Author: Kathie

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

This past weekend, we put up our Christmas stuff. This is no small feat; since we don’t have a basement, our “extra” stuff is stored in a storeroom a few miles from here. We have to drive there, hope that the security gate works, drive through, then walk through, the snow that often goes unplowed, haul the stuff to the car, reverse our direction, bring it home and haul it all upstairs. Last year, the gate on the way out wouldn’t open and we had to call the police to rescue us.

But once we did all that, I happily watched it all come together. Olivia and I decorated the tree. My husband and my son Andy set up outdoor decorations on the 2^nd and 3^rd floor decks. I set out and decorated a small tabletop tree on my kitchen island, facing into the living room. I put a light-up nativity scene on the piano, and my regular nativity scene on the coffee table. A ceramic Santa asleep in his chair, reminiscent of the one in my childhood home, went under the tree. A light-up star was strapped to the banister going upstairs, and some random ornaments, featuring my kids’ young faces, went on the banister too.

And that night, after it was all done, after we’d watched Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer and The Year Without A Santa Claus, I turned all the lights out, except the Christmas ones, and sat in the glow from the tree and from the fireplace. I just sat and basked and thought about previous Christmases.

Years ago, I was a decorating fiend. In my first house with my first husband, there was at least one Santa in every room, including the bathroom. Lights, garland, music boxes, figurines, everywhere. Then changes came into my life. The joy of Christmas was pretty much replaced with the need to be busy, to keep a roof over my head and my kids’ heads, and any reference to that joy was met with an “About what?” from me. All Christmas meant was more work.

The year of Covid and a Zoom Christmas left me just fraught with sadness. That year, Christmas became little boxes on a computer screen. The Christmas tree remained in the storeroom. But the next year, out it came. With it came a renewed sense of joy. When the joy of Christmas is brought up now, I want to just wave my arms like Vanna White and say, “Look! Just look!” At the center of my game show arm sweep would be four children, a son-in-law, a daughter-in-law, and one phenomenal granddaughter.

So I sat in the glow and thought. One certain Christmas comes immediately to my mind when I even think the word.

My son Andy, now 36, was a pretty mild-mannered baby and toddler. He is my middle child among my big kids. One day, in the middle of summer, this mild-mannered baby, who I never even buckled into the high chair because he would never try to get out of it, started shouting during lunch. I turned to find him standing in the high chair. He pointed at the television. “Want that!” he shouted. “Want that!” On the screen was an ad for Playskool’s Definitely Dinosaurs, realistic-looking dinosaur toys. I didn’t wait. I swept Andy and his siblings up and off we went to that mecca, Toys R Us. We found the dinosaurs and Andy picked out his first three.

Which became a full zoo of dinosaurs over the next several years. On a spring day, when Andy was in kindergarten, he told me he wanted the Definitely Dinosaurs ultrasaurus. I did my research and discovered that this was the largest dinosaur Playskool made, and I knew the price was far over what my then-husband would allow. I also found out that Playskool was discontinuing the line, and so what was in the stores that May was all there would be. I told Andy that it might be hard to get the ultrasaurus for Christmas. He confidently said, “Santa will get it.”

Oh, lord.

This is before the internet, so I wrote to all of my friends and family around the country, asking them to scour their toy stores for all of the dinosaurs they could get, but especially the ultrasaurus. I was able to collect a lot of them this way, but not the big guy, who I wouldn’t be allowed to buy anyway.

But Santa.

Going to the library, I asked the librarians to help me locate the name and address of the head of Playskool. Then I wrote to the man, telling him about my son, who was wishing on dandelions, throwing coins into fountains, and working on being as good as he could possibly be, six months before Christmas, so that Santa would bring him an ultrasaurus. “Please,” I wrote. “If you have one anywhere in any of your warehouses, please tell me where it is. I will find a way to get there.”

I received a letter back. The man told me that about a week before he received my letter, he received another letter from “Himself at the North Pole.” The man said, “He wrote me about a little boy in Wisconsin, who was wishing on dandelions and throwing coins into fountains, and who was as good as a little boy could possibly be. He asked me to send this little boy an ultrasaurus. You should be receiving it within the next two weeks.”

For free. I didn’t even get in trouble with my husband.

I never thought I would cry over a dinosaur. But I did over that one. The box showed up on my birthday, July 29, and so it served as two presents, one for me, and one for my son, who never had a doubt.

My son is 36. He still has the ultrasaurus. And I am forever grateful to that man at Playskool.

I sat last weekend in the glow of the tree, and I’ve sat there every night since, and I rejoice that the joy in Christmas came back to me. I am still suffused with the need to be busy, to keep a roof over my head and a safe haven for my kids, even as three out of the four have grown up and left home. My home does not have a Santa in every room. But it does have joy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

It’s no secret that I love the old television series, The Waltons. I suppose the weirdest thing about that is that I never watched the show when it was not a rerun. It wasn’t “cool” to watch The Waltons when I was in high school. But what made me connect to The Waltons was the actual logistics between me and John Boy. On Thursday nights, I would be up in my room, writing in my journal or working on a story, and I’d be listening to my family, who were down in the family room, watching The Waltons. On The Waltons, John Boy was up in his room, writing in his journal or working on a story, and he’d be listening to his family, down in the living room, listening to a show on the radio.

I felt that connection, up in my room, between me and a character who wanted to be a writer as well, back during the Depression. It was the first time, really, that I felt that connection. It made me feel less alone.

