Author: Kathie

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

I don’t know how many non-writers know this, but when writers have a new book coming out, that book literally arrives at our door. Because there are events, i.e. book clubs, conferences, and so on, that don’t have booksellers associated with them, writers need to have their own copies of their books on hand.

So this week, when I received an email from UPS saying I had a delivery from my publisher, my heartrate instantly revved.

Hope was coming!

People have asked me if the fourteenth book (and all the others, all the way back to #2) is as exciting as Book #1. Of course it is. No matter who you are, no matter how many books you’ve written, the book you’re working on is not guaranteed to come out. Even writers with multiple book contracts can’t say with absolute certainty that their book will come out. The publisher could read the book (that you’ve put everything you have into) and say, “Hmmm. Nah. Not quite what we want. Send us the next one.” A multiple book deal only says it will publish multiple books. It doesn’t refer to specific books.

So every book written is written with uncertainty coursing through the writer’s veins.

This book, #14, aka Hope Always Rises, had its own special level of uncertainty, as written about in the 1/19/23 blog. And more happened after that blog, that basically involved me wrestling the book out of the grips of the original unscrupulous publisher to lay it into the hands of the publisher that believed in the book and in me and rescued me. I’m not going to go into details here, but leave it as this was the most stressful, unbelievable series of events I’ve ever experienced in a publishing career that spans back to 1975.

So knowing the book was actually on its way to my front door…well, I lived my title. Hope always rises.

I fell ill this week, no doubt caused by the amount of stress I’d been through, and so when I received the notice from UPS that the book was arriving the next day, I was elated…but also worried. Our UPS driver has a habit of ringing the doorbell, waiting two seconds, and then leaving with the package, as if I didn’t have three stories to run down to get to the front door. And this time, with my illness, I was likely to be in bed and sound asleep when the doorbell rang.

I needed to see that book. To make it real. To count its pages the way a mother counts her new baby’s toes.

So I left a note on the front door, telling the driver I was ill and to please wait after ringing the doorbell.

On Tuesday, the doorbell rang. I shot out of bed and ran down the stairs, already seeing that no one stood on the outside. “No!” I yelled. “Don’t you dare leave!” But when I flung open the door, no one was there.

But there was a stack of boxes.

I hauled them in, then opened the first one. And there it was.

Hope Always Rises.

Book #14. Novel #7.

Every book, for me, is a validation. My father once told me that my college education, a degree in English with a creative writing emphasis, was the biggest waste of his money in his life. When I first went to college, I was told that if I majored in creative writing, my parents would not support me. I had to major in something that would get me a job, and I wasn’t good enough to treat writing as anything other than a hobby. In my second semester of my sophomore year, after majoring in special education (with a focus on autism, ironically enough) and then switching to a social work major, I changed my major again to what I wanted to be. To who I already was. Creative writing. A writer. I told my parents that if they no longer supported me, I would drop out of school and work until I could afford to return. This was one of the scariest, bravest moments of my life.

My parents did continue to support me, but whenever someone asked them what I was majoring in, they said, “Oh, she’s getting married.”

By the time my parents passed away, my father first, my mother second, I had hundreds of short stories published in fine magazines. I’d become well-known as a short story writer. But both parents were already gone by the time my first book, The Home For Wayward Clocks, was released. It’s a regret, really, that they never held any of my books, that they never saw me present to an audience, and that they never saw me start a small business, focused on creative writing and writers, that is anything but small.

But here’s the thing. Of all the doubts I’ve had in my life, over what I can do, over what I should do, over my own worth, I have never ever ever doubted my ability as a writer. I knew what I could do. I knew what I was capable of. The day I told my parents that I was going to put my heart and soul into writing, into myself, was the day I fully felt comfortable in my own skin. I was in the right place. I was doing the right thing.

Of course, there have been knock-downs. But I don’t see these moments as a reason to doubt myself. I see them as insults. Many times, I’ve said out loud, “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

And so, after a battle I was never expecting, never even knew could happen, I was holding my latest book in my hands. Book #14. Novel #7. And I’m at work on the next one.

Hope Always Rises.

Indeed it does.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Hope Always Rises will be officially released on February 28, 2023, by Black Rose Writing publishers. The launch will be on April 27^th, as a Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books Special Event. It will be at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, Waukesha campus, in the Hub at 7:00. We will be joined by a national suicide prevention organization, and I will be interviewed on stage by Philip Chard, well-known therapist and columnist with his Out Of My Mind column. Details will be appearing soon.

