming up with a Moment because there is another experience that is dominating my think-space, and every time I tried to pick out a Moment of Happiness and write about it, it was like my brain skewered in my skull and turned me back to this THING. This THING that has me very unhappy and very angry.

And so I turned my focus instead to how can I look at this THING and get something positive out of it. Instead of marinating myself in the hurt and the anger, how can I turn it around and get something good.

And I did it. So maybe that’s part of the Moment too. Not just finding a positive moment to smile about, but looking deep into a not-so-good moment and turning it around. So we’re going to talk about that.

I have a t-shirt, a gift from my husband, that shows the spines of books that have been singled out and banned. There’s a scroll of words that say, “I’m with the banned.” I love this shirt. And now, I want to add some book spines. My own.

I’ve been banned before, sure. Banned and censored. I tend to write about things that are controversial, but that I feel are so important and need to be explored so that they can be understood and solved. But this week, I discovered a new banning – and it’s so personal as to be hurtful.

In 1978, I graduated from Waukesha North High School. I went to three different high schools due to my family moving a lot, and this one was my favorite. I was only there for second semester junior year and my senior year, but those three semesters changed my life.

While I was there, I took the following classes: Creative Writing, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Mystery & The Macabre, Growing Up In Literature and Reality. Some of the books that were included on the syllabi were Fahrenheit 451, The Catcher In The Rye, Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack, and a short story, Wanda Hickey’s Night Of Golden Memories. I ate these works of literature up like the fine meals they are. And of course, now they’re banned.

In Creative Writing, I met the teacher who is still my friend and cheerleader today. I learned what I could do, I learned what my “power” is, what my passion is. I was encouraged to raise my voice, to write what was important to me, to make a difference. I was told I had a responsibility to use my talent.

I have.

My gratitude to Waukesha North knows no bounds. They created a pivotal point in my life, a huge impact, and those three semesters have a lot to do with who I am today.

Over the years, I’ve returned often. I’ve been guest speaker in English classes and in the few writing classes they offer. Through the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, I created a program called Authors In The Schools, where I sent publishing authors into the middle and high schools of the Waukesha school district, and in other schools in southeast Wisconsin. During Authors In The Schools, I always brought myself to Waukesha North, and I was always welcomed.

In 2021, I was inducted into Waukesha North’s Wall of Stars. According to Waukesha North, to be included in the Wall of Stars, you must be an alumni and “must have demonstrated citizenship during and after high school, and must have made a significant contribution to the community and society.” I am very proud to be on that wall.

And my books? They were in the Waukesha North library, and in the library of another high school in Waukesha. They were donated to the school by my creative writing teacher, now retired, and I donated some as well.

Note the language there, please. “They were in the Waukesha North library…”

Early in the school year, it was in the local news that the school district made a “sweep” of the school libraries, removing those books that were on the most recent banned list, and old lists too, and other books that were considered inflammatory and inappropriate. I was incensed and horrified. But honestly, I never thought my books would be included. I was a local author. I was asked to make appearances at my school. I was on the Wall of Stars.

But when Waukesha made the news again in recent weeks, this time for our superintendent deciding that elementary school kids couldn’t sing “Rainbowland”, a song by Dolly Parton and Miley Cyrus about being nice and accepting of all people, my mind turned to that banning again. The superintendent, by the way, said it was because the rainbow is a symbol of LGBTQ+. I can’t help but wonder if he, or his children, ever watched Reading Rainbow. Or played with the Rainbow Brite doll. Or sang along with Kermit to “The Rainbow Connection”. Or gathered around the television to watch what used to be an annual showing of The Wizard of Oz with the classic scene where Judy Garland sings “Over The Rainbow”. My gosh, my generation was just inundated with rainbows, weren’t we?

Good grief.

So when I began to think about the banning, I realized that during this school year, I hadn’t received a single email from a student who checked out one of my books from the school library for a project, or just to read for fun. I usually receive several emails a year, but this year…nothing.

I dug through the internet, but couldn’t find anyplace where I would be allowed to search the library database, to see what was there. So this week, I picked up the phone and I called. I spoke to a librarian who knew exactly who I was. She cheerfully greeted me. But when I asked her if she could check to see if my books were still in the library, her voice grew very quiet.

“Oh.”

She checked, and all of my books are gone. Not a one left behind. Not at Waukesha North. Not at the other high school. Nowhere.

She said, “I’m so sorry. There was a sweep of the books earlier this year and –”

I said, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

We were silent for a moment, and then she repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

So am I. I’m up on the Wall Of Stars…but the students are no longer allowed to read my books.