I started watching The Waltons for real when I was pregnant with my first son. By then, it was in rerun, and over the years, as my family grew, I continued to watch The Waltons as it bounced from channel to channel, and each time, I felt less alone. I also found more to connect with, as my life experiences increased and paralleled with John Boy, but also with other members of the family. Especially Olivia, the mother. Yes, there’s a reason why my Olivia was given that name.

Eventually, the show went on video, and I bought every season. When it went on DVD, I replaced my VHS tapes with DVDs. I own every season, plus every special.

But that’s not all. I also own the Waltons Barbie-type dolls, the Little Golden Books, the illustrated novels, the LPs, the board game, the lunchbox, the Viewmaster reels, some of the scripts, and on and on. I’ve visited the real Walton’s Mountain, and I stood outside the real Walton’s house. While there, I corrected the tour guide for the Walton’s Mountain museum, who had her details wrong on an episode where Olivia had polio. I also met Earl Hamner’s aunt, who graciously took me outside to show me a trailing arbutus, a plant that Grandpa Walton often rhapsodized about. Earl Hamner is the creator of the Waltons. Much of the show is autobiographical, and Earl Hamner is the original John Boy.

But the most incredible moment was the day Earl Hamner himself friended me on Facebook. We remained friends until his death on March 24, 2016.

And Earl Hamner was John Boy. And John Boy was Richard Thomas.

Which leads to this week’s moment.

A friend who lives in Appleton found out that the traveling tour of To Kill A Mockingbird, a play based on the novel by Harper Lee, was coming to her town. And who is playing Atticus Finch? Richard Thomas.

John Boy.

And she bought tickets. And invited me.

On February 25^th, 2023, I am going to be looking up at a stage and seeing the real live John Boy. Everyone else might be seeing Atticus Finch, but I am going to seeing the young man who wrote alongside me, in his own era, when I was in high school. I will be seeing the character who has kept me company all these years.

I didn’t mention earlier, but among the Waltons paraphernalia I own is a slender volume of poetry, called, appropriately enough, Poems. It was written by Richard Thomas while he was playing the young John Boy, early in the nine seasons of the show. And I am hoping, hoping, hoping, to get him to sign it.

But here’s the thing. My Moment this week isn’t just about John Boy. It’s also about friendship. And having a friend who knows me so well that she would understand the way my heart would just about explode at the idea of even being in the same room with Richard Thomas. And knowing that, she still doesn’t laugh at me, but instead goes out of her way to get those tickets.

February 25^th. I’m gonna see John Boy!

Thank you, Karen.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Moments come from everywhere.

Last Saturday, Michael, Olivia, and my middle son, Andy, and I took a drive through an outdoor Christmas light show. We had a nice dinner out at a Wisconsin supper club, which was having a crab leg special. All around us, there were the cracking sounds of crabs having their joints broken so the meat could be found.

That was definitely not my Moment. I cringed every time.

But then we went home, sat around the television, and watched…

…the new Blue’s Clues movie. Blue’s Big City Adventure.

Yep. An almost 58-year old man, a firmly 62-year old woman, a 36-year old man, and a 22-year old woman. Blue’s Clues. A children’s show. Which we loved. And we sat there and just howled with laughter.

Blue’s Clues wasn’t around yet when my big kids were little. But it was definitely around when Livvy was a baby, toddler, and little girl. The show debuted in 1996, four years before she was born. The big kids, Christopher, Andy, and Katie, were 16, 14, and 13 respectively when Olivia arrived. Because we lived in a small house, and because the kids were such a huge help with this little girl, we all watched what Olivia watched. And Blue’s Clues was #1 in all of our books.

The first Blue’s Clues movie, Blue’s Big Musical Movie, came out on video the same year Olivia was born. Yes, video. VHS. For Olivia’s snack before bed, I would set up her high chair in the living room, put the movie into the VCR, and she would watch, mesmerized, as I spooned cereal into her mouth. It was one of the few ways I could get her to eat. Very often, while she watched and ate, everyone appeared from wherever they were, sat in the living room, and watched as Steve, played by Steve Burns, the blue dog’s “owner”, managed to find his very first clue on his own.

While we watched the new movie on Saturday, Michael said, “I still tear up when I think of Steve finding his first clue.”

And yes, we still own the video.

I was totally caught up in Steve. He was clueless (ha!) and so funny. And gentle. And encouraging. He was everything you wanted your children to be influenced by. And as a harried mother of three teenagers, a challenging baby, and then my adding grad school to my already stuffed schedule, and then starting my own business, sometimes Steve was just what I needed too. When he looked out of the tv screen and told “you” that you were special, that “you” could do it, that everything would be okay, I would think, That’s just what I needed to hear. Thank you.

Years earlier, when I was a much younger harried mother, with three children born over a 4-year period (Christopher and Andy are 26 months apart; Andy and Katie are 13 months apart), there was another tv show that caught the kids’, and my, attention. It was Today’s Special. This was a Canadian children’s show, set in a department store. At night, while a woman named Jody set up the displays for the next day, Jeff, a mannequin played by Jeff Hyslop, would come to life. Like Steve, he was clueless and funny, due to a lack of life experiences outside the store, but he also sang and danced up a storm. He also looked out of the tv screen and told this mother, who wondered if she was doing anything right with these three incredible children, so different from each other, that it was all going to be okay. That it was all right to make mistakes. He said “you” could do it too. And so I did.

And yes, I still have those videos too, that I actually bought years after my kids stopped watching the show, but I would watch them on my own sometimes.