Hope Always Rises is on pre-release sale at the publisher’s website, when you enter the code PREORDER2023. https://www.blackrosewriting.com/literary/hopealwaysrises?fbclid=IwAR2ZxIhHXbuHA1XuJOJbdrxkhR3xfs1AhFYBwRnWwlmgZyNWbfjLP_yUTf4

It can also be pre-ordered for Kindle on Amazon.

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

There are so many milestones when it comes to raising a child, and even to enjoying a grandchild. But there are also so many milestones that we don’t hear about, or that we don’t see celebrated in the baby memory books or in greeting cards.

This last weekend, Olivia and I went what she calls “thrifting” and what I call “scrounging”. Which means we headed out to our favorite St. Vinnie’s and started digging through “stuff”. But most importantly, we dug through “clothes”. Olivia was looking specifically for some nice button-down blouses. She will likely be interviewing soon for grad school, and possibly for jobs, so she wanted to prepare.

She found some nice shirts really quickly, but then I suggested we look for some pants as well, and maybe even shoes. Going through the racks, I found some lovely professional slacks, in herringbone and in pinstripe and a solid. Olivia, who is typically in leggings or jeans, looked at them a little doubtfully. But off we went to the fitting room.

Which should have been called the transformation room. Because my little girl, who I’ve seen go through some mini-transformations with the purchase of such things as prom and homecoming dresses, suddenly went through a major transformation. She became…a professional person. A professional adult.

Wow.

In the mirror, she turned this way, and she turned that way, and in my eyes, she turned completely into a new realm. She became someone who, someday soon, would have a daily wardrobe of, not jeans and t-shirts or hoodies featuring bands, video game characters or Anime characters, but crisp blouses and tailored slacks. She wouldn’t wear her Vans sneakers, but nice low-heeled oxfords or loafers. She wouldn’t haul a backpack over her shoulders, but a purse, or maybe even a briefcase.

She looked in the mirror and smiled. I looked in the mirror and marveled.

Ohmygoodness. The road it took to get here. But the road we never doubted.

And then there was the grandchild. Grandgirl Maya Mae, formerly known as Grandbaby Maya Mae, turned ten years old a few weeks ago. A decade of grandparenthood already gone by! Her parents gave her her heart’s desire for her present: a cell phone.

Which made my head spin a bit. Ten years old. A cell phone?

When my big kids, now 39, almost 37, and almost 36, were young, cell phones were really just coming into the picture. By high school, my kids really wanted their own phones, but I held off until they were in college, or in one son’s case, tried college, it wasn’t a fit, and he moved into a professional life. I just didn’t understand the need for the phones before then. I didn’t have a cell phone. The landline hanging on the wall would do just fine, thank you.

But then Olivia, born when my big kids were 16, 14, and 13, was a different story. By the time she was a teenager, cell phones were commonplace. I had one. My husband had one. The big kids, now adults, each had one. So in high school, Olivia received her first phone. But I never would have considered it in elementary school or middle school.

And now, Grandgirl Maya Mae has her own phone. And she’s ten years old. I shook my head with the puzzle of it.

Since the pandemic began, I’ve Zoomed with Maya most every night, and we read a book. Right now, we’re devouring our way through all of Katherine Applegate’s books, which are stunning. Typically, I message her parents at 8:30, asking them if Maya is ready. Then she heads to Zoom and so do I.

But now…I could text Maya directly. She has her own phone.

Which led to this interaction:

ME: All set, big kid?

MAYA: Yep!

MAYA: Yep!

MAYA: Yep!

Me: On my way!

MAYA: Yay!

MAYA: Yay!

MAYA: Yay!

(we read on Zoom)

Then…

ME: Guess what? I just ordered 3 more books by Katherine Applegate! And her new book is coming out in May!

MAYA: Yay!

MAYA: Yay!

MAYA: Yay!

Me: Love you, grandgirl.

MAYA: Love you too!

MAYA: Yay!

Me: Yay!

A whole ‘nother way to communicate. And a whole ‘nother way to see her enthusiasm for reading and…for talking to me. Grandma Kathie, formerly Gamma Kaffee.

And a whole ‘nother way to see our connection. Any time I want. Even when she’s not in front of me.

YAY!

Milestones. A part of motherhood, a part of grandmotherhood. Amazing.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

I have to tell you that, despite living from the age of six years old to twelve in the way northern part of Minnesota, and from age twelve until now in Wisconsin, I hate snow. It was okay to play in when I was younger, sure. But now…ick. By the time I was in high school, I had absolutely no love for the foofy white wet freezing stuff.