And now here’s the really tough thing. When I was in high school, I was a part of the literary magazine, Polaris. Again, it was one of the things I so loved about this school. A newspaper and a literary magazine! (Neither of which are in existence today. Neither are those classes. And now, the books aren’t available either.) In my senior year, I wrote a short story set in Heaven. God was actually a huge computer, and Jesus was the “computer mechanic” – we didn’t have a word yet for a technician. Gabriel was a drug-using jazz trumpet player. The end of days came when the computer – God – went haywire and Jesus couldn’t fix him. The people of earth, seeing the signs in the sky, looked up in fear. But then it all stopped and life went on.

The story was accepted for the literary magazine. But word got out about its topic, and some parents protested, saying the story should be pulled because it was “sacrilegious”. But my creative writing teacher – and the school administration – stood behind me, and that story appeared.

And now, my books have disappeared.

The school that backed me now bans me.

And the ultimate irony – my new book, Hope Always Rises, is set in Heaven. Though God isn’t a computer, trust me.

So where is the Moment? The moment of happiness. Well, it’s simply this.

I am so glad I was born when I was. I am so glad I went to high school when I did. When the focus was on uplifting students, encouraging them, teaching them to think for themselves. I am so glad that Waukesha North was in my life when it was, giving me what I needed that I wasn’t getting anywhere else. I am so glad for my creative writing teacher, who told me I had a responsibility, because if I didn’t know that, hold it tight to my heart, I might just take this moment and quit. I might just not have the strength to keep on going, when a place that has always been so dear to me turns out to be part of a rainbow-bashing, dream-smashing organization.

I will always be grateful for my Waukesha North. My books deserve to be in that library. The kids that attend deserve to read them.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And just a note…I hope you will show support by attending the launch of Hope Always Rises. It will be both a live and a Zoom live-streaming event. It is hosted by the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books and Books & Company. It will be on April 27, starting at 6:00 p.m. central time, at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, Waukesha campus, 1500 N. University Drive, in Waukesha. If you prefer to attend on Zoom, here is the link:

Topic: Hope launch
Time: Apr 27, 2023 06:00 PM Central Time (US and Canada)

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85065147767

Meeting ID: 850 6514 7767
Passcode: HopeRises
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Please, please support those writers who are being targeted by small minds.

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

To sleep, perchance to dream – from Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

For as little as I sleep, it still remains one of my favorite things to do. I’ve long been sleep-challenged; insomnia is a frequent visitor, but I also just don’t have a lot of time for it. I go to bed somewhere between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning, and I’m typically up at 8:20, so that I have time to bolt a cup of coffee before my first client at 9:00. Recently, when I felt I was forgetting things more often than I should be, I went to see a neurologist.

She gave me a long verbal test, that started with telling me three words, which I was to repeat to her at the end of the test. They were apple, book, coat. The test itself was a battery, but I found I didn’t hesitate with any of the answers, with the exception of counting backwards by 7s. I told the neurologist I am absolutely no good at math, and I bungled it after the first couple: 100…93…ummm…  She laughed and said that was just fine, and at the end, she told me she’d never tested anyone who answered so quickly and so correctly. All of my answers were right, except for those darn 7s. She said the issue wasn’t with my memory, but with my sleep, that I had to start getting more hours in, and that I had to stop exercising so late at night, as that also likely disturbed my sleep quality.

I went home disgruntled. However, about one in the morning, I sent the neurologist a message: “By the way, you forgot to ask me about those three words. They were apple, book, and coat.”

She emailed back, telling me to go to bed.

So sleep. During the past two weeks, when I was home with mono, I slept a lot. I spent way more hours asleep than I did awake, and I reveled. There is nothing like waking up in a warm bed, the covers all curved around you, a purring cat on your shoulder (thank goodness she’s only 5 pounds) and the sun pouring in. Getting to lay there for a bit longer was such a luxury. There was no hurry to get up, as I had nowhere I needed to be. Sometimes, I drifted back to sleep. Other times, I reached for the book I was reading the night before and read until the need for food and coffee drove me out of the bed. Or I got up and fixed my breakfast and actually ate it in the kitchen, not at my desk, and I read the book, not my emails, while I did. I was clad in pajamas. Hair every which way. And I didn’t care.

But even better were the dreams. As I slept more than I was awake, I dreamed more than I was in reality. In the dreams, I visited past memories and I experienced new things. Some people were strangers to me, and others I knew so well. Many I hadn’t seen in a long time, and some, I knew I would never see again.