It’s amazing, really, where we get our encouragement from. Where we seek help. I know full well that these two men, Steve Burns and Jeff Hyslop, have absolutely no idea who I am. And yet, on those afternoons and evenings when I was exhausted, when something happened with a child that I had no clue (clueless!) how to handle, when I wondered if I’d totally ruined the little life that I was trying to raise with absolutely no sense of how to be a good mom, they told me I could do it. Just when that was exactly what I needed to hear.

And for the most part, I think I did do it. Now that my kids are 38, 36, 35, and 22, I look at them with the greatest of love and admiration. But I also still feel a lot of doubt from time to time. Should I have done this? Should I have done that? Are they okay?

They’re okay.

After the movie, I watched a video on YouTube with Steve Burns talking about his role as Steve, and what Blue’s Clues meant to him. He talked about how the show was quietly modeled after Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. And I thought, Of course it was!

There was another man, who looked out of the tv screen and told everyone watching that “you” are special. “You” could do it. Everything would be okay.

Watching the new Blue’s Clues movie on Saturday night, with two out of four of my kids, the 2^nd and the 4^th, all I could think was how much I’d like to say thank you to Steve. And to Jeff. And even to Mr. Rogers, though only Christopher watched him regularly, every day while he had lunch as a toddler. They must have helped so many kids with the growing-up process. And they helped so many moms too, I bet.

At least this twenty-something mom with three kids, and then an older, but still scared forty-something mom with three teenagers and one wild baby.

Thanks, guys.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

“I am thankful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual.”

–Henry David Thoreau

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

It feels a bit ironic to be writing The Moment on a day that is nationally set aside for giving thanks. Some readers have referred to this blog as a gratitude list, and I’ve always felt just a little bit cringey at that. I’ve tried, in the past, to write gratitude lists. But there’s something about doing that, about actually calling it that, that turns my lists into obvious and repetitive cliches. Whenever I’ve tried to do a gratitude list, they become the same thing, over and over, by day 3:

1. I’m grateful for my family.
2. I’m grateful to have a place to live.
3. I’m grateful that AllWriters’ is still thriving.
4. I’m grateful…

And there I would bog down and push the list away and head on to other things. By the time I got to day 4 or 5, the list was forgotten.

Something about calling it A Moment Of Happiness made it easier. I started the blog during a phenomenally stressful time in my life that, after I announced that I would do the Moment publicly and every single day for a year, became even more stressful. I went from an assault to job losses to my daughter being severely bullied to my diagnosis of breast cancer. And yet, overall and in retrospect, I am so glad I started the Moment when I did, because it truly got me through that awful year.

Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News officially started in 2017, and then This Week’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News followed in 2018. Which means I’ve been writing this blog for five years. To me, that’s nothing short of amazing, and like that first year, I really believe this blog has gotten me through. It’s caused a major paradigm shift in me – from the negative to the positive. No, I am not someone who curls my hands together to form a heart, nor am I someone who croons, “Everything happens for a reason,” whenever someone tells me about something awful that is happening in their life. I also never, ever remind people that there are others who have it worse. No one should be made to feel shame for feeling what they feel. We all have our own personal challenges and to us, they’re huge. No one should diminish them. Not even ourselves.

This all leads up to this week’s Moment. When I considered what I was going to write about this week, I kept coming back to the same thing, but then I shook it off and thought, That’s too small. But that particular moment kept drifting to the top of my brain. So eventually, I pulled myself aside and said, “What’s too small? You once wrote about a grasshopper landing on your windshield. You also wrote about a straw wrapper taking flight in your convertible and reminding you of a moth which led you to a childhood memory of chasing moths, which you then called butterflies, in your backyard. So what’s too small?”

I made good sense. I love when I talk to myself. I’m a good conversationalist, if I do say so myself to myself. Though I do wish I’d quit doing it in the aisles of grocery stores and in public restrooms.

So here’s the Moment.

Last Saturday, I took Grandbaby Maya Mae to the movies. We saw Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile which ended up being an absolutely wonderful movie. It’s very musical, with really, really good music, and partway through one of the songs, a little girl in the section right in front of the screen stepped into the aisle.

I noticed her when she came in. This wasn’t a princess movie, but she was decked out in full princess. Gown to the floor. Silver slippers. Long hair swept up away from her face and then trailing down her back in waves of gold.

And now, in the glow of the movie, she stepped into the aisle. And she DANCED.

Arms up, she twirled. She shimmied. She swung those hips and she jumped. She was absolute pure movement. Joyful movement. Completely unself-conscious movement. She didn’t care if no one watched and she didn’t care if everybody did. She just had to move and her movement was beyond joyous.

Thank God no one stopped her. Her mother just let’er rip.

I watched this little one and I rejoiced. Look at her! Look at her!

And of course, it tumbled me into the memory of another young one. Olivia was seven years old when the movie Mama Mia! came out. I fell in love with the music, bought the CD and played it incessantly in the car. Olivia fell in love with the music too, so we took her to see the movie, even though it was rated PG-13 and she was only seven. We took her to see it at least three times, and one of those times was a singalong. And in all of those times, Olivia, filled with that same musical joy, leaped into the aisle and danced. And I didn’t stop her.

And now, this little one. In full princess regalia. My heart lifted and danced with her. And with her mother.

When the movie was over and the lights came up, Grandbaby Maya Mae looked at me, in all her serious I’m-almost-ten-ness, and said, “Well. That movie was stunning.”

I have an almost ten-year old granddaughter who uses the word “stunning” while discussing movies.

