Author: Kathie

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

Christmas, of course, brings with it presents. And usually, there’s one or two that really stand out. That happened for me this year, though I have to say…the present that really stuck out and struck my heart is one I picked out myself.

A few weeks ago, when we were watching Olivia at her concert with the Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra, my mind couldn’t help but wander to the music I loved to listen to, and the music I loved to make. From sixth grade through tenth, I played the trumpet, which I hated. I don’t even know where that trumpet is now. I lent it to someone somewhere along the way, and have long since lost track of it. I have always loved to sing, and for quite a while, I partnered myself with an instrument that became mine by pure happenstance.

I no longer remember if I was living in Minnesota or if I’d already moved to Wisconsin when my parents decided to replace my brother’s Wurlitzer organ with the mighty Hammond. But I do remember standing in the music store, growing increasingly bored as my parents hemmed and hawed over whether or not they would actually buy the organ. I wandered away and looked in a showcase at the front of the store. Inside, I saw an instrument I recognized.

An autoharp.

It looked just like the one my music teacher in school, Mrs. Lindstrom, used when she came to our classroom to teach. (This is why I’m pretty sure I was still in Minnesota; that’s where Mrs. Lindstrom was.) From time to time, Mrs. Lindstrom let me come to the front of the class and strum the autoharp in accompaniment to the songs we were singing. I loved that instrument. It was like playing a guitar, but I didn’t have to figure out which fingers to use on the strings. I just pressed a button and strummed and the chord was right there.

The woman standing behind the showcase smiled at me, and I smiled back. “That’s an autoharp,” I said. “My music teacher lets me play hers.” The woman opened the showcase, drew the instrument out and handed me a felt pick. I was delighted and began to strum.

The salesman working with my parents noticed. He said to my parents, “If you decide to buy the Hammond, I’ll throw in the autoharp for your little girl.”

I still didn’t pay any attention to what was going on with the sale, but when we walked out of the store, I was carrying the box with the autoharp.

For years and years, that autoharp and its box resided under my bed. I would go upstairs to my room, shut the door, pull it out, and play. I played the songs in the book they gave me and I made up songs of my own. I played it when I was sad, and I played it when I was happy, and I played it when I just wanted to surround myself with music that included me in it.

There are no photographs of me playing the autoharp. I was always behind my closed door.

Whenever I moved, whether with my parents, or later, with my first husband, the autoharp came with me. But when I packed up to leave that first husband, I brought very little with me. My autoharp, at that time, was still in its box, but on a shelf in a storeroom in our basement. I didn’t think of it when I left. When I did think of it, and I asked my ex-husband about it, he told me it was gone.

Just gone.

All of this passed through my mind as I sat, listening to Olivia play her violin with the orchestra.

That night, I went onto a website that sells used instruments. When I put autoharp in the search bar, I was amazed at the number of instruments that came up. And so many of them looked like mine! They were the same brand. Some of them had the years listed that a particular model was made, and so I searched through the years that covered when I most likely received my autoharp. When I found one particular one, I picked it out because it looked so much like mine.

I went downstairs and talked to Michael. I asked if he was okay if I chose my own present this year.

“You want a what?” he said.

When I told him about it, he sent me back upstairs to my computer with his blessing.

I bought the autoharp. The seller contacted me and said he’d be sending it out the next day. Then, the next day, he told me that snow prevented him from getting out. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s a Christmas present, but it’s for me.” I explained that I was now 61 years old, and I wanted to reunite with this instrument that meant so much to a much younger me.

He sent it out the next day.

I asked him if he included picks and a tuning fork. I mentioned that the pick I liked most was a felt pick, because it didn’t make the metallic pinging sounds against the strings.

A day later, he emailed me and said I would be receiving a package from Amazon, with a tuning fork and felt picks. “Merry Christmas!” he said.

I tracked the package until it finally showed up at my door. When I unwrapped it, it was in its original box. And I couldn’t believe it.

My original autoharp had a puncture hole in the lower right of the box. So did this one.

Now, I know that it’s most likely not mine. But I’m happy to believe that it could be.

I don’t have a room here where I can close the door and sit and play, so I haven’t played it yet, other than quietly strumming the strings sometimes when I pass it. But I will play it. And I will sing. I don’t think I’ll be sitting on the floor pretzel-legged though. Those days are long gone.

For now, it’s enough to look at it. And remember singing and playing.

A part of me has come home.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

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

It’s amazing to me that, right after writing about how a young friend’s handheld game system was returned to her in a lost and found, and how that event restored for me a faith in the simple goodness of people, that lesson would come again. But this time, directly to me and to my husband, Michael.

Last Sunday, when Michael returned home from grocery shopping at Woodman’s, he walked slowly up the stairs to my office. “I have to tell you something,” he said.

The tone of his voice instantly alarmed me. I imagined his losing my bank card, which I sent with him to pay for the groceries. I imagined his newly healed lack-of-toe suddenly aching with a new ache and bursting into a blood fountain. “What now?” I cried.

“I lost my wedding ring.”

Now I have to admit, my response was a lackluster, but relieved, “Oh, okay.” His news wasn’t either of the above scenarios. And I was also in the middle of doing the studio’s ledger, which I hadn’t done in two weeks because I’d been sick. When I do the ledger, it’s like four very close walls and a low ceiling come down around me, and all I can see is my computer screen with the numbers. Even after 17 years in business, I am terrified of doing the ledger. I am not good at math, and I am convinced that I will do some huge mistake that will bring the studio to its knees in one strike of the keyboard. The actual walls of our home could fall down around me, and I wouldn’t notice, while I’m doing the ledger.