By far, my favorite dream occurred this week, after I was back to work and back to my hectic schedule. It was a dream where the impossible and the real came together.

My children are currently 39, 37, 36 (turning this weekend!), and 22. But in this dream, they were all the same age: 5. Looking at them was like looking at quintuplets.

They all wore the outfits I remember as my favorite for each, though the outfits didn’t fit the age sometimes. My oldest daughter Katie, for example, was wearing purple and white shorts, topped with a white shirt displaying a circus tent with purple and white doors. The doors could be opened, to reveal an elephant. Katie wore this when she was a year old. I bought it for her at K-Mart, because I knew she loved to play peekaboo. With the tent on her shirt, she quickly learned to pull open the doors and crow, “Eek-boo!” to her big brothers’ delight. And mine too. But in the dream, she was five, and she spoke the full word, “Peekaboo!”

Seeing those faces all together was just a dream, in the very real sense, and in the motherlove sense. The faces weren’t baby anymore, but they were still round and the cheeks were still soft. There were no angsty eye rolls yet. Just looks of absolute trust and love. Their hands fit completely in mine.

And then the even more impossible happened. My grandgirl, Maya Mae, walked in and stood next to the 5-year old who would become her father. And Maya, now 10, was 5 again as well.

Even in the dream, I knew the importance of the 5-year mark. Kindergarten. For the first three, Christopher, Andy, and Katie, kindergarten was a half day. For my youngest child, Olivia, and for my granddaughter, it was a full day. And for all of them, it was the day they stepped away for the first time.

I still remember the first day that all three of my older kids walked off to school together, without me going along to make sure that Katie knew where to go. School was a block away, and I could stand on the sidewalk in front of my house and watch them step onto school grounds. Katie looked over her shoulder at me. Andy, my middle child, tucked his arm around her and led her away. Christopher was nattering away nonstop, likely telling her every single one of his kindergarten experiences like the truly old man he was at 8 years old and in the 3^rd grade.

Olivia, on the first day of kindergarten, sat down at a table and then looked up at her father and me. “You can go now,” she said.

Yep. Since they’re 39, 37, and 36 (this weekend!), and 22, that 22-year old about to graduate college, I can go now too. Again.

But it was so nice, for the duration of that dream, to have them all there again, and in the most impossible way. Those faces. Those eyes. Those smiles. “Mommy!” from three of them. “Mama!” from one. “Gamma Kaffee!” from the last.

Thank goodness for sleep, and the way it makes memories do the most amazing tricks.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This was my second week laying low at home, recovering from mono. I spent most of my time sleeping, but also reading (for fun), writing, and watching The Waltons (again). In writing, I worked mostly on some guest blogs that I’m going to be doing as a blog tour, starting the end of April and into May.

One of the bloggers asked me to talk about how to handle writing about controversial issues. Another blogger asked me to write about being banned. Interestingly, this came right about the same time as the first serious review of Hope Always Rises, by Sublime Book Reviews. While the review was glowing, it included the following: “From a spiritual perspective, some may take offense with the portrayal of an almost human-like God, but I accepted it as a work of fiction and was intrigued by the vision of Heaven and its leader.”

Link to review: https://www.sublimebookreview.com/bookreviews/hopealwaysrises

This got me to thinking, and I have to admit that, while I expected some push-back over the way I presented those who choose to end their own lives, I hadn’t really thought about the way I wrote the character of God, who is very active in this book.

For someone who doesn’t belong to any church, who doesn’t consider herself religious, and who flinches at the stock phrase, “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual,” I’ve actually written about God quite a bit, and always as a character. This really surprised me, and I wouldn’t have made that statement about myself up until this week.

But my very first published story, written when I was fifteen years old, rewrote the story of Christ in 1970’s slang (it was 1975). It was accepted by the Catholic Herald Citizen, even though it was too long. They sliced it into four pieces and published it as a serial.

Later, when I was a senior in high school, I wrote a story where God was a computer and Jesus was his technician. The proverbial end of days came, God blew up, but the world went on. This story was accepted in the school’s literary magazine, and somehow, my topic got out and parents protested. But the administration stood by me and the story appeared.

Many years later, I wrote a series of magical realism stories about Jesus, who liked to hang out with the dinosaurs. In the first story of that series, I took on Christianity, evolutionism, reincarnation, and any number of things. God appears regularly as well, and in fact, in one story, he creates Prozac. (In Hope Always Rises, Hope mentions to her friend that she hasn’t seen Jesus yet, and the friend replies, “Oh, he likes hanging out with the dinosaurs.” You now know one of the many hidden tongue-in-cheek comments in the book.)