Oh, it was such a good day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Here’s to a Moment of Happiness every day.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

One thing I’ve learned over these years of writing the Moments (and I’ve said this before) is that you have to let go of the idea that moments of happiness will just somehow appear. You have to look for them. They’re often spontaneous, but you have to look, or they’ll zip right by and be gone before you pay them any mind.

And sometimes, the Moments are something you reach out and grab and shape with your own hands.

That kind of Moment happened this last week.

It’s no secret that I love clocks. Antique clocks, to be certain. They have to be wound, with keys or with weights. Battery power does nothing for me. I look at these old clocks and I think about all they’ve seen, all they’ve ticked through. When I wrote my first novel, The Home For Wayward Clocks, it came to be on a day that I’d just visited my favorite clock store, that featured an entire floor of antique clocks. Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought as I drove away, to live in a clock store? By the time I arrived home, I had the original opening line (“They call me the clock-keeper; I’m the keeper of the clocks.”), and I had my character, James, who ran a clock museum in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. The town, on the edge of desperation with poor economic times, followed James’ lead and did up the whole town in clock themes, became a tourist attraction in the middle of one of the most boring drives ever – I-80 through Iowa. The book came out of my head like magic, and the novel I’d been working on fell to the side, lost in a later hard drive crash that took its first 100 pages. To this day, I can’t remember what that book was called or what it was about.

But this book…clocks.

I can trace my love of clocks back to my maternal grandmother. When she moved in with us when I was a child, she brought with her a very old, very scratched-up camel-back mantel clock. That clock and I spent hours playing together. I ran Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars over its hill, I sat Barbie dolls on its ends and perched at the peak. I made up stories around it and with it. When my grandmother passed away, the clock was something I chose to keep. It sits here still, right across from me, on a shelf in my office. I see it every time I look over the top of my computer screen.

From there, I began to go to flea markets. I will be the first to admit that the clocks I adopted were not pristine, were not polished to a high shine, most often were not even working. They were sad orphans and I wanted to give them a home. I cleaned them, fixed them when I could, and if I couldn’t, kept them anyway, even if they were silent. I own a grandfather clock that was built by hand (not from a kit) by a pastor, who, when he moved to a much larger congregation, decided he needed a grander clock and traded the clock he sweated over for the new one. That clock, borne of a man’s hands and rejected by the same, came home with me. There is a Felix The Cat clock, the black and white cat with the left and right swinging eyes and pendulum tail. When I had a cleaning lady, she knocked this clock off the wall twice. Its tail is gone, the eyes are off track and wonky. But it still hangs on my wall. It’s a wounded warrior. I no longer have a cleaning lady.

All the clocks have stories.

I just wandered through my home, counting the clocks. I did not go down to the classroom, where I know there are more. I have 80 clocks on the 2^nd and 3^rd floors of my condo. I know there are two more on the stairwell to the classroom, and I believe there are at least five more in the classroom, so that means there are approximately 87 clocks in my home.

Yep.

Which, of course, led to Big Ben. I have wanted to see (I nearly typed “meet”; that’s what I really mean!) Big Ben for years and years. In The Home For Wayward Clocks, my desire to meet Big Ben, and to see the largest antique clock collection in the world, scattered throughout Buckingham Palace, is expressed through James. He never got to England. He died without meeting Big Ben.

In 2017, Big Ben fell silent while he went through a five-year renovation. He’s been surrounded by scaffolding. He’s had no voice. In March of 2023, all of that will fall away and he will chime again.

I am now 62 years old. I’ve held the same dream as my character James. For a very long time.

Which is why, after several weeks of discussions and ruminations and worries and anxiety, I reached out with both hands and molded my Moment of Happiness.

In August, I’m going to London. And I’m also going to Paris. Which is lovely, but my entire being is caught up with one thought:

I’m going to meet Big Ben.

I’m going to see him. I’m going to hear him. And I’m also going to see him from the inside out. I have no idea if I’ll be able to climb all 334 steps to the top…but I’m at least going to be fully surrounded by Big Ben.

I was very lucky to have a super nice guy with the tour group I’ve signed on with. He was absolutely no pressure. I talked to him for three weeks, three weeks of back and forths and maybes and I don’t knows, before I finally emailed him and said, “Call me. Let’s do this thing.”

And of course, as soon as I signed on the dotted line, I immediately slammed both hands over my mouth and shrieked, “What did I just do?”

And then I felt awash in joy and thought, You’ve just put a dream in motion.

Ohmygosh. I’m going to London. (And Paris.) I’m going to meet Big Ben.

I may have to resurrect James from the dead and take him through it, in a new story. Maybe he’ll be a ghost. We’ll see.

But I’m going to see Big Ben. I’m going to hear him. I’m going to reach out, pat him, and say, “James says hello.”

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(And by the way – when I go, from August 15 – 25, I will switch the blog back to Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, and post every day. )

 

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

Sleep has always been a challenge for me in adulthood. As a kid, particularly as a teenager, I slept too much. I usually finished my homework in study hall, so once I was home from school, I was up in my room, writing. Then as soon as it fell dark, I would stretch out on my bed and listen to music, usually the Moody Blues, but also Supertramp and Queen and a few others. And then, at around 8:00, I’d go to bed. Until I left home for college at the University of Wisconsin – Madison, I basically slept my adolescence away.

But at college, the night owl in me came out. Whether studying or partying or simply getting engrossed in deep What’s-the-meaning-of-life college-y discussions with others, I was often up until the wee hours. I learned quickly to never schedule a class before 10:00, because I simply wouldn’t make it.