And so I said, “Oh, okay,” and returned to my work. Michael went downstairs. And it wasn’t until I was done with the ledger, when I closed the file, that I looked at my blank screen and said, “Oh, no!”

We’ve been married for 22 years. Those rings have rarely left our fingers. Recently, when Michael was in the hospital with his foot infection, he handed me his ring as he was taken off to surgery. I took off my own ring, put on his, then put my ring back on next to it. It seemed right that during that time apart, our rings would be together, on my hand.

I went downstairs and got the rest of the details. Michael has lost a lot of weight. He didn’t try to; it’s the result of working at a job that has him constantly on his feet and walking at least 7 miles a day. His ring had become very loose and we’d talked about getting it sized. At the grocery store, Michael had the ring when he began bagging at the self checkout. When he was done, the ring was gone. As he began to search, the manager came over to see what was wrong. Then the manager checked the video and confirmed that at the start of bagging, the ring was on his finger. At the end, not. So the ring had to be right there somewhere.

Michael tore apart the bags he’d packed. The manager tore apart the register. They looked over and under and into everything in the area.

No ring.

Michael left with a promise from the manager that they would keep looking and would call if it was found. Olivia told me that when Michael got into her car, he was in tears.

Apparently, my husband was more upset over this loss of the symbol of our marriage than he was over the recent amputation of his own toe.

I began to do what I could. I went on the NextDoor app and posted what happened, and asked anyone going to Woodman’s to look for the ring. I thought maybe fresh, and unpanicked, eyes might see better. I contacted Rogers & Holland, where we originally purchased the rings, to see if there was any chance they still had the same ring in a vault somewhere.

The folks on the NextDoor app were amazing, sending well wishes and hopes that we’d find it. Rogers & Holland responded, asking for a description and picture of the rings, so they could look for it.

On Tuesday morning, when I got up, I found a message on the NextDoor app from the same nice man who repaired our Little Free Library. He said he went to Woodman’s to take a peek under the belt of the register. And then he said, “Somebody returned your husband’s ring at Woodman’s!! They have it!”

Ohmygod.

I instantly woke up Michael, who had the day off. “They have it!” I said. I’ve never seen him wake up so fast. His breath rushed out with a whoosh and he hugged me so hard, I toppled into the bed.

I called Woodman’s, and they confirmed that they had it. As soon as I was done with morning clients, we went there to retrieve it. The women at the customer service desk cheered.

Then we drove directly to Rogers & Holland to get the ring sized. The women at the customer service desk cheered.

The people on the NextDoor app cheered.

We felt like the whole world cheered. And so did we. The ring isn’t back on Michael’s finger yet, but it will be soon.

And so my moment of happiness? There are two.

One, I have a husband who, even after 22 years of marriage, was heartbroken at the loss of a simple piece of jewelry that represents our union.

And two, despite the Big Bad News, there are still many good people in the world. Someone returned that ring, instead of keeping it for themselves or selling it. I wish we knew who it was. And so maybe, instead of focusing on all the Big Bad News, created by and spouted over by Big Bad People, we should be paying attention to the Everyday Good. Because it’s out there. And while the news might be Big and Bad, the Good still overcomes it.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness.

In the mail today, there was a package from my sister, Marilyn. She’s long since given up writing a note on it, saying to not open until Christmas, because I always ignored that anyway. I tore in and found a beautiful pair of earrings and…a Grinch hand towel. A bright, Grinch-green hand towel, with the Grinch’s face glaring on it.

Perfect.

Grinch pretty much describes me during the Christmas season. It just seems to add to my already overdone to-do list. I love shopping, but I don’t love “having” to shop, to purchase things by a certain date. I don’t love online shopping, but with COVID, that really seems the best way to go. Putting up decorations entails a drive to the off-site storage unit, because we don’t have a basement, and so all Christmas stuff, among other things we probably don’t need, are kept there. Then we have to load up the car and haul it all upstairs. So that I don’t have to drive back to the storage unit, all of the boxes are kept stuffed in my car until everything is returned when the tree comes down on New Year’s Day. I don’t have time to wrap presents until Christmas Eve, and it is a day of bending, twisting, cutting, taping, until my body aches.

In other words, work. Work, work, and work. When I talked with Eva, my student who lives in Australia, this week, I asked her to walk down her street to the ocean-front beach and enjoy a beach Christmas for me. Christmas is a summer holiday for her. Barbecues on the beach. Warm weather.

We had 70 mile per hour winds last night. One of our lit outdoor spiral Christmas trees is gone.

But, oh, last Christmas. Christmas 2020, the pandemic Christmas. Because we were doing it all on Zoom, we didn’t make a trip to the storage unit. We didn’t put the tree up. I dropped wrapped presents off at different houses, and I mailed them to my daughter in Louisiana.

I felt sad. I didn’t miss the work, but…I did. I missed my family.