When I lived in Minnesota, I was immersed in snow culture. My elementary school flooded a sizable section of the playground every winter to make a skating rink, and it was commonplace to pack your ice skates along with your lunch and schoolbooks as you left in the morning. There was a warming house built right into the school that was open after school let out and on weekends. The school was also built into an amazing sledding hill. I had an old wooden sled, which did really well on the snow, but also this weird rectangle of blue plastic that skimmed the surface and just flew. I had a saucer. And we had this thing that I was told was a Finnish toboggan. It never did much of anything in the snow but look pretty.

Sure, I went out and played. I built snowforts and snowmen and made snow angels. I wore boots and snowpants and really heavy jackets and mittens and a winter hat that had eyeholes and a mouth hole cut out of it so my face could stay warm. The little town I lived in, Esko, had a winter festival that included huge draft horses pulling sleighs and I loved anything to do with horses. If I wasn’t in the sleigh, I was sitting on the snowbank at the end of our property, watching the horses go by and begging for a chance to feed them a carrot.

I moved to Wisconsin in the 6^th grade and when recess was no longer a part of winter, my love for snow soured. It became about shoveling and slogging through unplowed snow to the school bus stop, standing there in boots that were ugly, my feet wrapped in old Wonder Bread bags to keep my socks dry, which they never did. My bellbottoms would get soaked and sometimes freeze, and they’d dry in time for me to be dropped off after school and have to retrace the slog home.

Then came college at the University of Wisconsin  – Madison and having to walk over that entire huge campus in the dead cold of winter, and poof, any romantic notions about snow were gone. This was followed by having to get my own children dressed and ready for school, and well…I hate snow.

But then this last Saturday.

It was the day after the AllWriters’ first Friday Night Free For All since the beginning of the pandemic, and it doubled as the studio’s 18^th birthday party. It was a great event, and I was as satisfied as if I had a fabulous meal. I was off on Monday, so on Saturday, there was nothing I had to do. We were predicted to get up to four inches of snow. We got nine. Michael was at work. Olivia stayed at school. I was home alone, except for two sleepy cats and a lazy dog. And I did…absolutely nothing.

Sitting in my recliner in my living room, I looked out our floor to ceiling windows and just watched the snow fall. Remember any scene in any movie or television show that features snow, and how the characters turn out the lights and look outside and it’s just so silent and beautiful? That’s what it was like. There was no traffic, because no one was going out. The snowplows hadn’t started yet, and wouldn’t, until the next morning when the snow stopped. It put me in mind of, in particular, one of the last scenes in A Christmas Story, where it’s the end of Christmas day and Mom and Dad are on the couch, drinking wine, and they shut out the lights and look outside where it’s snowing. And Mom says, “Oh! Isn’t that beautiful!” And it was.

My living room was A Christmas Story beautiful.

I didn’t harken back to the days I played in the snow, when it was fun, but also cold, wet, and noisy. I didn’t harken back to walking around campus, mitten in mitten with my boyfriend, when it was romantic, but also cold, wet, and noisy. I didn’t even harken back to the days of going out with my kids, helping them build snowmen, watching them make snow angels, and knowing that my dryer was soon to be filled with snowpants, jackets, mittens, and hats. Supposedly moisture-resistant winter boots were soon to be leaned up against heat vents, trying to get the insides dry before the next day’s trek to school.

I did remember the awful winter when my now ex-husband threw all the wet stuff in the dryer, set it for blasting hot, and melted every plastic zipper in the winter jackets and snowpants. It was February, and I had to face the awful task of trying to find winter clothes for my kids, when the stores were full of swimming suits and tank tops and shorts, to remind us all that summer was coming – though not for months. Thank goodness for Goodwill. The event brought tears at the time, but set me to laughing now, at the memory. I wondered if my son knew not to throw Grandgirl Maya Mae’s wet outerwear into the dryer and set it to blast furnace.

So I just sat there, warm, dry, and happy, surrounded by quiet, and absolutely no need to go out in it.

And that made all the difference. I could appreciate it. And I did. Oh! How beautiful.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, actually, not so much. This is going to be very short. I was in a car accident last night. I was at a full stop when I was rearended by a Ram truck going full speed. Driver was a kid still on his probationary license. And of course, he has no insurance. My car, my beloved 2018 Chrysler 300S named Barry, because he’s a berry color and if he could speak, he’d sound like Barry White, will need a new rear driver’s side side panel, a new bumper, and I’m not sure what else yet. I’m being treated for whiplash and muscle strain. Today, I went into a full fibromyalgia flare-up, so I’m basically just one big ache.