When college was done and I was married and babies started showing up, I was often still awake for middle-of-the-night feedings. As the kids grew older, their bedtime became 8:00, and I would head to my basement office to write until at least midnight. Then I would need to unwind, so I’d watch the Waltons, cry, and finally sleep.

And now? Now I run my own business. Burning the candle at both ends isn’t a thing, because there are no ends. My candle just burns. Since I can’t sleep anyway, I figure I might as well be working, and so I do. Bedtime for me is still typically around 3:00 in the morning. Just like in college, I try not to schedule any clients before 10:00…but this has eked back to 9:00.  So I typically get less than 5 hours of sleep a night.

I’ve been experiencing issues with my memory, which has always been really strong. I can have a student come back to class after a five-year absence, and I can tell them what they were writing and where they left off. But suddenly, I was waking up in the morning and not knowing what day it was. I would know where I was when I was driving, but suddenly not know why I was driving, where I was supposed to be going. It was scary. So I went to see a neurologist.

She put me through a battery of tests. At the very beginning, she said, “I’m going to tell you three words, and I want you to repeat them. Then remember them. I’m going to ask you about them at the end of this visit.” The three words were apple, books, and coat. Then there were all sorts of other things to do. The only thing I couldn’t do was count backwards from 100, by sevens. I flat-out said no. “I am math-deficient,” I said. “Not without a calculator.” Partway through the tests, the neurologist began to laugh. I wondered, but stayed focused on what I was doing.

At the end, she said, “Kathie, in all my years, no one has gone through these tests as quickly and perfectly as you just did. There is nothing wrong with you neurologically. You are not losing your memory.”

And that’s when the discussion of sleep began. By the time I left her office, I’d been told that I am “profoundly” sleep-deprived. I had a solid prescription of no physical activity for several hours before bedtime (do you remember when I was going to the gym at midnight?), no screens before bed, no food before bed, and to try to employ a regular time for going to sleep and waking up. She also left me with a warning.

“You need to get more sleep. It’s life-sustaining. This is not something you play with. This is as serious as getting chemotherapy, as receiving radiation. You. Need. To. Sleep.”

Okiedokie then.

One thing I’ve done for the last several years is meditate before bed. I started by meditating in the recliner in my bedroom, and I found that I was constantly falling asleep, then waking up and having to go to bed. So I began to meditate in bed. But the same thing happened. I’d be on my back, not my usual sleep position, nod off, jar awake, and then remain awake for hours. Sometimes until six or seven in the morning, when I had to get up at 8:20. Sometimes I didn’t sleep at all.

And then I had a brainstorm.

I was meditating on my back. What if I meditated on my side, in the way I typically sleep? I immediately worried over not shutting off my phone. But why? I’d have it on silent, it wouldn’t wake me up. And if it ran out of power, I’d plug it in in the morning.

This was so obvious and so simple, I wanted to smack myself repeatedly on the head.

So, for over a week now, I’ve been doing exactly that. The first night, I fell asleep long before the meditation app ran down. I woke up in the morning, not having gotten up in the middle of the night, not having awakened at all. Granted, it was still five hours of sleep, but it was five SOLID hours of sleep.

I woke up that day and looked right into the face of my cat, Muse, who was sitting on my shoulder. “Oh!” I said. “Hi! Good morning!”

“Mah!” she said back. I think she’s going deaf (she’s 19) and so her meows are very loud and raucous and not meowy at all. But I think she was congratulating me.

I slept! And, except for one night of insomnia during this last week or so, I’ve slept every night. I am working on getting to bed earlier. I am working on rearranging my schedule so I can sleep a little later. I am working on it. Really.

And I am waking up with a smile. Sleep feels so good!

Oh, and by the way…I emailed the neurologist late that night. “You forgot to ask me about the three words,” I said. “Apple, books, coat.”

She emailed back, “Go to SLEEP!”

I did.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

Maybe I will too.

 

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

So there’s Baby’s First Step. And Baby’s First Word. And Baby’s First Tooth. Oh, and don’t forget Baby’s First Television Appearance.

What?

Yep.

This coming weekend, Olivia and I are the Saturday morning keynotes at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books, with our poetry chapbook, Olivia In Five, Seven, Five; Autism In Haiku. The book came from an April, which is National Poetry Month and Autism Awareness Month, where I challenged myself to write a poem a day about Olivia and autism. Olivia provided the subject of the book, and she also wrote the final poem, talking about her experience with autism.

Baby’s First Cause. She speaks, beautifully, for the autistic community.

So far, the book has been a real public speaking learning experience for Olivia. In July, at the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, Olivia read from the book in front of 26 writers, gathered for a 4-day writing immersion experience. She faced a friendly crowd of people who already knew her. In September, Olivia’s college, Mount Mary University, hosted a launch for the book. Olivia read from the book and answered questions from an audience of primarily strangers…though one person stood out. Olivia’s kindergarten teacher showed up. And teared up during the presentation.

Olivia did fine there too, though she choked on one question: “What did you think when you found out your mother was writing a book about you?”

Later, Olivia told me, “I didn’t know what to say. It’s just what you do.”

Which is true. All of my kids are used to me writing about them. That’s why I’ve always had the best-behaved kids.

And then…we were asked to be on television. WTMJ, Milwaukee’s Channel 4, has a great morning talk show called Morning Blend. They wanted us to talk about the book, and to represent the book festival, now in its thirteenth year. Olivia went with me in 2018, when I was on the show for Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. She sat on the sidelines and watched. But now…she was going to sit on the big yellow couch with the hosts of the show. And she was going to talk.