At the last minute, I bought a small countertop Christmas tree and shipped it to myself. It came complete with ornaments and lights and garland, and Livvy and I decorated it. I found a small wooden ornament of the nativity scene and I shipped that to myself too, and it sat beneath the tree, as nativity scenes have been under Christmas trees since I was a child. Presents for Michael, Olivia and me nearly buried the little tree. But in my home, there weren’t any presents for Christopher, Amber, Andy, Katie, Nick…and Grandbaby Maya Mae. They were waiting at their homes, and I would watch them open these gifts on a computer screen, while Michael and Olivia watched on their screens. Late, late, late that Christmas Eve, while Michael and Olivia slept, I went downstairs, turned on the tree to see the glow behind the presents, sat in my chair, and wept.

This year, the pandemic still rages on. But we’re vaccinated. And we’re getting together. Last weekend, Michael, Olivia, Andy and I went out to the storage unit and loaded up the Christmas stuff. There is a beautiful tree in my living room. Michael and I watched as Olivia and Andy decorated it. Andy took special care to find the ornaments that featured photos of my kids. As brand new babies. Toddlers. Children.

Christopher. Andy. Katie. Olivia.

My daughter Katie and her husband Nick will not be here. They live in Louisiana, and the pandemic still feels too threatening to them to travel. I haven’t seen my daughter in three years. Even with the others around me, the ache I feel is often unbearable.

The big tree is up. The stockings are hung. The presents are all locked in my convertible, waiting to be wrapped on Christmas Eve. The little wooden ornament nativity scene is at the foot of the little tree. The nativity scene I picked out and purchased in 2019 when I was trying desperately to make myself feel something, anything, positive about Christmas is under the big tree.

The other night, when I couldn’t sleep, I crept downstairs, like last year’s Christmas Eve. I turned on the lights on both trees. Standing in front of the big one, I let my eyes rove from ornament to ornament.

New babies. Toddlers. Children.

Christopher. Andy. Katie. Olivia.

Carefully, I unhooked the ornament that shows Katie on her very first Christmas. Snoopy holds an oval that encases her baby face, capped with a white bonnet. I held it clasped tightly in my hand, the way I used to clasp her little hand, sat in my chair, and admired my two trees, the only lights in this brand new morning.

Yes, I wept.

But the tree is up. The ornaments are here. And on Christmas day, my home will be filled with laughter and exclamations, my son Andy will hold the garbage bag and my son Christopher will throw crumpled-up wrapping paper and miss the target every time. Olivia will play the elf and wear the jester hat that works as an elf hat. Grandbaby Maya Mae will rip with abandon.

I’ll miss the one that’s not here, again. But Christmas will not be on a screen this year. It will be at home.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Well, let’s have a moment of honesty here, as well as the moment of happiness. Lately, all through the month of November and into December, I’ve really struggled coming up with the Moment. I mean, really struggled. There has been so much big, Big, BIG BAD stuff going on in the world. And in my country. And in my state. And in my home and my community.

I went right from dealing with Michael’s sudden toe amputation to the Waukesha holiday parade disaster to a condo building in Waukesha behaving like the one in Florida and being suddenly declared uninhabitable and displacing so many people at Christmastime to a 14-year old boy car-jacking an 87-year old’s car as she dropped off books at our public library. He sexually assaulted her.

He’s 14. She’s 87. Here. In my city.

Lately, there’s been so much ugly. Just so much. Several times a day, I am finding myself saying, “I just don’t understand.” And I don’t.

I’ve been fighting a bout of insomnia, and today, that morphed into what seems to be a case of the stomach flu. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t all a reaction to the things going on around me. Big bad things. There are times I feel like I can’t breathe. And I just don’t understand.

And so I thought back to the beginning of this blog. For the first year, I wrote a Moment every single day. But because I wrote it every day, I learned that while there may be big, Big, BIG BAD things happening, we have to look for the little moments of happiness. If we watch only for the big ones, rainbows, unicorns, you know the drill, well, we’ll likely be disappointed. And then beaten down by the big, Big, BIG BAD things.

So here is something that happened.

I am an Animal Crossing nut. I started playing the video game years ago, when it was on one system or another, and I have always loved it. It’s pretty much the only game I play. My family also plays, and we have a Facebook group where we have our Animal Crossing discussions. One of the members of the group is Rayne, a young woman who is my middle son Andy’s best friend, and who has been a part of my family since they were in high school. I think of Rayne as my daughter-by-proxy. Playing this game is a lot like writing a story or a book, which probably explains why I love it so.

When this pandemic first started, and I was having trouble dealing with it (big, Big, BIG Bad stuff), Rayne told me I needed to start playing Animal Crossing again, the new version, on the Nintendo Switch. My son immediately chimed in and said he would get the system for me. And so, I’ve been playing. It has helped enormously. Most of our group is in Wisconsin, but my oldest daughter is in Louisiana and Rayne is in Oregon. But we all connect on Animal Crossing.

The Nintendo Switch can be played on your television, or you can carry it along with you.

One day, Rayne was taking the train to work, and when she got there, she realized her Switch was no longer in her bag. It was gone. Her island was gone. All her characters were gone.

Of course, we all thought the worst. Either someone reached in her bag on the crowded train and took it, or it fell out and the person who found it kept it.

Within a few minutes, I was asking my son about how hard it would be to find a new Switch for Rayne this Christmas season. “I’m already on it,” he said.

“I’ll pay for it,” I said.

“I’ll go half with you,” he said.

I am a kind person. I have raised a kind son. All of my children are kind. Even the one by proxy, who thought of me at the beginning of the pandemic. Who drove three hours to see me on my birthday last summer, when I was on the Oregon coast.