It hurts to move. And my shoulder feels like a dead weight on my neck, and so it hurts to type.

So this is all I’m going to say today, for my Moment. I’m glad my car wasn’t totaled. I’m glad I’m not more injured. I’m glad I’m alive.

And in the middle of all this today, I received what my new cover of my novel, Hope Always Rises, will look like. I wrote about that book last week. And today…I saw its face.

And I read my own words. Hope Always Rises.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” Julian of Norwich.

“Hope Always Rises.” Kathie Giorgio.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I often say to my students and clients that writers are the most confounding conundrum of absolute ego (“I’m writing the best book/story/poem/memoir/whatever! It’s genius!”) and an absolutely crippling lack of self-confidence (“Why did I ever think I could do this? It’s a waste of time. It’s waste, period. It should be in the garbage. It’s not good enough for the garbage. I’m not good enough for garbage.”). I see this over and over and over again.

And of course, though this surprises many people, I experience it myself. Over and over and over again.

One would think that by the time a fourteenth book is due to come out, there have been awards and exclamations and stories performed on stage and poems included in art exhibits, that the self-doubt would be completely gone.

Oh, no. Dream on.

Fairly recently, I went through a deep crisis of confidence. My novel, All Told, was released. For the first time, I had a hardcover edition. I’d been given an advance. All looked right with the world. But then, when I went to turn in my next novel, Hope Always Rises, the publisher told me they’d decided to turn the publishing house into a hybrid. For those that don’t know, this means that the author pays a partial, but substantial, hunk of the publishing costs. It’s a step up from self-publishing, but a step down from traditional publishing. As a longtime firm believer that writers should be paid for their work, I said no and walked away.

And then realized that this was like starting all over again. Where was I going to go with the new book?

It only took me two weeks to land a new publisher, which was a boost to the ego. But it remained dented, along with a sense of exhaustion and distrust. I wondered for the billionth-billionth time if I was doing the right thing. All Told was my 12^th book. Shouldn’t I be able to just focus on writing by now, and not on who was going to take what I wrote?

I had trouble writing. I’ve always said that I’ve never had writer’s block, that I don’t believe in it, and that’s still the case. This was not writer’s block. People with what they call writer’s block want to write, but they don’t know what to write about. I knew my topic. I knew what I wanted to say. But I simply didn’t want to write.

I thought I was done. Which pretty much shook me to my toes.

But I did start something new. When I can make myself sit at my desk and work, I leave with great enthusiasm for what I’ve done. But the next day, it’s a fight to sit back down again. Still, this newest book has eked past 100 pages now.

Then this week happened. A message from my publisher came through, saying there was a medical emergency, but that they thought the release date was still safe. However, they offered me the chance to dissolve my contract.

What?

The odd combination of that – the book is safe, but you can dissolve the contract – set all sorts of red flags off in me. If I stayed with the publishing house and something happened to the publisher, my book could be held up for a long time, even years, before everything was straightened out. I knew writers this happened to.

But…to be without a publisher again? When the release date was set and an amazing launch was already scheduled?

I didn’t sleep at all that night. Again, the questions hit me hard. Shouldn’t this be easier by now?

In the morning, after talking to a few people, I emailed one of my previous publishers. A favorite. I explained everything that was happening, and that the book was ready to go. “Would you consider publishing it?” I asked. “It has to be out in time for its launch. The launch is a pretty big deal.” Which it is. It’s slated for April 27.

Within a half-hour, this publisher answered. “Let’s do it!” he crowed. He sent a contract.

For a book he hadn’t even read yet. He sent a contract based on…me.

I think I sobbed for at least an hour.

And then…and then…

Today, an envelope showed up in the mail. It was from a literary magazine I love, called Thema. Inside was an acceptance for my short story, “First”, which I submitted for their “So That’s Why!” issue. And you know what that story is?

It’s part of a chapter in the newest book that I’m writing, the one I have to convince myself to sit down to write.

So. Within a 48-hour period, I rode the waves of devastation to elation. My novel, Hope Always Rises, a book which I can unabashedly say is my most beloved, most favorite, most everything I’ve ever written, is safe and coming out on time, with a publisher who hasn’t even read the book, but who has absolute faith in me. And a story, lifted from the novel I’m currently writing, the novel I wasn’t even sure I had the energy to do, is coming out in one of my most favorite magazines.