I also wrote a story called “North of Heaven”, where a country club blows up due to a gas leak, and as the people who die in the explosion are filing into Heaven, country club members realize they are going to be living with the people who worked in housekeeping, the kitchens, the lawnwork. I developed in that story my idea of condos being built every day in Heaven to house those that die on that particular day.

So it turns out I’ve written quite a bit about God, even though I don’t really consider myself a believer. A seeker, sure. But a believer? No.

But I’d like to be.

I’ve said often about this book that I hope Heaven, and God, are like the way I’ve portrayed them. If so, I’ve said, I’m looking forward to going to Heaven. God, as I presented him, is someone I’d really like to sit down and talk to. Others have called my version of God, “human in the most inhuman of ways.”

When the Sublime Books review came out, I began to worry a little. When you write about controversial things, you brace yourself for the comments and attacks that will undoubtedly come your way. And I was (am) braced. But then to find out there was a second thing I had to brace myself for, something that I hadn’t considered…sigh.

But then today, I received a message from a reader. A reader who is a lay minister. She was able to take the day off today, and she used it to, as she put it, sink into my book. She said, “Though I did struggle with the way God was presented at times.” When I thanked her, and then questioned her, she said, “He (God in the book) is all living and all caring.  You made me see how human he is, that is what the struggle was. It is a good thing.  Helps me be a bit more open minded.”

Wow. I haven’t stopped smiling yet.

Maybe I don’t need to be so braced after all.

(Yeah, I do.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And P.S. – be watching for the links for the guest blogs. I’m writing about the two topics I mentioned above, plus about how I managed to sell 14 books in 13 years to traditional presses, why I’m both a pantser and a planner (writers will understand that reference), how to balance a writing career with raising children, and how to deal with depression.

Also, the Jesus stories I mentioned above, as well as “North Of Heaven”, can be found in my short story collection, Oddities & Endings; The Collected Stories Of Kathie Giorgio.

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

So where the heck do you find a moment of happiness when you start the week being diagnosed with strep throat, and then a couple days later, get told you actually have mono, with strep as a secondary infection?

Why, at Starbucks, of course.

It didn’t start that way, though. Even when you’re sick, there are still things you have to do. For me, an extra chore – Semi, the car I wrote about last week, needed his emissions tested so that his license plate could be renewed. I’d put it off until the last possible minute, hoping the weather would get better, because I do not drive this car in the snow. My luck ran out this year – it’s still winter outside, but his emissions test is due by the 30^th. So despite being sick, since I’m the only driver in the house, I set out today to get Semi taken care of.

Semi’s battery was replaced last week, as it would no longer hold a charge. I knew that everything had to reset in the car with a change of battery, or the emissions test would fail. To do that, you drive. At forty degrees today, I drove with the top forlornly up and went twenty minutes down the freeway, twenty minutes back, and then to the place where emissions are tested.

Semi flunked.

The car guy asked me if I’d had work done on the car recently, and when I explained about the battery, he said, “You were so close. Everything was reset except for one setting. Just drive the car a couple more days and you shouldn’t have any problem.”

A couple more days, when I shouldn’t be out driving at all. The car shouldn’t be out in winter. I should be tucked under a blanket. Sigh.

So I forlornly drove my car with the top forlornly up and decided, as long as I was out, to get Starbucks. In the drive-thru, I called out my usual order. An extra-hot grande latte, with two pumps of cinnamon dolce, and whip, please. (Incidentally, in the news today, Starbucks announced it was retiring one of its most popular syrups. I held my breath until I read that it was raspberry. Whew.)

“Oh!” the barista said. “Kathie! Come on around!”

So I did.

Several of the baristas were crowded at the window. “We saw on Facebook that you’re sick,” the barista who took my order said. “We want you to feel better! Here! We made your drink a venti, and it’s on us!”

Well, forlorn went right out the window. It would have gone straight up, if the top had been down. But through the window was enough.

I drove home, with a smile, and more warming me than my extra hot latte and my car’s heated seats.

A short moment today, as I’m supposed to be, you know, resting.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Some see the signs of spring in a robin hopping on the newly green grass. Others see it in the raucous honking of geese, flying overhead to return to the opened water in the river. Some see it in blue skies, white clouds, more sunshine, the time change as we wind our clocks forward an hour. Some see it on the Spring Equinox, coming up next week.