The new Switch was found and ordered.

And then…and then…

Rayne burst onto our Facebook Group with a photo of her holding the Switch. “It was in the TriMet Lost And Found! I’m picking it up after work!”

Someone found it and turned it in. They didn’t keep it for themselves. They returned it.

Whoever that person is, I wish I could find you and thank you personally. At a time when I was beginning to wonder if there was any good left in anyone, when I was saying, “I don’t understand,” several times a day, when we’re all seeing horrific things happening here, there, and everywhere, here was someone who did the right thing. A small thing. But the right thing, and a right thing that made a difference.

The right thing. And you can tell it’s the right thing by the smile that’s going on under that mask in the photo.

As for the new Switch that my son and I bought, we’re giving it to my husband Michael, so he can have his very own island under his very own control, instead of sharing mine with me. I can be a little bossy.

Oh, stranger who returned the Switch, thank you. Your small gesture made a big, Big, BIG difference.

Now I’m going back to bed. Someone send chicken soup, please.  I have the !@#$% stomach flu (not a big, Big, BIG BAD thing, but yuk!) but I really wanted to have the Moment out there.

Hope for better tomorrows. Look for small good things.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

When you have one of those musical-type kids, or one of those artsy-type kids, or one of those writery-type kids, it’s always a challenge to find them ways to express their passions and interests. And when you have one of those kids who is all of those things, you’re often dashing between concerts and art shows, or standing outside the bedroom door, admiring a practice session, or leaning over a shoulder, watching an art piece come together, or listening to a story or a poem.

And when that child goes to college, it doesn’t change. You want them to reach out and excel in their major, but you also want those passions to continue, even if they go into a field where music, art, or writing isn’t at the forefront.

Or if they choose a field where one passion is chosen over the others.

When Olivia went to college, she chose to combine her interests in art and psychology and major in art therapy. At the college, along with art therapy classes, she takes many art classes. She joined the school’s literary magazine and quickly became the author of many articles and essays, even winning awards.

But her music…well, her music.

I wrote back on 9/23/21 about how Olivia came to join the Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra. You can see this blog again if you look to the right side and click on the month of September in 2021. When she chose her college, Mount Mary University, she was told that there was a music department. Silly us, we didn’t look deeply into what that meant. We figured band, chorus, and orchestra. But no, it meant beginning guitar, beginning piano, and chorus.

Olivia brought her violin to school anyway. She continued her rigorous practice sessions and her lessons with a private teacher. But playing in an orchestra fell to the side.

For those who don’t play music, it may be hard to understand the connection between music and the mind. When you play music, or sing it, you become a part of the instrument. The music does more than come out of you, it becomes you. You often see musicians swaying as they play, their bodies giving in to the rhythm. Singers often close their eyes, sinking fully into their voices and the words and the sounds.

It’s a magical thing. I played trumpet in high school, though I wasn’t very good at it. And I didn’t often connect the way others did. I actually wanted to play flute; my parents said no, and led me to the trumpet instead. I’m not sure why, but the trumpet and I never fully joined, beyond my mouth in the mouthpiece. I played from sixth through tenth grades; I quit when I was a junior.

Chorus was another thing altogether, and singing remains a joy to me. However, I mostly play music and sing in the car, so closing my eyes isn’t an option! Still, I feel my body sway in the driver’s seat and I revel when my voice blends with the singer’s.

For Olivia, there was the violin. She was in the grade prior to when orchestra was offered in her school when she heard an orchestra play for an assembly in her school gym. Out of the whole orchestra, she zeroed in on the violin. When she came home from school that day, it was the first thing she told me about, before playground drama and lunchtime conversations. “I want to play the violin, Mama,” she said. This was in November, and she followed this quickly with “I’m going to ask Santa.”

Ohboy. Well, Santa delivered. And a love of the violin and music was born. Olivia went on to play acoustic guitar, electric guitar, and the ukulele. But the violin…well, that’s her love. And while playing on your own is wonderful, the magic really comes when you’re sitting in a big group and somehow, all those different instruments come together to form a sound that is whole. You are wrapped in music, inside and out. Olivia, in her junior year of college, wanted to be wrapped again.

And so, enter Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra, where Olivia sits with the first violins.

Last night, I sat down in an auditorium with Michael and my son Andy to listen to Olivia’s first concert. It was the orchestra’s first concert since the pandemic hit. Even before they started playing, you could feel a thrum of joy from the stage. When I ordered the tickets, I didn’t know where Olivia sat, so I just asked for the best available. Unfortunately, while this put us in the first row, it put us on the far right…and Olivia sat on the far left. I was able to go up to the stage and say hello to her and take her photo where she sat, waiting, her feet tapping with nerves and excitement.

Throughout the show, I had a clear view, through the music stands and other players, of Olivia’s feet and her legs, covered with black tights. With each song, I watched as her feet and legs bounced and jived with the music, keeping her rhythm, joining in with all the others, whose legs moved like a chorus line. In between songs, when the orchestra was asked to stand for acknowledgement, her head would pop up, looking directly at me, her bright red mask curved in what I knew was a smile.

The music was phenomenal. In my seat, my feet and legs joined with the orchestra’s, and my head bobbed with the rhythm too. I wasn’t making the music, but I was still a part of it. And I was with my daughter too.

When we met Olivia after the concert, the first words out of her mouth were, “That was so fun!”