These moments, these sand dollar moments (a reference you’ll understand if you’ve read this blog or read my book, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays) are the ones that keep me going. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, one word in front of the other, one page in front of the other, one more day of being who I am, despite so many crippling years as a kid, being told that I wasn’t anything.

Oh, I’m something.

Now…I can’t wait to sit down at my desk and work.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Late at night, when I am finally done with work for the day, I like to spend an hour or so in my recliner, watching a television show. It’s usually a blast from the past. I’ve watched the Gilmore Girls a few times through now, and Scrubs, the Bob Newhart Show where he plays a psychologist, the Mary Tyler Moor Show, This Is Us (not too far in the past yet), The Good Place three times and Parenthood twice. Recently, I was delighted to see that the old television show Family is on a free streaming channel, Tubi.

Family ran from 1976 to 1980. It featured Sada Thompson and James Broderick as the parents, Meredith Baxter Birney as the oldest daughter, Gary Frank as the sensitive middle brother (a wanna-be writer, of course), and Kristy McNichol as the precocious youngest child. In the last two years of the show, Quinn Cummings joined the cast, for reasons I can’t remember – she was an orphaned child who became the new “cute kid” when Kristy McNichol began to outgrow that role.

I remember being enamored of this show. I was in love with Willie, the writer/brother, and I wanted to be Buddy, the precocious beyond intelligent youngest sister. Unlike The Waltons, my favorite television show of all time, Family was “cool” to watch, and so I actually emerged from my room to do so. The Waltons, by the way, ran from 1972 to 1981, and so despite not being “cool”, it lasted far longer. It’s even referred to in Family, when Buddy says to Willie, “Don’t go all John Boy on me.” Personally, I think more of us need to go all John Boy. But I digress.

So I started watching this with vague memories and great anticipation. That changed quickly, but despite my disappointment, it still counts as my moment of happiness.

In the first few episodes, I was shocked as this family, meant to be a role model for viewing audiences, yelled at each other to shut up and called each other stupid. The father told the wife to shut up, the wife told the husband to shut up, they both told the kids to shut up, the father told Buddy she was stupid, Willy told Buddy she was stupid, the father told the mother she was stupid, they all told Willie he was stupid, and on and on and on. Really? That was considered a wholesome family? In a way, it explained a lot about that time period.

But then, a few nights ago, I watched as Buddy babysat for her big sister’s baby. Nancy, the sister, was going through a volatile divorce, one that involved both she and her husband smacking each other upside the head in front of the judge. Wonderful. But Buddy, playing with baby Timmy, explained her worries to her brother Willie. “What’s going to happen to Timmy?” she asked. “Boys that grow up without fathers become homosexual.”

My jaw hit my lap.

And Willie, wise, sensitive, wanna-be writer Willie, didn’t tell her that this was ridiculous, that you don’t “become” homosexual, and that it’s not a cause/effect of divorce. No. He said, “Timmy will be okay. That’s not how you become homosexual.”

And my jaw fell through my recliner to the floor.

This episode was in the first season, so 1976. I was either 15 or 16 years old when I saw this for the first time. And I don’t remember being shocked by it, or even questioning it.  Now, I was glad my daughter Olivia wasn’t in the room when I saw this, as she likely would have gone through the roof.

So there’s been a lot I’ve been horrified by in our country and our world over the last few years. I’ve been shocked over the country’s attitudes toward racism, LGBTQ+, women’s rights, gun control, violence, even the reaction to the pandemic. The January 6^th  insurrection. I’ve been horrified, sickened, infuriated, and many times, felt completely helpless. I’ve even seriously considered giving up writing, feeling like there’s really nothing I can do, on my own, that would effect any change at all. Which, you know, giving up writing would be like giving up myself. But it’s been a really horrifying few years.

But then this episode. As I sat there afterwards, the tv screen gone dark, I thought about how I’m seeing more and more commercials that include gay couples, biracial couples, and all sorts of couples, and they go by and I don’t even really notice them, because it’s just a part of my life. I just saw the fabulous movie, Spoiler Alert, based on the memoir by Michael Ausiello, about a gay relationship where one of the men dies of cancer. My daughter has the bisexual flag hanging in her college dorm room. She talks about it freely.

So maybe, maybe, we’ve moved ahead, just a little bit. And that little bit gave me a glimmer of hope. A very important, very necessary, very welcomed glimmer.