And some, like me, see it in a 2012 Chrysler 200 LX convertible, top down, music up, iced latte in hand.

Some see it…but then that vision is obscured by 8 new inches of snow.

One of my students lives in Wyoming, and she told me this week that they’re just moving into the snow months. “Just moving into,” when they’ve already had 75 inches of snow this winter. “Just moving into,” when April is just ahead, a month (supposedly) of daffodils and tulips, lazy Sundays on the deck, and shirt-sleeve weather. I don’t know how my student stands it.

Here where I live in Wisconsin, I’ve been looking hard for signs of spring. I’ve seen the robins, briefly seen the green grass, there have been some blue skies and white clouds, some sunshine, definitely the time change…and that 8 inches of snow.

But then my friend Darrick came over. Darrick has been my car guy for over 20 years. And he was coming to install a new battery in  my 2012 Chrysler 200 LX convertible, who goes by the name of Semi. When I first brought Semi home, I also owned a Chrysler 300C Hemi, who I called my bodyguard. I gave Hemi the name of Hemi, because there was just no ignoring that engine. So when Semi showed up, my husband said since this was a 200, and Hemi was a 300, the new car was a Semi Hemi. And so Semi is still Semi, even though Hemi is no longer with me. I tearfully traded him in a couple years ago for a 2018 Chrysler 300S, named Barry.

I have a thing for Chryslers.

My very first car was purchased for a dollar from my father. It was a 1969 Chrysler Newport sedan. I was born in 1960, so this tank was only 9 years younger than me. If you’ve read my novel, In Grace’s Time, you know that one of the main characters is a 1969 Chrysler Newport 4-door sedan. When the publisher asked me for suggestions on the cover, I said the only preference I had was that it had to feature that very car, in tan, with a cream-colored roof. Look at the cover.

When that car, known as Tank, went to that great crushed-car Heaven in the sky, my then-husband and I, just out of college, could only afford a used Plymouth Volare, which we bought at a local Chrysler dealership. As we filled out the paperwork, I kept my eyes on a Chrysler LeBaron convertible. I swore I would own one someday.

I did. If you’re currently reading Hope Always Rises, Hope, in Heaven, is given back the car of her dreams – a hunter green 1995 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. That car, and my own, are called LeB, pronounced Luh-BEE.

Then came a Chrysler Sebring convertible, called SeB, pronounced Suh-BEE.

Then Hemi. Then Semi. Then Barry. (Oh, there’s a little white Volkswagen Beetle too, called Little B, bought for Olivia so she could chug herself back and forth to college. She feels about Beetles the way I feel about Chryslers. The fool.)

And now, in this winter of a just-dumped 8 more inches of snow, a convertible that wouldn’t start. At all. Dead. I don’t drive Semi in the winter time. He is pristine. He has never touched salt or snow. But his registration always needs renewing at the end of March, a mystery to me, since I didn’t buy him in March. The date is coming up quickly, and instead of steadily warmer temps and bright sunshine, there’s more snow. I knew I was going to have to bring him in for his emissions test very soon. But when I went to turn his key, no resulting roar sounded.

Dead.

So Darrick came over. He discovered that Chrysler puts batteries in very odd places – under the car. So he had to return with the tools that allowed him to hoist Semi up. I was upstairs working when he messaged me: “I’m done. Car in garage. Key in door. Garage door closed.” He warned me that I’d be needing new front brakes soon, and that I should have the lug nuts torqued in about 50 miles (what’s a lug nut? I thought that was a football player).

For a moment, I sat back in my office chair, closed my eyes, and thought about selling Semi. Living in Wisconsin, I only drive him a few months a year, though I don’t park him firmly in the garage until the temperatures are steadily in the 40s. The car has heated seats, and between those and a jacket, I can handle driving with the top down in 50-degree weather. Michael doesn’t drive; only I do. I don’t need two cars. I love Barry, my 300S. Semi, despite being over 10 years old, is beautiful. I could get some decent bucks for him.

I could.

But then I went downstairs and into the garage. Barry was waiting to take me to an appointment, but Semi, newly powered, was looking at me hopefully. I got in the front seat, twisted my key, and…

ROAR!!!! Hallelujah!

In that moment, despite being in the garage, despite the top being up, the blue skies opened above me. The sun shone down. I propped an elbow on the door and felt the wind buffeting my hair. I heard music, and I knew if I looked at my cupholder, there would be a Starbucks grande iced latte, with two pumps of cinnamon dolce syrup and topped with whipped cream. My winter coat and sweater disappeared and I was in a sleeveless top, the sun warm on my shoulders.