The girl who, we were told, was never going to talk.

In the weeks leading up to it, I fielded questions lobbed to me, often from Facebook Messenger, while Olivia sat in her dorm room at school and I sat at home.

“What should I wear?”

“Will they see all of me?”

“What if I don’t know what to say?”

“What are you going to wear?”

“Will there be coffee?”

“I’m nervous, Mom. Nervous.”

And then the morning arrived, this past Tuesday. Baby’s First Television Appearance.

We had to leave by 7:45 a.m. Olivia came out of her room wide-eyed, dressed in a great little overall dress and flouncy-sleeved shirt. “Okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

“I’m nervous, Mom. Nervous.”

At the station, we were led back to the waiting area. Olivia sat next to me. She wrung her hands and repeatedly crossed her legs. We watched the show and I told her all that she’d be experiencing. The couch. Being wired for sound. The cameras that are computer-operated and move spookily on their own. How you’re supposed to look at the hosts and not the cameras. Speak slowly (an Olivia challenge – she rattles like a chipmunk) and watch her voice, which tends to reflect that chipmunk by getting squeaky when she gets excited.

All things that I know, because I’m her mom. I’ve known her for her forever.

“I’m nervous, Mom. Nervous.”

When we arrived back in the studio, Olivia took everything in as they ran microphone wires up our clothes and out onto collars. And then, there we were, on the big yellow couch. One of the men on the floor counted down the last five seconds. And we were on!

The host introduced us and the topic of our book. She said, in the introduction, that we were told when Olivia was three years old that she would never speak, and she would look at us like bumps on a log. She listed Olivia’s accomplishments, Dean’s List, inducted into an exclusive national honor society, its members all in the top 5% of their college classes, the finished first draft of a novel. And then she turned to us and asked Olivia, “So, Olivia, what’s the most difficult thing about being autistic?”

And Olivia, nervous Olivia, Olivia who wasn’t supposed to speak, opened her mouth and SPOKE.

She talked of having a silent disability. She talked about being a woman, a word that took me momentarily aback (she’s my baby girl!) with autism, and that mostly, white boys are diagnosed, and so her gender is often ignored, as are people of color with autism. And then she said, and I about melted into the couch with pride and amazement, “People need to look at the autistic, not for what we can’t do, but for what we CAN.”

One of my poems in the book refers to a shirt Olivia wore for a long time. On the front, it said, “I can and I will.” On the back, “Watch me.”

I was watching. I always have. I always will.

Sitting quietly on the big yellow couch, I wondered why I was there. Olivia is the star.

As we left the studio, “I’m nervous, Mom. Nervous,” became, “That was fun!”

Good. Because we’re doing it again. On Saturday morning at 9:00, Olivia and I will be keynotes at the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books. She and I will read from the book, and then we’ll be interviewed on stage by Jim Higgins, the books editor of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. Audience members will have a chance to ask questions too.

Come ask questions. Give me the chance to see my daughter SPEAK again.

Baby’s First Keynote.

This mama is so proud.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

If you’d like to see the video of our appearance, click here:

https://www.tmj4.com/shows/the-morning-blend/southeast-wisconsin-festival-of-books?fbclid=IwAR3UNA1rS6GIc438kkn8K_QiMF2-wiXkVSu8CiTRgD8fWYavTpyQNp553ek

And check out the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books at www.sewibookfest.com!

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

This might be kind of a weird one.

Monday was my first day back into reality, following a two-week trip away to the Oregon coast. I didn’t just step back into my roles, but I dove in immediately over my head, with Monday encompassing six clients, a class, and a book festival meeting, as well as numerous errands.

My 11:00 client canceled at the last minute. My husband was out grocery shopping and I was supposed to pick him up (he doesn’t drive) around noon or so. I decided to just take a quick nap, only for an hour, and then get back to it.

I sank very quickly into a deep, deep sleep. I dreamed I was walking along the Fox Riverwalk here in Waukesha, one of my favorite places. I heard my name called and looked over to see my friend, Kelly Cherry, sitting at a picnic bench. “Hey!” she called. “Come on over! It’s good to see you!”

Now here’s the thing. Kelly passed away on March 18^th of this year.

Kelly Cherry was my first creative writing professor when I came to the University of Wisconsin – Madison in the fall of 1978. Our relationship started in a bad place – she wasn’t happy she had a freshman in her intermediate creative writing workshop, which was for upperclassmen, and I wasn’t happy that she wasn’t happy with me. My high school creative writing teacher emailed the head of the English Department on my behalf, including my work and saying that I could not be in a beginner’s class. The head agreed and plunked me into Kelly’s class. I was the first freshman to ever be there.

Up until that time, I’d pretty much been placed on a pedestal, in regard to writing. I published for the first time at the age of fifteen. I was raved about, lauded, told the world was my oyster, whatever the hell that means, as I’m allergic to oysters. Kelly was the first person to ever shred me. And shred me she did.

Luckily, I’m a pretty stubborn person, and I just kept coming back.

Because of my start with advanced classes, I proceeded more quickly than most through the program. As a result, I ended up taking the intermediate workshop twice, the advanced workshop three times, and doing independent study twice. The second time I had to do independent study, that same head of the department and I sat down to figure out who I could do it with. I’d worked with so many, it was going to have to be a repeat.

“How about Kelly?” he said.

I flinched, but said, “Sure.”

We went out in the hall to find Kelly. He asked her about doing an independent study with me. Kelly flung up both hands, proclaimed, “I’ve done everything I can with her!” and flounced off down the hall.

I did my second independent study with someone else.