It was spoken with the enthusiasm that can only come from a musical-type child, mixed in together with an artsy-type child and a writery-type child.

Amazing.

Offering great gratitude to the Wisconsin Intergenerational Orchestra.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

This is the hardest blog I’ve ever had to write. It’s the hardest one I’ve ever had to think about.

I live in the heart of downtown Waukesha, Wisconsin. My business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, is here too – we live in a live-where-you-work condo.

Last Sunday was the city’s holiday Christmas parade. I was hoping to take my 8-year old granddaughter, Maya Mae, to it, but then Michael fell ill, as I wrote about last week. He’s home now, but I didn’t want to leave him on his own for any length of time. I didn’t know if my son and his wife decided to take Maya.

It was shortly after the parade started when I took some garbage out. I was expecting to hear the sound of the marching bands and maybe some cheering and laughter. Instead, I heard screams. And then sirens. Lots of sirens. So many sirens, and they weren’t traveling away. They were all around me.

One of my neighbors drove in and stopped next to me and rolled down her window. “Someone drove into the Christmas parade!” she cried. “I have a police scanner app on my phone! It’s horrible!”

It was. It was beyond horrible.

My first thought was of my son, my daughter-in-law. My granddaughter. I called my son and when he answered, I shouted into the phone, “Are you home? Are you safe?”

“We’re fine. Why?”

They’d gone grocery shopping. It was too cold and windy for the parade.

Then I called my middle son, in case he stopped to watch the parade on his way home from work. I called my youngest daughter, in case she and her best friend at college decided to go see the parade. I even dialed my oldest daughter before I remembered she lives in Louisiana now, and there was no way she’d be at the parade.

I think I went on auto-pilot. A shivering, shuddering sobbing auto-pilot.

As of today, six people have died from this rampage. One is an 8-year old boy. Over 60 people are in our area hospitals. One is the 12-year old brother of that 8-year old boy. The driver was caught. He wasn’t on a political attack. He wasn’t making a statement of any sort. He was running from a “domestic disturbance”. He drove through the first set of barricades at the beginning of the parade and, when he found himself on the parade route, apparently decided this was a good way to express his anger. Observers and police said his actions appeared intentional.

I have an imagination. I’m a writer, I’ve put my mind and my thoughts into all sorts of minds and bodies and souls and situations. But I can’t imagine being so angry, possibly at one person, that I would attack an entire parade of strangers. Strangers that included children, marching in a parade, watching a parade, laughing and waiting to be tossed candy.

I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine feeling that way.

I watched on Tuesday as the driver appeared for the first time in court, for his bail to be set. The judge placed the bail at five million dollars.

The prosecutor told the court and the judge that a sixth death was added, and it was the 8-year old boy. The driver, who kept his head down throughout the proceeding, only looking up once at the judge, began to sob.

And God help me, I didn’t care. When the prosecutor said that he could be given a life sentence for each of the deaths, at least 6 now, at least 6 consecutive life sentences, who knows how many by the time this goes to court, I heard myself think, Good! Don’t ever let him see the light of day again! Is there a way we can put the death penalty into effect for just one person? And then I amended, No, no death penalty. Let him suffer in prison for the rest of his life. Let. Him. Suffer.

This was me, thinking that. This was me. I’ve been almost as shook by my own thoughts and feelings as I’ve been over this whole horrible impossible tragedy.

I’ve written about some pretty difficult and terrible things. Always, I’ve forced myself into the “bad guy’s” head, to make him or her human, to find out the why of their existence, and to feel for them. To feel some compassion. I’ve always succeeded in doing so.

During the Dahmer summer and afterwards, I listened to interviews with his grandmother and others who knew his background. Jeffrey Dahmer was a monster. But I felt compassion for him anyway.

Just last week, when Kyle Rittenhouse collapsed in court after he was told he’d walk away a free man, I teared up. I believe the verdict was dead wrong – he deserved punishment. But when he collapsed in court, I saw a then-17, now 18-year old boy who was in an impossible situation. I felt compassion.

But in a moment that froze me so hard, I still get the chills, I wanted Darrell Brooks dead. Or locked away and suffering forever.

That’s so not me. But this is an unbelievable, unfathomable situation.

Trying to come up with a moment of happiness has been so difficult this week. But on Tuesday, when I talked to my granddaughter, my Grandbaby Maya Mae, we discussed how schools have been closed this week, due to what happened at the parade, and how she wished she was in school. I assumed she was just missing the fun.

She looked at me, and her always huge eyes were even huger. They were wide and shiny, and they were filled with the compassion I so wished I could feel.

“Grandma Kathie,” she said, her pronunciation of my role and name no longer the Gamma Kaffee she said and I treasured for so long, “I just want to know that my friends are okay.”

In her eyes, in her compassion, I recognized my own. I just want to know that my little city is okay. I just want to reach out to everyone who has been hurt, and we’ve all been hurt, so I want to reach out to everybody. I want to do everything I can to help.

And in Maya Mae, there is another compassionate generation coming along.

I don’t feel any compassion for Darrell Brooks. Yet. Maybe I will, by the time this is all done. But that’s okay. My heart is in the right place, even if it’s very broken right now.

That’s the best I can do this week, everyone. I want you all to be okay.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

If you remember, almost two months ago, this blog post was about finding my fifth grade English teacher, Mrs. Fatticci. I’d been trying to find her for years, because she was the very first person who told me I was a writer. You can read this blog post again if you look on 9/30/21.