Now granted, I just saw a news article yesterday about my own town’s school system passing a new rule that says that students can only be called by their preferred pronouns if they have their parents’ permission. And this is the same school system that no longer allows any LGBTQ+ information or support in the schools, no Black Lives Matter, nothing, because they feel it would interfere with education. A teacher last year was suspended twice for wearing a small rainbow pin on her blazer lapel.

So we have such a long way to go. A long, long way.

But there was a glimmer. Just a moment. Showing me that we have made some advances. Which helped.

Which is what this blog is all about.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I’ve not been a fan of Christmas for some time, but this Christmas was different. I actually looked forward to putting up the decorations, and I enjoyed flipping the switches on the lights every day. Outdoor decorations, indoor decorations, flip, flip, flip, bask in the light. I enjoyed the preparations, the planning, the shopping, the wrapping. I enjoyed Christmas Eve, with our traditional visit to an outdoor light show, followed by a viewing of the movie, The Homecoming. I enjoyed Christmas day with my family. The day after Christmas, my husband Michael, my daughter Olivia, and my son Andy went to another outdoor light show at the zoo, held at night after the zoo’s regular hours were closed, so the lights would be at their most brilliant. It was a walking tour, and it was freezing, but it was so much fun.

It was all fun. But then…but then…

There is just something so satisfying about taking it all down and putting it away for another year.

I know some people keep their Christmas stuff up for Epiphany, and some for even longer. The 12 Days of Christmas is more than a song for some, and for others, “Let’s make our Christmas tree into an Easter tree!” is a feasibility.

For me, everything comes down on New Year’s Day. The stuff is up for that final celebration on New Year’s Eve, but then…gone. Pick up, pack up, clean up, move into the new year.

I wondered if I would feel differently this year, since I did actually look forward to and enjoy the season. But I found I looked forward to putting it all away as much as I looked forward to getting it out.

Michael and Olivia both worked on New Year’s Day, which provided a challenge. But Olivia started us off by taking all of the ornaments off the tree and the stair banister and packing them away. I followed through next with the rest of the indoor stuff. The stockings, stocking holders, Christmas storybooks, the nativity scene, the lit-up nativity scene, the small tree on the kitchen island. The small decorative tree in my office. The tree skirt. The ceramic Santa sitting and snoozing in his golden chair under the tree. Then Michael came home and he dismantled the tree itself, then dismantled and packed away the outdoor decorations. From there, we all three loaded the stuff into my car so it could be returned to the storage unit. We did that the next day, when I picked Michael up from work and we drove over and unloaded.

“Bye, Christmas stuff,” I called as we walked back to the car. “See you next year.”

As we drove home, Michael wondered what would be the one thing that we forgot to take down and put away. It happens every year. But as I combed through my home in my mind, I didn’t see anything out of place. I figured we actually succeeded this year.

That night, the condo seemed quiet. There were no festive lights spilling in from outside. No soft lights in the corner of our living room, white lights on a golden tree. But it was neat and tidy, everything back in its place, and I heaved a great sigh of satisfaction. The gentle joy I felt the first night the decorations were up, when I sat and gazed at the Christmas tree, was back as I looked at my home, looking the way my home was supposed to look.

Home.

The next morning, Monday, everything really was back to normal. I had the week between Christmas and New Year’s off, but that day, January 2^nd, I started in with a full load of clients and classes at 9:00 that morning. My alarm clock, not set for a week, got me up and moving. First thing I did was boot my computer, since the morning clients were all on Zoom. Then I dressed, patted the dog and both cats, then went down to get my breakfast.

Which is when I saw it.

Hanging from my oven’s handle was a bright green dish towel, featuring a large Grinch face. It was a gift several years ago from my sister, in homage of my usual Grinchy frame of mind during the holidays.

There was the one thing we missed.

I laughed and gave the Grinch a tug as I went about making my oatmeal and pouring my coffee.

Later, I pointed out the towel to Olivia. She considered it thoughtfully.

“Don’t you think it’s okay if we leave it?” she said. “I mean, it is practical.”

More practical than ornaments and stars and lights and stockings and a peacefully snoozing Santa Claus.

A little bit of Christmas left out in my house year round.

“You’re right,” I said. “Okay, we’ll leave it.”

“Well, plus,” she said, “if you get sick of it, you can always stuff it in a drawer.”

There’s that too.