It was spring! Hell, it was SUMMER!

In my car, I raised both fists (knocking into the top) and shouted, “Woohoo!”

And then I turned Semi off. I didn’t drive him; outside of the garage was the newly fallen 8 inches of snow. And 36 degrees. Slush. Road salt.

But in my garage, it was spring. I patted the steering wheel, told Semi we’d be turned loose soon, and then went out into the cold. Where I patted Barry’s hood, so he’d know I love him too.

You get spring where you find it.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

About a year ago, I started arranging my schedule so that I could take one day off every week. It wasn’t the same day…it fluctuates, a different day every week. This way, I am able to keep my client and class load, but still have a day that I can breathe. And my clients and students know that every five weeks, they will have a week off to either write ahead or take a break. It’s worked out very well, all things considered.

The way I arranged the order of the days, the week I have Friday off is followed by the week I have Monday off. So I regularly get a four-day weekend, kind of. A lot of times, the Saturday of that “four day weekend” is a Saturday that I teach, as I teach two Saturdays a month. But that’s fine.

Last week, I had one of these four-day weekends that included a free Saturday. My husband, who knows that I’ve been exceptionally busy and stressed lately, said, “You should go somewhere. Do something. Something fun that makes you happy.”

So I thought about that. And in the end, I did do something that I find fun and that makes me happy.

I stayed home. And I thoroughly cleaned, rearranged, and redid my office/writing space. It took me all day Friday, all day Saturday, and part of Sunday. Oh, I also went through my clothes closet and took out every sweater that I haven’t worn this winter and donated them.

I am a creative person, but I am also an organized person. My imagination and creativity goes crazy when I write, when I paint, and when I think about student manuscripts. But my organization makes my external world orderly so that my internal world has permission to go crazy. I write lists. I figure out an order for things and I do them in that order. I check the weather so I am prepared. Before I go to bed, I pick out what I’m going to wear the next day. When I was in college, I came home from the first day of classes and wrote in my calendar when papers and exams were due throughout the semester. And then I finished my papers at least two weeks prior to those dates.

And so this last Thursday, when I finished with my final client, I spent some time standing at the entry to my writing space, figuring out what I wanted to do. And then I spent the next few days doing it, even though some of it was very hard.

Several years ago, I bought a burgundy chaise for my room. I pictured myself sitting in it, my legs gently extended, ankles crossed, while I read student manuscripts. That vision was interrupted quickly by a big 18-pound orange cat. An orange cat who is a shorthair, but who somehow has more hair than any other cat I’ve ever known. And a cat who decided his place in this house was laying on my red chaise, his legs gently extended, all four ankles crossed, and orange hair being dumped everywhere, top to bottom.

I tried to keep him off. I covered the chair with aluminum foil. I took some extra car floor liners and laid them upside down on the chair, so that the rubber points stuck up. Edgar found ways to shove these things aside and still make room to stretch out. Eventually, I gave up and just set myself to vacuuming the chair often. But it wasn’t often enough, and soon the chair was more orange than burgundy, and no vacuum, even the ones with special pet attachments, could do a thing. I gave up further and only worked at my desk or downstairs in the living room, in my recliner.

Recently, when we switched storage rooms locations, I reacquainted myself with my rocking chair, the one I bought 40 years ago when I was pregnant with my first child. It came from a resale shop and it was covered with thick blue paint. My then-husband set to work stripping it and staining it, and when it was done, I proceeded to rock a total of four babies. Now, I looked at it and ached to bring it home. I admit, my desire was not all nostalgia, but devious planning.

• the orange cat is old now and would not be able to jump up onto it. I’d bought a set of stairs for him so he could still reach the red chaise. I would not use the stairs by a rocking chair because…
• …it rocked. If he tried to get on it, it would rock back and forth, and likely dump him to the ground.

So the Got Junk people came and removed the more-orange-than-burgundy chaise. I brought the pet stairs to my storeroom, just in case, and then brought the rocking chair home. Where I proceeded to rip into the rest of my office.

I cast a hard eye on the knick-knacks on the bookshelves behind my desk. Only the most loved remained. Many were hard to let go…but I did it, and I think of them being loved in new homes.