And my Moment this week? I didn’t just find her. I talked to her.

You would think, these days, that it’s easy to pretty much find anyone. But when the person you’re trying to find is someone you met in the fifth grade, and it was 1971, and she was a teacher, you only know her first name as “Mrs.” You really need first and last names to find someone, and “Mrs.” just wasn’t going to work. After my first book came out in 2011, and as more books came out and my success grew, I found myself just wanting to say thank you to her. But that lack of a first name confounded me. I even contacted the school, explained who I was, explained who she was, and was told, “We’re sorry, but we don’t have any record of her.”

How could they not have any record of the woman who essentially set me firmly on my path and said, “Hello, you wonderful girl! This is you. This is where you go. This is where you belong.”

Whenever Mrs. Fatticci talked to me, she called me, “you wonderful girl.”

I am 61 years old now. I was 11 years old then. But I can still hear her voice from the back of the classroom as she said, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer!” I don’t know how a voice can feel like a warm, perfect-fitting coat, but hers did. I was only eleven, but I suddenly felt my life, my self, make sense.

And I wanted to say thank you. Because she saw me. And she thought I was wonderful.

I don’t remember exactly why, on September 22, 2021, I decided to try again. I decided to search on Facebook just using her last name and see what came up, if there was anyone with that name anywhere near Esko, Minnesota. Someone did; a man who lived in Hibbing, about an hour north. I decided to send him a private message. I explained who I was, and who I was looking for, and why. Within an hour, he answered me.

“That’s my mom!”

He contacted her for me, then he called me and said, “She remembers you!” He said she would be giving me a call.

And then I didn’t hear anything. It became November, and I wondered what happened. I wondered if she didn’t really want to talk to me, a student from so long ago, one out of how many bajillion other kids, a quiet girl who spent time mostly by herself, and someone who moved away at the end of that year. Eventually, I shrugged it off, happy that at least I was able to express my gratitude through her son.

Then came November 9^th. Out of nowhere, I received a friend request on Facebook from another Fatticci. I accepted, and then sent a message, asking if she was related to “Mrs.” Fatticci – I still didn’t know her first name. And this young woman answered, “Yes! She’s my mom! And I’m talking to her right now!” It turned out Mrs. Fatticci had to get a new phone and – we all know this story – was having trouble figuring out how to use it. She finally did and found my phone number and asked her daughter to check with me and make sure it was correct. It was. She was going to call me, hopefully that weekend. Mrs. Fatticci was going to call me!

But that weekend, Michael went into the hospital and our world turned upside down. That’s what my blog was about last week. All thoughts of Mrs. Fatticci, my fifth grade year, a phone call, and for that matter, all thoughts of who I was and who I am, disappeared as everything focused down on Michael.

He came home from the hospital on Friday. And on Saturday, my phone suddenly rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello! Is this Kathie?”

“Yes…”

“Hello, you wonderful girl! This is Jan Fatticci!”

And just like that, I was eleven again. Though simultaneously, my teacher had a first name. Jan.

She called me in the middle of chaos. She called me at a time when I was doubting myself and my ability to handle what was happening all around me. And she called me wonderful.

And so we talked. We both have experienced breast cancer. She still teaches, though in a daycare center now with two-year olds, and even though she’s 75, she says she will always teach. So will I.

When I mentioned her greeting, “Hello, you wonderful girl,” she said that she felt at the time that I needed uplifting. That I needed to know that there were people who believed in me, and that I should believe in myself.

I was silent for just a minute. “You came at just the right time then,” I said. “And you came at just the right time now.”

She’s ordering my books. And I am learning to think of her as Jan. My gosh, she’s only fourteen years older than I am! That takes a twist of the head to process.

But I can hear her voice. Then. And now.

Hello, you wonderful girl!

Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer!

She came at just the right time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

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

Well, if you follow me on Facebook, you know that this has been the week from hell. I’m sure many are wondering if I will indeed be able to find a moment of happiness.

Yep.

So my husband Michael has been fighting a foot infection. He saw his doctor a week ago today and was put on a new set of antibiotics because the doctor wasn’t happy with his progress. On Saturday, his foot began to really hurt. On Sunday, he had to come home from work because he couldn’t stand to stand. I took him in to Urgent Care, who sent him to the ER. ER took an X-ray, said the bone wasn’t infected, but he needed to be admitted for IV antibiotics. Then they said, “Wait! He might have a blood clot!” and so they did an ultrasound. No blood clot. He was admitted and IV antibiotics started. Monday, the hospital called in an infectious diseases specialist. He said, “Let’s have an MRI, just to make sure there’s no bone infection.” On Tuesday, Michael’s doctor showed up; she hadn’t even been told he was in the hospital. She looked at the MRI and said, “We need to open this up and clean it out.” Later that day, she called him and said, “I’ve talked with the infectious diseases doctor. You need to be prepared to lose your little toe. There’s likely a bone infection.”

From Sunday to Tuesday, I never saw his doctor. She was supposed to call me. She didn’t.

On Wednesday, after we were given three different times for his surgery, they finally came to get him. The nurse told Michael, “I saw your surgery orders, which you will have to sign. They have the wrong foot listed. Make sure you have them change it.”

Uh-huh.

I walked beside the rolling bed as far as I was allowed. Then I watched him leave, clutching his glasses so he’d be able to read and hopefully fix these orders. I was left all alone in the hallway.