So for now, the Grinch stays. And I am going to move ahead into 2023. Hopefully, my face will not match the Grinch’s very often.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

So now I’ve discovered that it’s very, very hard to focus on writing about a moment of happiness when your cat is in the ICU at the emergency vet clinic. However, I can assure you now that this story will have a reasonably happy ending, at least for now, so don’t be afraid to read on.

My cat, Edgar Allen Paw, also known as Eddie, Eddie Freddy, Eddie-grrrrr, Mr. Ed, and Bowling Ball, is 14 years old. He’s a polydactyl, meaning he has extra toes, and he also has an extra kink in his tail, a head that is too small for his body, and balance issues. Our vet calls him a genetic anomaly. We call him a sweetheart.

I noticed on Christmas Eve that he didn’t react to his traditional new catnip mouse. On Christmas day, he didn’t come down for the festivities, but he did come down after the hubbub was done. The day after Christmas, he seemed to always be in the big bed under my desk. And by the 27^th, I noticed he wasn’t coming downstairs at all, he wasn’t eating or drinking, and when he did walk, which was only a few feet, he wobbled. Yesterday, when my regular vet office was too full to bring him in, I brought him to the emergency vet. I ended up leaving him there. The vet said they wanted to run an ultrasound, after seeing some of his bloodwork. The ultrasound would show if he had pancreatitis, kidney (renal) disease, or cancer. While the tests cost pretty big bucks, that I really shouldn’t be spending, I just couldn’t move ahead to helping Edgar to the other side, when there was a chance he could be treated and come home.

So today, waiting for the results, was a long day. And it’s why this blog is so late.

When my cat Cornelius, Corny for short, died of a fast-moving cancer 13 years ago, I set out to find another cat. It’s not about replacement; I sincerely believe in honoring a pet’s memory by saving another life. I put myself through college by working as a kennelworker at the local humane society, so I know firsthand the sadness of animals left behind. When Corny died, my remaining cat, Muse, was 6 years old. I wanted to find another 6-year old cat, as Corny was significantly older than Muse, and I thought it would help long-term if we had cats that were in the same stage of life. One of our local humane societies had two cats that were six, so I went in.

When I went into the cat room, a big orange tabby on the bottom shelf of cages pressed himself fervently against the door. I bent down to say hello and have a conversation. As best I could, I scrubbed his ears and under his chin. His purr sounded like a train rolling by with square wheels. No rhythm. He offered plenty of silent meows. But he was only a year old, so I gave him a final pat and stood to search out the two six-year olds.

But that orange cat stuck his paw through the bars of his cage and snagged his claws into my pant leg.

What could I do?

The shelter had given the cat the name of Trivium, who was the muse of grammar, weirdly enough. I went to the front desk and said, “I’d like to see Trivium please.” The shelter worker said, “Of course, but be aware that he’s shy. He might not come to you right away.”

I laughed and said, “Like hell. He just chose me.”

They also told me that Edgar had been found as a kitten on the side of a highway in Washington County. He had a collar, but no identifiers. He stayed in the humane society there for six months, then, when they were over-full, they sent him to one of our humane societies, where he remained for another four months. Almost a full year in a shelter.

He came home that day, and by bedtime that night, his name was changed to Edgar Allen Paw.

With extra toes, an extra kink, and a too-small head, he’s been anything but typical. He doesn’t jump up on things because he will inevitably fall off. He has a huge appetite. And he is more than loving. Cats are supposed to ignore you. Not Edgar. He demands attention…from me, Michael, Olivia, from Muse, from the beagles when they were still with us, and from Ursula.

To leave him at the emergency vet yesterday…to see him unable to walk with his hind legs…to realize he might not be coming home…devastating. It’s been a day of tears and memories.

“Remember when Edgar…”

“Remember when Eddie…”

“Remember…remember…”

Thirteen years of memories.

And it’s also been a day of self-doubt. Should I be spending the exorbitant amount that I am just to determine if he lives or dies? What if I spent all that and ended up, not with recovery, but with no orange kitty at all?

What an awful, awful day.

But then, a phone call.

Edgar is coming home. Again.

The ultrasound didn’t show anything too alarming. The most likely culprit is kidney disease, which means he could decline rapidly, or he could live for years. We’ve dealt with kidney disease before, in one cat (Einstein) and two dogs (Penny and Blossom). He has regained the use of his back legs. He’s purring like a broken train again and the vet says he’s “bright and alert.” She also said repeatedly, “I love him. What a good boy!”

Yes, he is.