I went through my long bookshelf, given to me by a lovely poet when she downsized, and got rid of the things I was keeping for no real reason. Old calendars. Books I thought I would read, but no longer had the desire to, because there were too many other books I wanted to read. Then I moved a shelf that holds 9 cubbies into another room and brought in a small table to put next to my rocking chair.

And I did the dirty work. I didn’t dust, I washed, scrubbing down shelf after shelf, furniture surface after furniture surface. I drove two slivers from my antique writing table into the palm of one hand, and one sliver still remains. I shredded paper. I got rid of things that I bought once, thinking I would use them, and I never used them, but I kept them just in case I might.

Whew.

The result:

One unhappy big orange cat. But a place that I’ve fallen in love with again, where I can work without the pressure of too much stuff bearing down on me.

But I do feel bad about the cat. He sits, looking at the rocking chair, and then he sighs and curls up on the rug. I’ve bought two cat beds for him so far, both of which came from online and when they arrived, were much too small. This weekend, I’m going to a pet store where I can eyeball the beds and actually find one that is large enough for a now 16-pound cat (he lost two pounds during his illness a short time ago).

But spending a four-day weekend having fun and doing what makes me happy?

Done.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, anyone who follows me on my Facebook page knows what this week’s moment is going to be about. (https://www.facebook.com/kathie.giorgio.5, by the way)

Last Saturday night, at approximately 10:45 p.m., I met, face to face, voice to voice, breathing the same air…Richard Thomas.

AKA John Boy Walton.

If I was a squealing type of person, you would have heard my squeal around the world. But I’m not. I was actually very calm, very collected. And very, very happy.

I started actually watching the Waltons when I was pregnant with my first child. I was 23 years old. I’m 62 now. So my connection to the Waltons, and to John Boy in particular, could be said to have gone on for 39 years. But in fact, I first felt myself connected to John Boy in 1972, when the show first aired. I didn’t watch the show then. But the character of John Boy reached to me from the television in the living room of my family home, up the stairs, down the hall, and into my pink room, where I sat at my desk, writing.

My parents watched the Waltons. I didn’t, first, because it wasn’t “cool” to watch them, and second, because I was too busy writing. But John Boy and I became friends, just the same.

He was the first person I “knew” who was doing what I was doing…sitting alone in my room, writing, when I could have been outside playing, I could have been downstairs watching television, I could have been riding my bike, I could have been doing pretty much anything else, doing what most kids my age were doing, in my neighborhood, right outside my window.

But I was writing. And so was John Boy.

While I wrote, the sound of the show drifted up the stairs, and I listened to my family watch The Waltons. And on the show, John Boy was in his room, writing, listening to his family listen to the radio.

I remember this moment so well. Lifting my head and looking out the window. And thinking, I’m not the only one. It was a moment that happened over and over again, until I sat down to watch the show myself in 1983.

At that point, I’d graduated from college with my degree in creative writing. I was married and working part-time, and pregnant with my first child. I worked every day until noon, came home for lunch, and then wrote for several hours. Pregnancy pulled at my energy and in the late afternoon, I took a break to sit on the couch and watch television. Where I discovered The Waltons, in reruns, on the Family Channel.

At the time, I was scared. For the first time, I was on my own with writing. There were no teachers to encourage me. I was no longer in school. There was only me, my Royal Selectric electric typewriter, my worn copy of The Writers Market, my imagination, and rejection letter after rejection letter. I was dogged and determined, but I no longer had “coaches” cheering me on. At college, I’d met others with my same drive and passion, but now, just like I was in that pink bedroom, I was the only one I knew who was doing what I was doing.

And then there was John Boy again.

Suddenly, I had company.

Over the years, I watched The Waltons on television. Then, I owned the entire series on VHS. Now, I have it on DVD. I visited the real Waltons Mountain, met Earl Hamner’s aunt who took me outside the Waltons Mountain Museum to show me what a trailing arbutus looked like. I corrected the tour guide, who got a detail on one of the episodes wrong. As time went on, eBay was born, and I collected Waltons memorabilia. The lunch box, the board game, the Viewmaster reels, the Little Golden books, coloring books, the Barbie-type dolls, the paper dolls. My favorite piece was a book published in 1974, of poetry by Richard Thomas.

I was bowled over when I realized that the real person behind the portrayal of John Boy was also a writer.

I was even more bowled over when the real John Boy, Earl Hamner himself, friended me on Facebook.

And of course, while I was surrounded by rejection letters, I went on to publish. This week, this past Tuesday, my 14^th book, a novel called Hope Always Rises, was released. On page 11 of that book, my main character, Hope, newly arrived in Heaven, turns on the television and asks to watch the first two episodes of The Waltons. Because, of course, my vision of Heaven would not be complete without that show.