So how did she and I end up being friends?

Over the years, I realized I found great value in being pushed by her. She taught me to be tough, to let things roll off my back, if they couldn’t be applied, and to sit quietly and take the criticism if it did. I truly did not understand Kelly’s value in my life until much, much later.

In 2014, I was (and still am) working with the Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books. We were looking for a keynote. Kelly had a new book out. I suggested her, she was accepted, and I reached out. She remembered me immediately. She praised me for what I’d done (turns out she’d been following me), accepted the keynote, and we reunited at the festival. We remained fast friends until her death this last March.

I think we most remember the teachers who built us up. But I remember Kelly because she built me up by tearing me down. She made me try harder. She made me prove her wrong. Which was what she was after all along.

So in this dream, I joined her at the picnic table. She reached across and grabbed my hands. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said. “Look at you!”

“Look at you!” I said. She looked wonderful.

She smiled. “You need to keep looking,” she said. “You need to see.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what she meant.

“You know now, don’t you.” When I shook my head again, she said, “It never gets any easier. We wait for it to, but it never does. No matter the publications, no matter the awards, no matter about anything, it’s always hard, and we always think we’re not good enough. Always. We’re rough on ourselves, so we push ourselves to go further, so we can get away from the rough.” She sat back. “Like I did with you. Like I did with myself.”

I felt my eyes fill. My latest novel was turned in to a publisher months ago; it comes out on March 7^th. I didn’t write for months after finishing that book. I honestly thought I was done, and I had no idea how to deal with being done.

“You’re not done,” she said. “Your brain just needed a rest. You know that now.”

In Oregon, I’d sunk fully into a new book. By the time I came home, I was sixty pages into it. The doubts are there, as they’re always there. But I wasn’t done.

I suddenly woke up with a gasp, tears still on my cheeks. I was disoriented, unsure why I was in bed. Then realized my alarm hadn’t gone off – it was 12:30, I was supposed to be getting Michael from grocery shopping.

It was one of those dreams that didn’t let me go for awhile. I felt underwater for the rest of the day.

But I saw Kelly. And she taught me again. The doubts never go away, not even 14 books later. Not even hundreds of short stories and poems and essays later. Not even awards later. But you plow through them anyway.

And I’m not done.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

(And a special note – the 13th annual Southeast Wisconsin Festival of Books is coming up on November 4 and 5! We have an absolutely stellar line-up this year, and I’ll be the Saturday morning keynote, along with my daughter, Olivia. Check out the book festival at www.sewibookfest.com!)

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

Well, really, the last two weeks have been a moment of happiness. Being in Waldport, Oregon, in a place I love to distraction, has been wonderful. A student emailed me and spoke of the “joyful photographs” I was posting on Facebook and elsewhere. If my joy at being here can come across in photos, then that joy is pretty darn powerful.

I’ve been coming here since 2006. In that time, there were a few years that I didn’t show. 2017, when I was in treatment for breast cancer. 2020, Covid. For two years, I went to different places in Maine, on the exact opposite coast. One year, I won a week-long retreat in Valton (where I fell down the steps in the beginning of September this year, when I won the contest again) and so I combined it with a week in La Crosse, WI, another favorite place.

But I’ve always returned to Waldport, and when I haven’t been here, my thoughts still make the trek. A wall next to my desk in my office at home is devoted to photos from this place. The wall behind me has art pieces incorporating sand dollars given to me by the ocean. Joyful photos. Joyful answers.

Wonderful things have happened here, both this year and in all the years previous. Magical things. Things that can’t be explained. Things that have never happened anywhere else.

There were not so great moments this year too, as there are every year. One happened with a nameless, faceless woman, just a voice on the phone, who wasn’t even here, but who helped connect me, in Oregon, to my daughter Olivia, in Wisconsin.

When I originally planned this trip, back in January, I decided to come in October, instead of my usual June, July or August. My summer was packed this year, and so I thought a trip in October would expand my view of this place, allow me to see it in the fall, a different season than I’d ever been here before. I planned on having Olivia come with me, for at least part of the trip, to celebrate her 22^nd birthday here. Olivia has traveled with me here three times, twice for the entire trip, and her first time, when she was seven, when she joined me here partway through my trip with her father. She loves it here. Since she usually has Fridays off in her school schedule, I thought she could fly in for an extended weekend.

I forgot that this year, her senior year, had an extra to it. She had school and she had work, but she also had her internship. There was no time for her to come. This meant that for the first time in her young life, I would not be there for her birthday.

She was turning twenty-two years old. She’s an adult. This shouldn’t be a big deal. But to me, it was.

The night before her birthday, I was rattled and trying to figure out what I could still do to make her birthday special. I went to a well-known flower site. Olivia never had flowers delivered to her before. Her favorite holiday, maybe because of its proximity to her birthday, is Halloween. I found a lovely flower arrangement of pink roses, her favorite color, that would be delivered in a white ceramic pumpkin. They guaranteed delivery on her birthday. Bam. Perfect. I made the order, but still went to bed in tears.

The next day, Olivia messaged a family chat we have on Facebook. “Did someone send a surprise present?” she asked. “There’s supposed to be a package waiting for me downstairs, at the front desk.”

“I did!” I said.

And then all hell broke loose.

She couldn’t find the package. She was told deliveries weren’t allowed at the front desk (then why have a front desk?), but that packages were brought to the mail room. She checked; it wasn’t there. She checked with public safety; not there. She was told it went to the Welcome Desk, and there, she was told that the delivery person said that it had to be paid for (it didn’t), and when the person at the desk said no, he took the arrangement away.