And while I’m going to worry and fret, ultimately, this was money well-spent. Because I heard the vet say to me, “No, Kathie. It’s not time to put him down yet. Not yet.”

My moment of happiness? That phone call. And there’s a moment to come: when he is carried out to me and I can see for myself that he’s bright and alert and using his hind legs.

I love him. What a good boy!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Many of you know that we adopted a dog, Ursula, from a shelter, almost four years ago now. For that matter, all of our pets are rescues, as far as we are concerned. Edgar Allen Paw, our bowling ball orange polydactyl cat, came from a different shelter. Muse, our 5-pound alpha of the house (also a cat), has been with us since she was a baby. She came from a student’s friend who was driving from one coast to the other, and whose cat had kittens along the way. So technically, Muse isn’t a rescue – but we were so happy to take her in.

Before Ursula, there were two beagles, Blossom and Donnie. Blossom came from a shelter, and Donnie came from a rescue organization. Jake the cat came from a shelter, as did Cornelius. Einstein, another orange kitty, was born in my parents’ drainage ditch that ran beneath their driveway. My parents found homes for the mama kitty and for all the babies except Einstein, and so I took him in. And there was Cocoa, my chihuahua, who also came from a shelter.

To say we believe in pet rescue is an understatement. While the animals have all come with their quirks and challenges, the love we receive in return is just boundless.

So back to Ursula. Paired with her severe anxiety, which has gotten better over the years, is separation anxiety. Over the last year, this has gotten worse, to the point where we can pretty much count on finding a puddle whenever we leave her alone, even if it’s only for a few minutes. We have concrete floors, so it’s not difficult to clean up, but, you know…ew. She knows she’s done wrong. She won’t look us in the eye when we get home, and she’s the definition of the word hangdog. But the puddles continued.

We do have a crate, but the crate door is almost always open. She goes in there as her security place. We have tried putting her in there when we’re not at home, but it just makes me sad.

Also in the last year, Ursula began to act more dog-like in terms of food…meaning she’s much more likely to beg now, to ask for food, and she will actually wait eagerly for dinner, instead of eating with an eye to the ceiling in case it crashes down or someone steals it from her. She has breakfast now, given to her by Michael before he goes to work, where before, after being taken for her morning constitutional, she used to dash upstairs and return to her loveseat until I would go down later.

So a few weeks ago, I decided to start treat therapy.

Whenever we’re going to be gone, even for a little bit of time, she is now given a Milk Bone dog biscuit. She does not get a biscuit at any other time, for any other reason, so that she would start associating that biscuit with being home alone. She is told specifically, “We will be home soon. Here is your treat. There’s more when you’re a good girl.” When we get home, if the house is puddle-free, we hold a potty party, jumping up and down, cheering “Good girl, Ursula! Good girl! What a good girl!”, with tons of pats and pets and butt scritches, and then, not one, but TWO more biscuits.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

But…the last two days, it’s worked. With it being the Christmas season, we are in and out a lot more, and yesterday in particular, she was left alone three times. No puddles! A total of NINE biscuits! Today, so far, I was out once, and likely won’t be out again, because of the !@#$ blizzard. But when I came back…

She dashed around the house with zoomies! She doesn’t do zoomies! Her tail was a blur! She made her special Ursula sound, which is a cross between a whine and a banshee scream! All while I checked the house and found no puddles. None. Zero!

Potty party! While she wiggled and jiggled and sashayed and…did whatever her noise is, I cheered. What a good girl! What a good girl, Ursula! What a good, good, GOOD girl!

And treats.

Having a dry floor is wonderful. But I have to tell you, seeing joy in this dog, seeing her dance and prance and charge around the house with a sense of confidence and good-girl self esteem, back to joy, seeing that JOY, ohmygosh.

Granted, it’s over not peeing and doggie biscuits. But it’s joy. And I am overjoyed to see it.

I hope you all have a joyful holiday season. I hope you get zoomies and butt scritches and that you have your own special sound that you make when you just can’t hold in happiness any longer. Merry, merry, merry, from me, from all my family, from Ursula, Edgar Allen Paw, and Muse.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

FOR THOSE WAITING TO SEE THIS WEEK’S MOMENT OF HAPPINESS DESPITE THE NEWS!

It’s coming! Between Christmas preparations, the ongoing blizzard, and being temporarily locked out of my own site, I’m behind! Keep checking back! I usually have it posted in between morning and evening clients, and now I’m having to write it in between clients. But it will be here!