So I found myself this last Saturday at the Performing Arts Center in Appleton, Wisconsin. On stage was the tour of To Kill A Mockingbird. Playing Atticus Finch: Richard Thomas.

John Boy.

A friend purchased a ticket for me, and I gladly drove the two hours north to the theatre. In the weeks before, I did everything I could to orchestrate a meeting. Richard Thomas isn’t active on social media, but the actress that played Erin, Mary Beth McDonough, is. I emailed her, and she advised me to contact the theatre. I did, but heard nothing back. In the end, I just went to the stage door after the show…and waited.

And then there he was.

I did not squeal.

But I did tell him of our connection. While we talked, his eyes never left mine. And then I reached into my purse and pulled out that little poetry book and asked him to sign it. I also pulled out Hope Always Rises and offered it to him.

He asked me to sign it too. I did.

To Richard Thomas,

Thank you for changing my life.

Kathie Giorgio

And then he asked me if he could hug me.

I’m sure you can imagine what I answered.

Full circle moment.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Last week, I received a phone call from someone who told me he decided it was time to write his book, something he’d been wanting to do for decades. He was dealing with cancer, he said, and the outcome was uncertain, so he needed to do it now, or possibly never do it at all. I arranged a face to face appointment and he came in early this week.

He moved slowly past my window. I could tell he was in pain. If I had to guess, I would say he was in his early 70s. When he opened my outside door, I called out to him to come right on in and make himself at home.

He moved around my classroom table and chose to sit to my left. Placing his manuscript on the table with a sigh, he sat down, and then turned directly to me. “I have to tell you, first of all,” he said before even saying hello, “I just finished reading your book, The Home For Wayward Clocks.” He paused, and then said, “Your book made me cry. And it’s the only time I’ve cried over a book in my entire life.”

So when you write, there is hopefully praise for your book. And then there is PRAISE. Quietly stated. Not gushing. Just stated as fact, in two simple sentences.

Wow.

We spent our time talking about his life, and about his need to write his book now. His feeling that he’s running out of time. “I don’t know that I want to publish,” he said. “I just want to get it written.”

By the time he left, he knew, and I knew, that we would do just that. We’ll get it down.

I am very aware of the timing of his arrival in my life. The Home For Wayward Clocks was my very first novel, accepted when I was 49 years old, published when I was 50. Next week, my 14^th book, 7^th novel, Hope Always Rises, will be released. And I am now 62 years old.

This man wants to get his book done because he doesn’t know the outcome of his cancer. About the time I turned 60, I noticed a difference in my own attitude toward what I was writing. Everything I write now is written with the sense that it could be the last thing I ever write. Consequently, I pour everything I know, everything I’ve learned, into whatever I’m working on. As a result, Hope Always Rises is the best thing I’ve ever written.

Though at the time, thirteen years ago, I thought The Home For Wayward Clocks was the best thing I’d ever written. And that was without the pressure of wondering if it would be the last.

And now, that man cried over it, for the first time in his life.

I think, since turning 60 and moving on to where I am now, at 62, I’ve been writing, and possibly living, with forward-facing blinkers on. If you don’t know what blinkers are, beyond your turn signals in your car, they are what you see horses wearing alongside their eyes, that prevents them from seeing to their left and right. I have only been looking at the next thing, not what I’ve done that led me to here.

For all I know, Hope Always Rises might be my last piece of writing that people read. Or…it might be Don’t Let Me Keep You, the novel I’m working on right now. Maybe it will be “River’s Edge”, a poem that was just accepted for publication this morning, or “Retreat”, a poem that was accepted for publication a couple weeks ago. Or “The Greatest Of These” or “First”, short stories that were just accepted to a magazine and to an anthology over the last few weeks.

The point is, after I escorted this man out my door, I came up here and stood for a bit, looking at the shelf where my published books sit between A to Z bookends given to me by my husband. I tapped each book, quietly saying the titles out loud.

And then I put the blinkers away.

Everything I’ve ever written, I put everything I know and I’ve learned at all those points into it. Instead of just looking forward to what I hope the next piece is, I need to broaden my view to all that has come before.

The Home For Wayward Clocks made this man cry over a book for the first time in his 70-odd year life.

And, to broaden my view further, I am going to pour everything I know and I’ve learned into him too, as he works to get his own book written.

I think I’m going to like seeing without blinkers.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.