No flowers. No white ceramic pumpkin. No heartfelt card.

I got on the phone to the flower site. It took a bit, but I managed to get through to a person. By then, I was both in tears and mad as hell. Not a good combination. I explained the whole thing. “Hang on,” the woman said, “hang on. I’ll find out what this is about.”

A few holds later, she came back. “The flower shop we arranged the delivery through isn’t answering its phone,” she said. “My feeling is that someone thought they could get a few extra bucks into their pocket. Don’t worry. I’m sending the arrangement out again, with a different shop, and it will get there, just not today.”

Not on her birthday.

“It’s the first time I’m not there for this,” I said. “I’m not there for her.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Kathie, I’ll make sure she gets them tomorrow. I’ll follow up myself. And as soon as we hang up, I’m going to call your daughter. I’m going to wish her a happy birthday, and I’m going to make sure she knows this is our fault, not yours. And that she has one fantastic mom.”

It was the second time I was called this during this week. Both times by people who weren’t my kids.

The woman on the phone did exactly what she said. The day after her birthday, my daughter had her flowers. “They’re so beautiful!” she said, sending me photos via Facebook.

And they were. So is she.

And so is that nameless, faceless woman on the phone. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

I’m currently on the Oregon coast, in the little town of Waldport, for two (and a half) weeks of retreat. The primary purpose is to write, settling into a novel I officially started the first week in September. But there are other purposes too – to catch up on sleep, to read for enjoyment, to maybe paint, and to have some fun.

I’ve been coming to this little town, and to this little house, since 2006. It feels like a second home to me. The travel is getting harder as I get older, and I do worry about being here by myself, more than I used to. During the day, the ocean seems friendly, if vigorous, and the chance of earthquakes and tsunamis seem minimal. I drive over bridges that have been here forever. I walk on a beach where many, many footprints have been left and washed away. Daytimes make this place seem immortal. Night times, I worry that it’s not.

And that I’m not either. A fact that I’ve always known, but which seems to get more real every day.

But even so, I sleep here. And I revel and relax, more than I worry.

Yesterday, I decided to drive into Newport, where there is a SuperWalmart. Waldport has a lovely grocery store, but it’s small, and many of the items I searched for when I arrived on Saturday weren’t there. It’s a gorgeous drive, one I used to make every day, to get to Starbucks. Now, there’s a great little coffee kiosk in Waldport, Espresso 101 (it’s on the coastal highway, Highway 101) and I go through there instead. They make a fabulous macadamia nut latte. And a French toast latte too! But on this day, I went into Newport, and enjoyed the drive the whole way.

On the way out of the store with my bags, I saw it. An original VW Beetle. Bright baby blue. Gorgeous. I thought immediately of my daughter, Olivia. She’s been Beetle-crazy since she was a little kid. There are Beetle posters in her room, both at home and at school. She wears Beetle t-shirts and Beetle jewelry. She owns all of the Herbie The LoveBug movies. When she was first learning to drive, I bought her a beater Beetle, which she loved and called Starlight Lashes. She adorned it with hot pink eyelashes on its headlights. I went online and found an original Beetle flower, which sits in a special vase built in to every old Beetle. The bud vase and flower was discontinued in 2011. Starlight Lashes unfortunately didn’t last very long. She was a mistake. She broke down several times just sitting in the parking garage. I eventually junked her, before Olivia learned to drive.

Later, I bought Olivia another Beetle, this time from a dealership that included a warranty. This one, she named Snowbug. I called her Lil B. In this one, Olivia not only learned to drive, but she took it to college, and the little Beetle drives her faithfully back and forth.

I honestly don’t think Olivia will ever drive another type of car.

So…this old Beetle in the Walmart parking lot. Baby blue. Winking in the sun.

I put my bags down and got out my phone so I could take a picture and send it to Olivia. As I did so, a man came up to stand beside me. “You like it?” he asked. “It’s mine.”

If anyone belonged in this classic Beetle, it was this man. Hair, albeit gray, down to his elbows. A tie-dye t-shirt. Torn jeans. And a great smile.

I told him about Olivia. He told me that he had 3 other old Beetles at home, and he’d just gotten this one running.

“It’s really cool,” I said. Then I went off to my rental car, which it took me a couple tries to find. It looks like so many others in the lot. Not like the standout that is the VW Beetle. Embarrassing to admit, but yes, I hit the unlock button and tried to open the back of a car I thought was mine…and then realized it wasn’t. My car was a couple rows over.

After I loaded up, I was bringing back the cart when I saw the blue Beetle coming toward me. At the wheel, the smiling man. He stopped by me and rolled down his window. “This is for your daughter,” he said. He handed over a small metal sign, pink, of an original Beetle. On it, it said, “Love” and “XOXO”  and “Heartbreaker.”

The Beetle is the original LoveBug, doncha know.

“Thank you,” I said. “She’ll love it!”

He winked at me. “I found it at Goodwill. Knew I’d find a use for it.” He laughed and drove off.

So now I have a special souvenir to bring home to Olivia. And a story.

And the thing is, he could have been angry at me for taking a photo of his car. He wasn’t. He could have stormed off without saying a word. But he didn’t. He not only talked to me, he listened to me when I talked about Olivia. And he didn’t have to go out of his way to find me again, in a completely different row, to give me the little Beetle plaque. But he did.

Sometimes, people are just really nice. And there shouldn’t be a just in that sentence. Sometimes, people are nice. It’s a great thing to be reminded of that.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.