I can tell you I have never ever felt so alone in my life. Never.

I turned and went into the family waiting room. The volunteer there showed me the glowing board that listed everyone who was having surgery. The colors of their individual row changed with each step – waiting for surgery, surgery begins, surgery ends, patient is in recovery. I explained that my computer was in Michael’s room, and I was going to be up there to wait. She took down my cell number and said she would call me as Michael progressed.

She never called.

45 minutes later, a nurse poked her head into Michael’s room, where I’d dissolved into tears. “Oh!” she said. “He’s not here!”

“Um, no,” I said. “He’s in surgery. I think. No one has told me.”

“Oh!” she said brightly. “I can find out for you!”

She never came back.

At noon, an hour and a half after I was left alone in the hallway and Michael disappeared into the bowels of the hospital, I decided I was going to find my way back to the family waiting room and check that stupid glowing board. It was not a human, but maybe it would tell me. I wound around and down and finally found it. “Oh!” the volunteer said. “I tried to call you, but I must have written your phone number down wrong!”

I checked. She did. But she also had the room number where I was waiting – and there’s a phone in there.

“The doctor was here to see you,” she said. “She said she would find you in your husband’s room.”

When was this?

“At 11:30.” A half-hour ago. But at least now I knew that Michael was in the recovery room. The board told me.

I went back up to his room and crossed to the nurses’ station. I told the nurse what happened and she said she would page the doctor.

I didn’t hear from the doctor until Thursday morning when she called me.

The nurse said I should go ahead and have some lunch, that it would be a bit before Michael was back because he was experiencing low blood pressure. I was tempted to ask if they got the right toe, but I was so fit to be tied and exhausted by then, I just wandered down to the cafeteria. I think I ate.

Twenty minutes later, I returned to the room. I could see a nurse standing outside his door. And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I broke into a run.

I ran.

Looking over the nurse’s shoulder, I could see another nurse straightening out the bedcovers over a very familiar form. A form I’ve been married to for 22 years. A form I know so well. I reached over the nurse’s shoulder and pushed the door open a little further.

And Michael looked over. He looked right at me. And he smiled.

And there it was. My moment of absolute happiness.

(And so you know, they got the correct toe. Michael is expected to come home tomorrow, make a full recovery, and be back in a shoe and back at work in 3 weeks.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

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

I am struggling with how to write about the Moment this week. I have always been honest in the Moments, and at times, I’ve written about things that were uncomfortable for me. This week’s Moment brought about a quiet sense of happiness, but also an absolutely physical feeling of relief as an issue was lifted from my shoulders.

But how to talk about it?

It’s interesting to think about, because this week, in another Moment, I was invited into a high school classroom with kids who want to be writers. I appeared online, via the smartboard in their classroom. One of the kids read Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, the book published in 2018 which included the first year of this blog, when I wrote a Moment every single day. This student emailed me, telling me what the book meant to her, and in the classroom, she said that reading how I worked through my difficult Moments helped her get through hers. Then another student asked, “How did you get through them?”

And I explained how writing the Moments helped me to be more observant in my own world, in the life and air around me, in the events I was living through, in the sharing of my life with the lives of others. My kids. My family. My friends. My students and clients. Strangers on the street.

And now, here I am, wondering how to explain this Moment. Which is difficult.

So it’s well-known that I run my own business, AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop. It’s a studio and a community for writers at all ends of the career spectrum – just starting out with their first word, or writing their umpteenth book. The studio began with my having no knowledge on how to run a business, and it’s grown into an international community, filled with people that I consider a part of my writing family, people that I love.

Though every now and then, very, very rare, there’s an exception.

Over the years, the studio has grown into something that now provides for my family. I work no less than 85 hours a week, and I’ve done this for almost 17 years. Running this business is way more than just my walking into a classroom and teaching. I’ve had to learn so much. And I’ve learned it. I absolutely love what I do, even as I do so much of it.

But then…

So I had this client. He’s been my client for 8 months. At first, I really enjoyed working with him. His book was a challenge, he knew it was a challenge, and he listened and learned and applied what I was teaching him. And then his book went completely off the rails.

Slowly, the book became about justifying the abuse of women. It became about how men were completely innocent in this, and that actually, in his reality, abuse happened because women wanted it and coerced their men into abusing them.

Each week, I found my jaw dropping further. And each week, I tried to show him the error in his logic, in what wasn’t on the page, and that what was on the page wasn’t working.

Then his behavior toward me shifted. He became a bully. He became verbally abusive. And like in the book, where the abuse began to happen because women wanted it and coerced their men into doing it, he began to say that the fault with the book wasn’t what he was putting down on the page, it was with me. Because I am a woman.

And honestly? It took me a while to realize how much this was hurting me. How much this was shrinking me.

Now part of the hurt was flat down-to-earth practicality. The studio provides for my family. This student, who paid to have me work with him, was providing for my family. And so for awhile there, I took it. I took it because I wanted to help, as I want to help all writers. But I also took it because there are always bills to pay.

Our meeting last week was the worst. When I ran downstairs to meet my next client in the classroom, I did so in tears. Michael called after me, “I have never heard you sound so exasperated with a student!”

Exasperated really wasn’t what I was feeling. Or maybe, I was feeling exasperated with myself. Because I was beginning to see what was going on.

Over the weekend, there was a flurry of emails, each one putting me down, pushing me down, further and further. His final email ended with, “Well, let’s just get through it.” As if working with me was a chore, a difficult, difficult chore.

And bear in mind that “getting through it” meant getting through the rest of his already written over 800-page book – and we were only in the 300’s.

I didn’t sleep at all the night after that email. Not a bit. Around five in the morning, I dragged myself to my computer, booted it, and answered his email. I told him that we were no longer going to be working together. And that I would refund the balance of what he’d paid for – which was a year in advance of coaching.

This was not a small amount. It was a bite. And it was a bite into what provides for my family.

But his behavior was also a bite into me. And it’s me that provides for my family.

When I hit send on that email, I cannot even describe the feel of the weight off my shoulders. Off my body. Off my mind. Off ME. I didn’t know how weighted down I was, until I stepped back into myself and threw the weight away.

So it’s a bite. But I will find a way to provide. And I will be whole while I’m doing it.

After I told Michael what I’d done, he said, “I’m proud of you.”

I’m proud of me too.

(And for any students and clients who are reading this, no, I have never ever ever felt that way about any of you. That’s why it was hard to write this. You all need to know how very special you are.)

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

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

Getting up in the morning, turning on your computer, and seeing your child’s photo on your Facebook news feed is no longer unusual. It was unusual, back when I first joined up, however many years ago, thrilled to be able to join this soon-to-be social media giant which would allow me to see my kids, two in college, one on his own, the fourth still living with me and too young to be on Facebook, but I could see her every day. Now, waking up to these pictures isn’t typically heart-stopping, show-stopping, drop-your-coffee-mug stunning.

But it was, for me, this week.

My third child, my oldest daughter, Katie, posted photos of herself. Photos she’d even taken herself, because, she said in her post, “Gorgeous day out and I’m feeling cute too – so on my brief walk around campus for a break, I took a mini photo shoot at my favorite spot.  Cypress Lake.  Am I a model or a mathematician?”

I looked at the photos and my heart stopped, the show that is my life stopped, and I clutched my favorite coffee mug, a gift from this particular child, so I wouldn’t break it. I can never ever break it.

Katie, like all of my kids, was unusual. I could never find my children in all of the popular parenting books. Katie was born pre-STEM education, when, if a girl was good at math or science, she tended to hide it. Katie blew the top off of math, and most other subjects too, and with my encouragement, she didn’t tend to hide it. She didn’t show off either. But this light wasn’t being hid under a bushel, if there was anything I could do about it.

Her favorite toys were things she could count and put into groups and add and subtract. She had an abacus, something I bought at a rummage sale simply because I liked the sound it made when I shook it, but I think she actually used it. As time went on and her love of math grew, I haunted schools holding book sales and bought all their old math textbooks, which Katie then worked on…for fun.

At the end of Katie’s second grade year, the school called me and Katie’s dad in for a conference. They told us they felt she should be skipped ahead at least two grades. They suggested going from second grade to fourth grade, and fourth grade to sixth grade, and then we’d see where she should go from there. In general, they told us, the human brain needs 17 repetitions before a new skill is learned. Katie took one repetition.

ONE. Is it even a repetition if it’s singular?

But we said no. We also reminded the school that they had the responsibility of teaching everyone at their level, and they were just going to have to find a way to educate Katie while keeping her with her friends and other kids her age. It’s not a decision I regret.

There were moments over the years, of course, mostly boy-related. The boys knew she was smart and asked for her help in math, but not out on dates. She often despaired of having a boyfriend, and I kept trying to put hope out there. Wait til high school…wait til college…wait til grad school…Oh, man, the goobers and the goofs. Grad school even produced a boy I called the garden gnome. I don’t have to say anything else – he was a garden gnome. I worried sometimes that my daughter, who had the best smarts ever, wouldn’t be able to find her happiness.

One of my favorite memories is on her first day as a freshman at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. She texted me after her first class (I think – I can’t remember when cell phones came into the picture! It might be that she called me or sent me an email or messaged me on that new-fangled Facebook) and said, “Mom, it’s sunny and warm and I just had my first class and I’m sitting right by Lake Mendota and I’m drinking a Starbucks pumpkin spice latte. I’m soooooo happy.”

That’s what I wanted to hear.

As college went on, Katie was encouraged to go into academia, something she hadn’t considered at first. Eventually, she went that route, and one day, on that fateful Facebook and its messenger, she told me about a math professor, one of the few female math professors she’d had. “Mom,” she said, “she’s beautiful. She wears these amazing clothes. She’s got gorgeous long hair. And she has kick-ass boots. I want to do that. I want to be her.”

The August before COVID hit, right after graduating with her PhD in math from the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, Katie left to teach math at the University of Louisiana – Lafayette. She was married to a man she met right after graduating with her Master’s degree – not the garden gnome. But someone who loves her for who she is, and respects her for who she is. I haven’t seen her since that August. It’s been very, very hard.

On this morning this week, I opened up Facebook and the first thing I saw was my daughter. And those photos. And there she was. Someone who taught math at a university. She has gorgeous long wavy blonde hair. She wore an amazing outfit and kick-ass boots. Kick-ass boots! And…she looked happy.

My daughter did it. She followed her passion. She’s using her smarts, not hiding them. She’s beautiful. And she’s happy.

(Do I wish she could be happy closer to home, and not on a campus with alligators? Well, sure.)

That smile. She’s happy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.